My Utsav Story

 Our Story

We are the Mukherjee family from Pune, far from our ancestral roots in Bengal. This year, after many promises postponed, we decided to return during the season when Kolkata transforms into a living goddess — Durga Puja.

Arindam Mukherjee, 45, is a civil engineer whose childhood was spent in Howrah before his career carried him westward. He often says bridges and buildings are his profession, but stories are his passion. His wife, Mrinalini, 42, is a schoolteacher, calm and steady, who keeps the family’s rhythm like a quiet metronome. Anirban, their ten-year-old son, is the spark — a boy who cannot sit still, who finds dhaak beats in tabletops and new friends in strangers.

The heart of this scrapbook, however, beats with me, Madhurima, fifteen years old, their daughter. I am a student, but more than that, I am a scribbler of poems, a collector of small details, and the self-appointed chronicler of our family’s journeys. Baba says my words run away like a river in monsoon; Ma says they stitch memories better than photographs.

We chose to come this year because Baba wanted us to know Puja not as stories from relatives, but as something lived — the bhog, the dhaak, the crowd, the light, the river. For me, it is more than a holiday. It is the discovery of a city that feels both new and achingly familiar, as if I had always belonged.

 

Day 1 — 30th September 2025

Kolkata Arrival | Shobhabazar Rajbari Bhog | Ganga Cruise

We landed in Kolkata today. The airplane wheels screeched against the runway, and I felt a jolt of excitement shoot through me. Baba squeezed my hand, Ma smiled her calm smile, and Anirban was already bouncing in his seat, asking if the dhaakis were waiting outside the airport. I told him not to be silly — but secretly, I half expected the same. After all, this was Puja-time Kolkata. Anything was possible.

From the airport taxi window, I saw the city unfurl itself. The air smelled different here — part incense, part fried luchi, part damp earth after a sudden drizzle. Pandal gates rose along VIP Road, shimmering like fairy-tale castles. At Lake Town, we passed a golden lotus pandal. The crowd swelled around it, women in red-bordered saris, men in crisp kurtas, children with balloons. For a moment, even Baba, usually so practical, leaned forward and whispered, “Debi eshechhen.”

Our hotel was near Esplanade, a relic of colonial days with high ceilings and creaky wooden floors that seemed to sigh with memory. Anirban ran across the lobby pretending it was a football field until Ma caught him by the collar. I laughed, but only until she gave me the same look. After a quick wash and change, we left for Shobhabazar Rajbari.

Shobhabazar Rajbari — The Goddess in a Courtyard

The first step into the courtyard was like stepping into another world. Tall Corinthian pillars guarded the goddess, who sat majestic and golden. Her eyes were wide, calm, and fiery all at once. The dhaak reverberated through my chest — deep, rhythmic, alive. Smoke from dhuno blurred the edges of everything, making the whole scene shimmer as though in a dream.

An old priest named Haradhan-babu came to us. His white dhoti was spotless, his forehead smeared with sandalwood paste, and his voice carried both authority and kindness. He told us how the Maharaja Nabakrishna Deb had first celebrated Durga Puja here in 1757, inviting Robert Clive and Warren Hastings. “But what survived,” he said with a small smile, “was not their politics. What survived was Ma Durga.”

We queued for bhog. Wooden benches were arranged in rows. Volunteers moved swiftly with brass buckets, ladling steaming khichuri, labra cooked with pumpkin and beans, tomato chutney sticky with dates, crispy papad, and payesh so creamy it felt like nectar.

A young volunteer, a girl about my age named Mampi, served us with a bright smile. She told me softly, “Amader college bondhu ra pratidin ashe serve korte. This is how we offer our pranam.” Anirban slurped his payesh noisily, earning a frown from Ma, but Mampi laughed, saying, “Durga Ma herself must be smiling at this hunger.”

After eating, I wandered towards the inner verandah. Old terracotta panels clung to the walls, faded dancers and elephants carved in burnt clay. Time had worn them, yet they breathed stories. One dhaaki noticed me writing and asked, “Chhotto meye, kobita likhcho?” When I nodded shyly, he tapped his drum once — a single heartbeat offered as blessing.

 The Evening River

By twilight, we reached the Millennium Park jetty for the Ganga cruise. The river spread like a black mirror, carrying the sky’s last embers. The Howrah Bridge loomed ahead, glowing with lights, each bulb a star caught in steel.

