New Delhi: Many years ago, on Panchami — a day before the onset of Durga Puja — I visited the Karol Bagh pandal with my father. The idol of Durga had just been installed. She looked lifeless, forlorn, more clay than goddess. I tugged at my father’s hand and whispered, “Doesn’t seem much like a goddess, no Babi?”

He smiled and said, “Wait for a day…”

When we returned the next day, the festival was in full swing. The pandal was packed, the evening arti underway. Bells clanged, gongs thundered, the dhakis danced with their drums, and the air was thick with chants and incense. Jostled in the crowd, I couldn’t even catch a glimpse of the idol. My father bent down, scooped me up, and lifted me high above the shoulders of strangers. He brought his lips close to my ear and whispered, “Jus

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