Every year, when September gives way to October, I begin looking for signs of Durga Puja in the air. In Siliguri, my hometown, the arrival of the festival is marked by more than the changing season, the first glimpses of pandals taking shape, or the sound of dhaak rehearsals drifting through neighbourhoods. It begins with the scent of shiuli flowers scattered across the ground at dawn, the fragrance of incense curling through prayer rooms, and the promise of steaming khichuri being served at community pandals. Long before I reach an idol of Goddess Durga, these familiar smells tell me that Pujo is almost here.