We boarded. The deck smelled of polished wood and river breeze. A troupe of dancers performed Rabindrasangeet, their movements soft as waves. The singer’s voice floated: “Anondoloke, mongolaloke…” Ma closed her eyes and swayed. Baba leaned against the railing, watching the horizon with an expression I couldn’t name — part nostalgia, part surrender.

Dinner was a festival itself. Steaming pulao, mustard hilsa wrapped in banana leaf, chicken kosha dark with spices, crisp luchis, ending with rosogollas that burst like sweet rivers in the mouth. Anirban ate three in a row.

But the true feast was the river. As we floated past the ghats, I saw men lighting lamps, women balancing water-filled kalash, children running barefoot. From afar, the outline of Dakshineswar temple glimmered faintly, as if the goddess had extended her arms over the water.

Ratan-da, the dhaaki from the Rajbari, was on the cruise too. He spotted Anirban and beckoned him over, placing the drumsticks in his little hands. “Beat is heartbeat, babu,” he told him. “When dhaak stops, Pujo stops.” Anirban struck once, the sound echoing across the deck, and his face glowed as if he had just spoken with the goddess herself.

Night in the City

The cruise ended, but Kolkata had no intention of sleeping. On our ride back, we passed Burrabazar, where pandals rose like glass palaces. Each lane was thick with humanity — men shouting, dhaakis drumming, incense and frying telebhaja mingling in the air. A pandal shaped like the Konark Sun Temple stood glowing, its wheels spinning with LED light. Anirban pressed his nose to the taxi window, refusing to blink.

Back at the hotel, exhaustion finally claimed us. Anirban collapsed face-first on the bed. Baba began scribbling in his own leather-bound diary. Ma stood at the window, her eyes on the city’s restless glow.

The dhaak still beat faintly in my ears as sleep arrived.

Day 2 — 1st October 2025

Kalna, Bansberia & Guptipara Heritage Trail

This morning began with koraishutir kochuri at the hotel breakfast. Baba insisted on eating three, claiming, “History is written on a full stomach.” Ma rolled her eyes and warned him not to forget his medicine. Anirban tried stuffing his kochuri inside a croissant, calling it “fusion food.” I told him he was a disgrace to Bengal, but the waiter nearly fainted laughing.

By 8 a.m. our group gathered in the hotel lobby, ready for the heritage trail. We met our guide, Sukumar-da, a schoolteacher from Kalna who moonlighted as a storyteller. His spectacles dangled from a black thread, and his voice had the rhythm of someone used to reciting poetry in class. “Esho, shobai esho,” he beckoned. “Today we shall travel through temples and centuries.”

 

Kalna Rajbari Complex — Geometry in Stone

Our minibus rattled past mustard fields and fishing ponds until Kalna appeared, sleepy yet dignified. The Rajbari Complex stood like a frozen orchestra: domes, arches, courtyards arranged with mathematical precision.

The crown jewel was the 108 Shiva Temples, built in two concentric circles—74 in the outer, 34 in the inner—like a garland around emptiness. Standing at the center, I felt dizzy, as if surrounded by an army of silent monks.

Sukumar-da cleared his throat dramatically:“Raja Krishnachandra built these in the 18th century. Terracotta bricks, lime mortar, symmetry—this was Bengal’s geometry lesson to the world.”

Baba, naturally, muttered: “Much better than my school geometry teacher.”

Ma gave him that look.

Meanwhile, Anirban decided to count all the temples. He reached 42, lost track, then restarted. At 67, he was distracted by a stray puppy. “Baba,” he said solemnly, “I think I counted 300.” Sukumar-da chuckled: “That’s called infinite devotion.”

On one wall, terracotta panels depicted Krishna dancing with the gopis, elephants in procession, British officers in hats. Ma whispered Tagore’s line:“Shilay shilay akshor rekhechhe kaal” — Stone has etched the letters of time.

Hanseswari Temple, Bansberia — The Lotus of Nerves

From Kalna, we drove to Bansberia. The Hanseswari Temple rose with towers shaped like blooming lotus buds, twenty in all. Each petal seemed to whisper something cosmic.

The priest, a lean man with a booming voice, explained:“This temple, built by Raja Nrisinghadeb, represents the tantric nervous system. Each tower is a channel—ida, pingala, sushumna—through which energy flows to meet the divine.”

Baba whispered to me, “So basically, this temple is a yoga diagram in bricks.”I nearly choked suppressing laughter.

