&ldquoMaa chole gelo (Maa has gone)&rdquo asked a toddler, looking up at his mother with sadness in his eyes. He was barely four, sitting with his family on the white cloth-draped chairs as the last float went past. The mother looked down and smiled.&ldquoHein re baba, kintu bhabishna. Abar ashben porer bochor (Yes but don&rsquot worry, she will come next year again),&rdquo she said as dhaak beats over the loudspeakers put up all over Red Road blared for the last time. As I overheard the conversation, I suddenly realised that the little boy was right. It was over. The madness, the rush akin to too much sugar consumption, the celebrations it was done for this season.




