The noise of my hometown, Patna, begins to thin somewhere around mid-November. Loudspeakers that once echoed Durga Ma’s songs or the latest Bollywood hits fall silent, pandals are dismantled, and the sky, once heavy with sound and smoke, suddenly feels bare.
It is the pause after celebration, the kind of quiet that sits too still in the air.
Growing up in Patna, I never realised how deeply these silences would live inside me. Festivals back then were not events; they were seasons of the soul. I measured time not in months but in countdowns- to Durga Puja, to Diwali, to Chhath. The moment the school announced Puja holidays, the air changed. Homework was finished in a hurry, and loudspeakers blared bhajans from every corner. The house smelled of ghee and cardamom; cousins arrived in batches; laughter rolled down corridors. Durga Puja was only the prelude- Diwali, Bhai Dooj, and Chhath were the crescendo.
And Chhath- that was magic. My aunts fasting, the smell of raw sugar and ghee filling the house, the sleepless night before Arghya, the quiet walks to the ghats at 2 a.m. The city transformed into devotion itself – every lane lit with diyas, every heart held in reverence. The women, their sarees wet but eyes luminous; the men helping silently. And as the first light touched folded palms, it wasn’t sunlight- it was grace itself.
Then, the morning after Arghya– that sacred silence, the smell of Thekua and fruits, the warmth of the prasad, and the gentle ache that this was the end.
The festivals were over, and November had arrived.
November was always the month of pulling back- of folding lights, stacking utensils, putting the idols away, and returning to the slower rhythm of life. Even the air felt different- a mixture of smoke and cold, the faint scent of mustard oil and naphthalene balls in the woollens being unpacked from trunks. The noise had faded, but it left behind its echo, somewhere deep within.
As children, that echo carried a strange mix of sadness and anticipation. The festivals were done, yet we still had Christmas to look forward to. I studied in a convent school, and while the December exams loomed over us like mild threats, they were softened by the promise of Christmas decorations and the singing of carols in the assembly.
Back home, November meant winter settling in.
The sun turned lazy; the afternoons grew golden. The woollens came out; summer clothes disappeared into trunks. My mother would sun-dry the quilts; the kitchen smelled of peanuts roasting and jaggery melting. Neighbours exchanged murmurs of exam timetables and winter recipes. The evenings were quieter- people sat out on terraces, wrapped in shawls, watching the smoke curl from distant chimneys.
Even then, there was that gentle ache- that sense that something was slipping away. We had celebrated so much that the silence felt almost unearned. But it was also beautiful- a time to breathe after joy, to prepare for another season of growing up.
And then there was December, standing like a tiny star at the edge of the year.
I remember watching television with my parents on New Year’s Eve, eyes fixed on the countdown clock. “10, 9, 8…” we’d whisper, as if our little voices could speed up time itself. There was no grand celebration, no party- just the flicker of the TV light, a warm blanket, and the quiet thrill that something new was coming.
Now, decades later, November still arrives with the same pause- only the sounds have changed. Living in Gurgaon, surrounded by towers and schedules, the silence after festivals feels heavier.
The mind no longer counts days to Durga Puja or Chhath; it counts deadlines, exams, and office meetings.
After the nine-day festive rush, life folds back into routine- checking my children’s syllabus, sorting uniforms, making lists, answering emails. The lamps are replaced by laptops, the joy by planning. The same month that once felt like a soft landing after celebration now feels like a recalibration- preparing for another cycle of work, another year of responsibilities.
And yet, every time I take out the woollens, every time I feel that faint chill in the air, I can still hear the echoes of those old loudspeakers from my childhood lanes. I still see my aunts by the river, my cousins laughing with Thekua in their hands, the sky turning orange as the sun bowed to devotion.
Maybe that’s what nostalgia truly is- the pause between noise and silence, between what has ended and what still lives quietly inside us.
November will always be that month for me- the month of soft goodbyes and gentle beginnings. A month of folding away lights and unfolding memories. The month that smells of roasted peanuts, chalk dust, and mustard oil- the month where my childhood still breathes, waiting for another sunrise over the Ganga, another song on the loudspeaker, another reason to believe that joy, once felt, never really leaves.
-Arunima Sinha