Inside, the goddess Hanseswari sat serene, painted blue, her eyes wide with compassion. A woman beside us prayed earnestly, while Anirban asked Ma, “Does she also know mathematics like Durga?” Ma shushed him, but the priest smiled: “Goddess knows everything, even fractions.”

I felt a shiver, not of fear, but of awe. The temple’s silence was different from Kalna’s—it was the silence of inward breath, as if the whole structure was meditating.

Quoting Jibanananda Das felt natural:“Nirob nodir moto, shob shomoy jeno ache ek bhitore dhara” — Like a silent river, there is always a current within.

Lunch by the Ganges — The Banquet of Bengal

By noon, our group stopped at an air-conditioned banquet hall by Chandannagar riverside. The Ganga flowed lazily outside, while inside tables gleamed with brass thalis.

The menu: shukto, begun bhaja, aloo posto, shorshe ilish, mutton curry, cholar dal with coconut, basanti pulao, chutney, papad, mishti doi. I swear, even reading the list felt like reciting a love poem.

Baba devoured the mutton. Ma sighed, “Remember your cholesterol.” He replied nobly, “I am only honoring history.”Anirban tried to stack two rosogollas in his mouth at once. Everyone at our table—an elderly couple from Delhi, a young IT engineer with headphones around his neck—burst into laughter.

The Delhi couple told us they had ancestral roots in Bengal but had never seen a Bonedi Bari puja.

Guptipara Sen Bari Puja — The Oldest Song of Devotion

By afternoon, we reached Guptipara, famous for inventing the very idea of Barowari Puja. But today we were taken to the Sen Family Bonedi Bari—a courtyard worn yet radiant, where Durga sat tall amidst flickering lamps.

The dhaakis beat so furiously that my chest vibrated like a drum. Women ululated, children danced, men chanted hymns. The smell of incense, ghee, and sweat mingled into a single perfume of devotion.

We were just in time for Sandhi Puja. One thousand and eight lamps were lit, their flames weaving into one golden ocean. Baba whispered: “Even history bows here.”

A boy about my age, Shyam, stood beside us. He told me with a grin:“During Puja, I skip cricket practice. Ma Durga is the only captain now.”

I laughed, scribbling his words down. Ma overheard and scolded gently: “You should balance both.” Shyam winked at me: “Even the goddess knows Bengalis choose celebration first.”

The priest narrated how this family puja had withstood famine, plague, even partition, yet the goddess always returned. “She is the bridge,” he said, “between yesterday and tomorrow.”

Evening Return to Kolkata

On the bus back, twilight settled. The fields rolled past, dotted with fireflies. Anirban sang a parody of Rabindrasangeet in a goat’s voice, making the whole bus laugh, including Sukumar-da. Baba pretended to be stern but was secretly delighted.

Ma dozed against the window. I watched her face, lit softly by the passing lights, and thought: this trip is stitching us together in ways ordinary days never do.

I wrote in my diary, before sleep took me:

“Temples, food, laughter—All rivers flowing to the same sea.We had come to see heritage,But what we found was family.”

Day 3 — 2nd October 2025

Kolkata Barowari Pandal TourToday was the day I had secretly been waiting for—the great Kolkata pandal-hopping marathon. Baba had declared yesterday night, “We shall conquer North and South both.” Ma muttered something about cholesterol and sensible pacing, but Anirban clapped his hands like a general preparing for battle. By breakfast, the hotel lobby buzzed with groups like pilgrims gathering for a holy trek. Our guide for the day, Mrs. Arpita Banerjee, an art historian with a voice like flowing water, greeted us: “Barowari pujas are not only art installations. They are democracy in light and bamboo.”

We began in North Kolkata, where the lanes are narrow, the houses wear their age proudly, and the pujas carry whispers of revolution. At Bagbazar Sarbojonin, which has been running since 1918, we joined a tide of people. The idol here was traditional—Durga in daaker shaaj, her ornaments shimmering silver and mica, recalling a time when artisans from Krishnanagar sent their craft by post. Volunteers shouted, “Dhire dhire, ek line e asun!” We shuffled along, Anirban gripping Baba’s hand tightly lest he float away in the human current. Arpita-di explained that Bagbazar was one of the first to embody the spirit of sarbojonin—for all people—breaking away from the zamindar-only pujas.

We who sit in sunlight as travelers, have merged with the faults and glories of the nation.

