Divine Reckoning

An artisan, haunted by his abusive past, meticulously crafts a Durga idol for an upcoming festival. As he finishes, mysterious cracks appear, and the idol collapses, killing him. His wife, Rama, wonders if the Goddess has delivered divine justice for the child he once cruelly sacrificed.

The White Embrace

White bubbles emerged on the surface, and gradually, a few milky drops spilled over the rim. The bubbling ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Milk rushed into her narrow nostrils, and she lay in peaceful slumber, enveloped by a creamy embrace.


Rama’s Silent Struggles

Rama squirmed on the bed like a worm, her worn charpoy serving as a cocoon in their ramshackle hut. Meanwhile, Gaurab began his morning ablutions, scrubbing her scent off him. He scrubbed hard, reminded of the final touches the idols would soon need for Durga Puja. Ma awaited his creative input, and the festival was fast approaching.

“Where is my tiffin? You witch, why are you still lying there as if you’ve done something remarkable? We’re suffering through this ordeal for the third time because of you! Have some mercy on me.”

Rama silently prayed, Ma, this Durgotsava, let my suffering end. Let justice prevail. The hand that shapes you destroys your forms. Where is your verdict, Ma? Despite trembling hands, she managed to pack some rice and fish for Gaurab.


The Artisan’s Masterpiece

As Gaurab arrived in Kumartuli, the artisans were hard at work. Today was the last day, and he approached his masterpiece with fervor. The idol he had envisioned for months was finally coming to life. The meticulously threaded eyebrows, the faint red tint on the lips, and the golden flowers adorning each hand filled him with satisfaction. The five-foot art piece was sure to fetch a high price at auction, and the bejeweled Ma would smile upon her humble artisan.

He spent the entire day perfecting his “Goddess,” as he liked to call her. By evening, his masterpiece was ready. A final touch of black paint on the eyebrows added the elegance it needed. He covered her with a pristine white cloth, guarding the divine from any earthy dust.

After his work, he scrubbed the paint from his hands as he had that morning.


The Wrath of the Goddess

Suddenly, he heard a crack. He turned around. Nothing. Another crack, louder this time. The sound filled him with dread as he pivoted around, searching for an intruder. Nothing. But a small crack had appeared on her forehead, dividing Ma’s vermilion. The once serene Goddess now looked wrathful.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

As he reached to mend the flaw, the idol came crashing down. The masterpiece collapsed, smothering him beneath its weight. He gasped for breath, but it was too late. Onlookers rushed in, but there was nothing they could do. Rama was informed immediately.

She stood at the scene, transfixed. Had Ma delivered her verdict? The same Goddess he had lovingly adorned, the idol he had poured years of dreams into, had now become his undoing. And on what day! Kalratri, the night of cosmic power, arrived on the anniversary of the day Gaurab had drowned his newborn daughter in milk.

Was this mere coincidence? Or a divine reckoning for all avatars of Ma?


By Amisha Shah

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One Response

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