From there we drifted to College Square, where the pandal was reflected in the lake, doubling its grandeur. Lights rippled in water, boats glided softly, lovers leaned against iron railings. Baba, ever the historian, reminded us that this square had once been the center of Bengal Renaissance debates, while now it hosted an annual contest of who could outshine whom in theme and decoration. This year the pandal resembled a Buddhist monastery, with chanting recorded in the background. I felt a strange peace despite the crowd pressing against me.

Next was Kumartuli Park, where artisans themselves honored the goddess. Here the theme was “Mother as Refuge,” with bamboo huts evoking flood-hit villages. The idol was simple clay, unpainted, her face bare yet radiant. Arpita-di told us: “This is close to the origin—when artisans of Kumartuli, who shape gods for others, first made their own puja.” A sculptor named Bipul Pal stood nearby, his hands still white with clay. He told us quietly, “Every year, I smooth her cheek as if I’m touching my daughter’s face.” Ma’s eyes grew moist. Even Anirban fell silent.

By noon, the heat and crowd made us hungry beyond poetry. We stopped at 6 Ballygunge Place, a restaurant housed in a restored rajbari, famous for its buffet. The thalis came groaning—ilish paturi, kosha mangsho, luchi, cholar dal, mishti doi. Baba ate with the intensity of a soldier after battle. Anirban attempted five rosogollas in a row; the waiter clapped and shouted, “Champion!” Ma shook her head, but even she laughed, saaying “Hushiar, jao na khub durey—pete jodi phat phat shobdo hoye.”(Beware, don’t go too far—your stomach may start to explode with sound.)

Afternoon brought us to Ekdalia Evergreen Club in South Kolkata, famous for its towering bamboo arches and majestic lighting. This year, the pandal was modeled after the Jagannath temple of Puri, with a dizzying display of miniature chariots. Crowds gasped, phones clicked, the goddess sat tall under crimson canopies. Anirban asked why people pushed so much. Baba, quoting Gopal Haldar, said, “Bangali jekhanei jomay, shekhanei mela.” (Wherever Bengalis gather, there a fair begins.)

At Deshapriya Park, the idol was gigantic, claiming to be the tallest Durga in the world. I craned my neck until it hurt. The goddess seemed to look straight into the clouds. People murmured, some prayed, some gossiped. One old man behind me sighed, “This is too big, Ma cannot hear my small prayer.” I thought about his words for a long time.

As dusk approached, we entered Suruchi Sangha, where each year the pandal tells a story of a different Indian state. This year, it was Rajasthan—arches painted with desert murals, camels sculpted from straw, lamps glowing like stars of Thar. Volunteers in kurta pajamas guided us gently. A man named Prasenjit explained how months of carpentry, painting, and rehearsals went into this spectacle. “It is not art alone,” he said, “it is neighborhood blood and sweat.” Baba nodded deeply, murmuring ,”An artist never dies; he lives on through his work.”

By then the city itself had turned into a goddess—every crossing a new face, every street a new story. Even our tired feet carried us forward, buoyed by the river of people. Late at night we returned to the hotel, dizzy, hungry again, yet strangely uplifted. Anirban fell asleep hugging the day’s souvenirs: a clay toy from Kumartuli, a paper fan bought outside a pandal, and a balloon gifted by a volunteer. Ma massaged her temples, Baba rubbed his feet, but both were smiling. 

Day 4 — 3rd October 2025

Kolkata City Tour & Farewell

The last morning in Kolkata came too soon. Even the sky seemed to know it, wearing a wistful shade of grey as we sat down for breakfast. Baba, in his usual grandiloquent tone, declared: “History waits for no one, so today we pay homage to memory itself.” Ma muttered into her teacup, “History could also wait till you took your blood pressure pill.” Anirban was busy stuffing sandesh into his mouth from the complimentary tray, already acting like Kolkata’s brand ambassador.

Our first stop was the Victoria Memorial, which stood like a giant white swan floating in green gardens. The domes glittered faintly in the morning sun. A guide named Prabir walked us through the marble halls, pointing to oil paintings of Clive, Hastings, Curzon, the long line of empire-builders who thought they would last forever. “And yet,” he added with a mischievous smile, “today they stand here framed, while we walk free outside.”

The museum rooms smelled of polish and dust. I loved the way statues stared with eternal seriousness while children like Anirban darted between their legs. Outside, we sat briefly on the lawns, where couples whispered under trees. Ma sighed, “This is the part of Kolkata I could live in.” Baba raised an eyebrow: “And commute from here to Esplanade every day? Not very practical.” Ma ignored him.

From marble we moved to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Its tall spire pierced the sky, and the stained glass inside spilled colors across the floor like a rainbow melted. A choir was rehearsing softly; their hymn rose like incense. For a while, even Anirban was quiet, his eyes following the dancing light.

Next was Mother Teresa’s House. From the outside, it was simple, almost modest—green shutters, quiet courtyard. Inside, silence reigned. A nun in white-and-blue sari welcomed us, her smile gentle. She showed us Mother Teresa’s simple wooden bed, her sandals, the desk where she wrote letters. I had never felt holiness as something so ordinary before. Ma bent her head at the tomb; Baba, uncharacteristically silent, placed a hand on Anirban’s shoulder. The nun told us, “Service is not grand. It is in small acts, repeated daily.” Her words clung to me like a prayer.

On the way back, we stopped at Balaram Mullick & Radharaman Mullick, a sweet shop glowing with brass counters. The air was thick with nolen gur and cardamom. Baba bought boxes of mishti doi, jolbhora sandesh, rosogolla, and insisted, “This is the true heritage of Bengal.” A jovial shopkeeper, Ramesh-da, handed us samples. Anirban bit into a sandesh and exclaimed loudly, “Better than chocolate!” The entire shop laughed. Ramesh-da grinned: “Eto bhalo proshongsha ami kokhono paini.”

As we packed our bags at the hotel, the children of the street outside were still flying kites. The dhaak from a nearby pandal echoed faintly, as if reminding us we were leaving the festival mid-song. At the airport, I scribbled one last poem before closing my diary:

“We came as guests,But the city gave us home.We leave as travelers,But the goddess walks with us.Even departures hereAre only another arrivalIn memory.”

Ma hugged me as we boarded. Baba whispered, “One day, you must write all this.” I smiled secretly, because I already had.

Epilogue

Thus ended our four days in Bengal, each day a chapter, each chapter a prayer. We saw history in marble, devotion in terracotta, democracy in pandals, and family in every shared plate of bhog. The poets of Bengal had always said the same thing in their own words. As Jibanananda wrote:

“Banglar mukh ami dekhiyachi, tai prithibir rup khujite jaye na ar.”(I have seen the face of Bengal, therefore I need not search for beauty anywhere else.)

And perhaps that was the greatest souvenir we carried—Bengal’s face, smiling at us through the eyes of Durga.

Between Myth, Legend and History : Kolkatar Sekal Aar Ekal

Shobhabazar Rajbari Durga Puja

The Shobhabazar Rajbari Durga Puja is among Kolkata’s most iconic Bonedi Bari pujas, established in 1757 by Maharaja Nabakrishna Deb. Its origin is tied to history: Nabakrishna, once employed by Siraj-ud-Daulah, sided with the British after Plassey and celebrated their victory with an opulent Durga Puja. Robert Clive and Warren Hastings are said to have attended the first festivities here, making it both a religious and political stage. The Rajbari’s neoclassical architecture, with Corinthian columns and vast courtyards, carries echoes of 18th-century aristocratic grandeur. Unlike many later community pujas, Shobhabazar’s celebrations preserved the intimacy of family rituals, with age-old customs like traditional daaker shaaj (silver-foil ornamentation) adorning the goddess. Bhog served in the courtyard—khichuri, labra, chutney, payesh—has been a timeless tradition, binding visitors into one community meal. The Rajbari’s Puja continues to embody both heritage and inclusivity: once a celebration of colonial ties, today it is a reminder of how faith and festivity outlast political power. For art lovers, the terracotta reliefs and wooden arches of the Rajbari are a living museum, while for devotees, it is a spiritual homecoming each autumn.

Kalna Rajbari Complex & 108 Shiva Temples

The Rajbari Complex at Kalna, in Purba Bardhaman district, is one of Bengal’s finest temple ensembles, built primarily during the late 18th century under the patronage of Maharaja Teja Chandra Bahadur of Bardhaman. Its most striking feature is the Nabakailash temple cluster—108 small Shiva shrines arranged in two concentric circles, 74 in the outer and 34 in the inner, forming a sacred mandala. This geometric precision symbolizes completeness, with Shiva encircling the void, reflecting Tantric cosmology. Each shrine is constructed in the aat-chala style, typical of Bengal, and decorated with terracotta panels depicting scenes from epics, daily life, and colonial encounters. The complex also houses the Rasmancha, Krishna Chandraji’s temple, and Pratapeshwar temple, famous for its rich terracotta façade. Kalna’s temples stand as testimony to the fusion of art, devotion, and power, reflecting how the Bardhaman Raj expressed piety while consolidating their cultural authority. Visitors today marvel not only at the architectural genius but also at the quiet symmetry that has survived wars, floods, and colonial neglect. Kalna is often called “the city of temples,” and this Rajbari complex is its crown jewel.

Hanseswari Temple, Bansberia

Located in Bansberia, Hooghly district, the Hanseswari Temple is unique in Bengal for its Tantric architectural symbolism. Commissioned by Raja Nrisinghadeb in the late 18th century and completed in the early 19th by his widow Rani Shankari, the temple is dedicated to Goddess Hanseswari, a form of Kali. Its most distinctive feature is the 13 towers shaped like lotus buds, inspired by Tantric philosophy of the human nervous system (ida, pingala, sushumna). The structure represents the human body as a channel for divine energy, with the central shrine signifying the ultimate union of soul with cosmic consciousness. Inside, the goddess is depicted blue-skinned, her eyes wide with compassionate intensity. The temple complex also houses the nearby Ananta Basudev Temple, displaying a blend of Bengal’s aat-chala and Odishan rekha-deul styles, reflecting cross-cultural architectural influences. Hanseswari remains a living example of Bengal’s syncretic religious heritage, combining Vaishnav, Shakta, and Tantric traditions. For pilgrims, it is not only a place of worship but also a meditation on the body as temple; for art lovers, it is an unparalleled blend of philosophy and design rendered in brick and lime.

Guptipara Sen Bari Durga Puja

Guptipara in Hooghly holds a special place in Bengal’s puja history, for it is believed to be the birthplace of the Barowari, or community puja, in the 18th century. The local lore traces it to a group of twelve friends (baro-yar), who organized Durga Puja together after being excluded from Bonedi Bari celebrations. This spirit of inclusivity spread rapidly and gave rise to the Sarbojonin puja movement in Kolkata a century later. The Sen Family Puja in Guptipara, however, is older still, rooted in landed aristocracy but open to villagers. Its rituals, including Sandhi Puja with 108 lamps, have been preserved with remarkable fidelity. The family’s courtyard becomes a confluence of dhaak beats, chants, and rural festivity, while the idol itself retains a traditional ekchala style. Guptipara is also famous for its Vaishnav temples and for pranhara sandesh, a sweet said to have originated here. The Sen Bari Durga Puja embodies the continuity of Bengal’s devotional culture—where feudal heritage and grassroots participation meet. Today, visitors find in Guptipara not just a puja, but a reminder of how Bengal’s festivals grew from community solidarity as much as from aristocratic patronage.

Bagbazar Sarbojonin Durga Puja

Founded in 1918, the Bagbazar Sarbojonin is one of Kolkata’s oldest and most respected Barowari pujas. Situated on the banks of the Hooghly near Bagbazar ghat, it represents the transition from Bonedi Bari pujas to public celebrations. Its hallmark has always been devotion expressed through tradition rather than flamboyant experimentation. The idol is almost always adorned in daaker shaaj, silver-foil ornamentation that was once imported from Germany by post (daak). This conservative choice underscores the puja’s respect for continuity. Bagbazar’s pandal has historically been a meeting place for nationalist leaders, intellectuals, and artists, especially during the freedom struggle, when puja gatherings doubled as platforms for discourse. The puja committee emphasizes rituals, bhog, and dhaak performances, preserving the spiritual core amidst the city’s ever-changing puja culture. Today, Bagbazar Sarbojonin stands as both heritage and anchor: for many Bengalis, visiting Bagbazar is like greeting the goddess in her oldest, most familiar form. The site continues to link Kolkata’s festive heart with its revolutionary past, reminding visitors that puja is both art and faith, community and continuity.

College Square Durga Puja

Located beside the historic tank and close to the University of Calcutta, the College Square puja is famed for its reflection of the illuminated pandal and idol in the waters. Founded in 1948, it quickly rose to prominence for its thematic innovations. The puja grounds are steeped in Bengal Renaissance heritage—the square was once the intellectual hub where reformers, writers, and students debated ideas. Against this backdrop, the puja evolved as both spectacle and gathering point. Its hallmark has been elaborate lightwork and creative pandal architecture, often replicating world monuments or Buddhist monasteries, drawing lakhs of visitors. The lake acts as a natural mirror, doubling the effect and creating Kolkata’s most photographed puja landscape. For locals, College Square signifies both festivity and nostalgia: families spread mats by the lake, couples lean against railings, children chase balloons. For outsiders, it exemplifies how Kolkata transforms public spaces into sacred galleries during Puja. The site remains a bridge between academic history and cultural spectacle, proof that Durga Puja in Kolkata is as much about civic memory as it is about religious devotion.

Kumartuli & Kumartuli Park Puja

Kumartuli, in North Kolkata, is the famed potters’ quarter where most of Bengal’s Durga idols are sculpted. Established in the late 17th century when artisans were invited by the British East India Company to settle near the Hooghly for clay work, it has since become synonymous with idol-making. Narrow lanes brim with straw frames, clay figures, and artisans smoothing the goddess’s face with tender care. The Kumartuli Park puja emerged in the 1990s, organized by local artisans as both celebration and showcase. Unlike flashy theme-based pujas, it often foregrounds simplicity, clay aesthetics, and the working-class devotion of its creators. The idols may be unpainted, rustic, or made with eco-friendly materials, emphasizing the artistry behind worship. Visitors experience here the beating heart of Durga Puja’s creation—where gods are born from river clay. For photographers, it is paradise; for devotees, it is a reminder of humility in worship. Kumartuli symbolizes that artistry is itself an act of faith, and Kumartuli Park Puja is the artisans’ way of honoring the goddess who sustains their craft.

Ekdalia Evergreen Club Durga Puja

Founded in 1943, the Ekdalia Evergreen Club in South Kolkata is renowned for its towering bamboo pandals and elaborate lighting. Known for grandeur and scale, it frequently models its pandals after famous temples—such as Puri’s Jagannath Temple or Madurai’s Meenakshi Temple—earning it the reputation of “temple city of pandals.” The club’s organizers pride themselves on meticulous craftsmanship, employing hundreds of artisans and electricians months in advance. The idol, though housed in changing themes, remains traditionally styled. In Kolkata’s competitive puja landscape, Ekdalia Evergreen symbolizes ambition and neighborhood pride, attracting massive crowds every year. Its legacy is not only artistic but also social: like many Barowari pujas, it began as a community initiative during wartime Bengal and has grown into a major cultural landmark. Today, it stands for the way South Kolkata blends artistry, engineering, and devotion into one spectacle, reaffirming the idea that Puja is Bengal’s largest open-air art festival.

 

 

 

 

Deshapriya Park Durga Puja

Deshapriya Park in South Kolkata became nationally famous in 2015 when it unveiled the “world’s largest Durga idol,” towering over 80 feet. Though crowds were so overwhelming that the pandal had to be closed for safety, the puja’s legacy as a site of scale and ambition endures. Located at a busy junction, it attracts thousands daily during Puja. Unlike heritage pujas, Deshapriya Park’s focus is on spectacle, setting records, and offering viewers an awe-inspiring encounter. Yet it also connects to community pride, as local residents contribute to the organization. The vast park setting allows for wide pandals and elaborate lighting. For many visitors, the sight of the gigantic goddess gazing into the sky remains unforgettable. The puja reflects the evolving face of Kolkata’s festivities: where tradition coexists with daring innovation. It symbolizes the city’s appetite for grandeur, while also raising debates about scale versus intimacy in worship.

Suruchi Sangha Durga Puja

Suruchi Sangha, in South Kolkata near New Alipore, is celebrated for its thematic pujas that each year highlight a different Indian state or cultural theme. Founded in the 1950s, it gradually became a frontrunner in artistry and innovation. The pandals are immersive environments: Rajasthan deserts, Kerala houseboats, Odisha temples, or tribal villages recreated with painstaking detail. The idols too reflect the theme, sometimes styled in regional attire. The puja committee emphasizes inclusivity and cultural education, aiming to showcase India’s diversity through Durga’s many forms. For this reason, Suruchi Sangha has repeatedly won awards from both the state government and corporate sponsors. Beyond artistry, the puja is also a neighborhood initiative, with volunteers working months in advance. Visitors experience here the fusion of devotion and design, where Puja becomes a mirror of India itself. Suruchi Sangha exemplifies how Kolkata’s Barowari pujas have grown into not just religious festivals but platforms for cultural dialogue and artistic expression.

 

 

 

 

 

Victoria Memorial

Built between 1906 and 1921 in memory of Queen Victoria, the Victoria Memorial is Kolkata’s most iconic colonial monument. Conceived by Lord Curzon, the then Viceroy of India, it was designed by Sir William Emerson in Indo-Saracenic revivalist style, blending Mughal, Venetian, and Renaissance elements. The structure is clad in Makrana marble, the same used for the Taj Mahal. At its heart stands the marble statue of Queen Victoria, surrounded by sprawling gardens laid out in the English landscape tradition. Inside, galleries display portraits of British monarchs, oil paintings by European artists, and artifacts tracing the colonial history of India. For nationalists, the Memorial was a reminder of imperial dominance; for modern visitors, it serves as a museum of Bengal’s entangled past, from Plassey to Partition. The bronze Angel of Victory atop the dome rotates with the wind, symbolizing the fleeting nature of power. Today, the Victoria Memorial is not merely a relic of empire but a space reinterpreted—where history, art, and leisure converge. It embodies the paradox of Kolkata: colonial grandeur preserved within a city that resisted and redefined it.

St. Paul’s Cathedral

Completed in 1847, St. Paul’s Cathedral was the first Anglican cathedral built in the British Empire outside Britain. Designed by Major William Nairn Forbes, it combines Gothic revival style with Indo-Saracenic adaptations to withstand Bengal’s earthquakes and climate. Its 247-ft spire was once the tallest structure in Kolkata, a landmark visible across the Maidan. The cathedral’s stained glass windows, especially those designed by Sir Edward Burne-Jones, bathe the nave in vibrant colors, while the choir stalls and memorial tablets honor colonial officers, missionaries, and civilians. The cathedral has been a hub for ecumenical worship and interfaith gatherings in modern times. It also carries cultural significance, being associated with Christmas celebrations that draw people across communities. For heritage lovers, St. Paul’s represents both British ecclesiastical architecture and the adaptation of Western forms to Indian soil. It remains a serene sanctuary amid the chaos of the city, offering not just prayer but also a reminder of Kolkata’s layered past as a meeting ground of East and West.

 

 

Mother Teresa’s House (Mother House)

The Mother House at 54A AJC Bose Road is the global headquarters of the Missionaries of Charity, founded by Mother Teresa in 1950. From here, the Nobel laureate began her lifelong mission of serving the poorest of the poor in Kolkata’s slums, hospitals, and orphanages. The simple building houses her tomb, a place of quiet pilgrimage for visitors from around the world. Upstairs, a small museum preserves her personal belongings—worn sandals, a rosary, handwritten letters—testaments to a life of radical simplicity. The adjoining chapel, where nuns pray in hushed devotion, exudes peace. Mother Teresa lived here until her death in 1997, writing countless letters and directing missions that spread across continents. For Kolkata, the Mother House symbolizes compassion rooted in the city’s own struggles, transforming poverty into an occasion for service. Unlike the grandeur of pandals or colonial architecture, its heritage lies in humility. The site continues to inspire millions, reminding visitors that sanctity can dwell in the smallest acts of love.

Kolkata’s Famous Sweets & Sweet Shops

No Kolkata travelogue is complete without the fragrance of sweets wafting in like memory. The city is, after all, the undisputed capital of mishti. The most iconic of them all is the rosogolla, those spongy white balls soaked in syrup, first perfected in the 19th century by Nobin Chandra Das of Bagbazar. His invention made Kolkata’s sweet shops pilgrimage sites for generations. Equally cherished is the sandesh—delicate, grainy, flavored with nolen gur (date palm jaggery) in winter or rose, pistachio, and saffron in other seasons. Variants like jolbhora, with liquid jaggery hidden inside, are tiny miracles of craftsmanship.

Then comes mishti doi, thickened sweet yogurt set in earthen pots, cooling and fragrant, its caramelized sweetness a symbol of Bengal’s hospitality. Chamcham of Ranaghat, langcha of Shaktigarh, sitabhog and mihidana of Bardhaman—all find their way into Kolkata shops, making the city a showcase of Bengal’s entire sweet-making heritage. Among the legendary shops, Balaram Mullick & Radharaman Mullick , KC Das, inheritor of Nobin Chandra’s legacy, Mitra Café and Girish Chandra Dey & Nakur Chandra Nandy still enchant with old-world sandesh, while Bhimsén’s and Ganguram continue to be household names.