By Mou Chakraborty

1

“Who walks through this storm? Is it you, Mother Durga, arriving at such an hour of ruin?” Sanatan whispered, his voice small against the roaring sky.

Lightning tore the darkness apart, and his feverish ten-year-old daughter burst into tears, her body shivering with helplessness. Outside, the lonely cries of stray dogs rose and fell, as if the night itself were weeping at their door.

Kumortuli, Kolkata’s quiet quarter of idol-makers, lay asleep, worn out after endless struggles. They had weathered storms before, but tonight’s fury seemed like no other.

Past the tram tracks, down three or four narrow lanes, the alleys had turned into rivers of mud and straw. Rain dragged away the earth in thick, muddy streams—earth that was treasure to these artisans.

This clay was their life. Every year they bought it on loan, borrowing for a future they could not yet see. And each year, as Durga Puja returned, they struggled to repay their debts. What would happen this year?

Such thoughts weighed on Sanatan’s tired mind as he returned from the cremation ground. Two long nights of caring for his dying parents, rushing to hospitals, facing death—and now it was over. His aging body, nearly sixty, gave in at last and collapsed on the plastic-covered floor.

The storm now roared like a wild god, its rains and winds striking the earth without mercy. Somewhere, people were crying, calling out in fear, but the voice of the storm drowned all human sound.

Storms had come before, but this one felt different—like the world itself was breaking apart. Kumortuli was drowning. Across the flooded lanes, the clay was melting away, the very clay meant to shape the gods. And the Pal family could do nothing but hold their heads in despair.

They called on Mother Durga for help, but the storm did not stop. Beneath makeshift shelters, the artisans gathered their bundles of clay, their straw frames, their unfinished idols—yet it was clear their efforts could not protect them tonight.

In one of the countless sheds, Sanatan had finally fallen asleep, worn out beyond words. This was no night for sleep, but exhaustion had claimed him.

Durga Puja was almost here. And yet, just two hours ago, Sanatan’s father, Gora Pal, and mother, Lakshmirani, had left this world. Their final rites had not yet been completed.

His younger brother, Gopal, who had cared for them tirelessly, now sat defeated. Fever was sweeping through the world—why would Kumortuli be spared?

Gora Pal had feared this moment, ever since he saw his friend Jaga Pal die struggling for breath. Now he too was gone, breathless in the end.

A flash of lightning lit the dark hut, revealing Sanatan’s wife, Radha, sleeping with their sick daughter Mala held close against her chest. Another crash of thunder made Sanatan stir, restless even in sleep.

As the eldest son, Sanatan had inherited his father’s two humble sheds—the only legacy passed down through the generations of the Pal family.

His life unfolded within these two clay-smeared rooms. There had been no rest these past days.

Gopal had made no claim on the property, leaving it all to Sanatan. But even so, this space was far too small for them all—father, mother, wife, and two children, living side by side with the gods they shaped from clay.

Gopal, twenty years younger, told his brother gently, “What’s the point of splitting it again? I’m just a poor sculptor with no roof of my own.”

And so, together they crowded into the small space. Two towering twenty-foot frames stood ready, waiting to become single-faced Durga idols. Anyone looking would know what they were meant to be.

Beside them stood another ten-foot frame.

Nearby, two buckets of whitewash waited, brushes resting beside them.

Around the room, tins of glue, chisels, knives, rulers, and brushes lay scattered.

In the corner, another frame stood unfinished, its straw still exposed. And beneath a sheet of plastic, twenty upside-down clay faces rested, waiting to take form.

A worn two-legged stool leaned against the wall, forgotten and useless.

In daylight, one would see how uneven the earthen floor was—rising and falling like the back of some tired beast.

The only comfort was that the floor sloped gently toward the door, letting the rainwater flow out instead of collecting inside.

At the feet of one half-finished idol, Sanatan slept, his tired body curled up beside the gods he had yet to bring to life.

For Radha and little Mala, he had made a sleeping space in one corner, surrounded by plastic sheeting—just large enough for a narrow cot.

Beyond the plastic curtain, Radha slept, holding her fevered daughter close against her chest.

No one had eaten since the deaths, their hunger silenced by grief and mourning.

And now the storm threatened to wash away what little they had left.

Outside, the flooded lanes carried away the very earth they had bought with borrowed money—the clay meant for the gods.

Anyone watching the swirling water would know how much was lost tonight.

Last year too, Sanatan had failed to repay his debt.

This year, it was with Gopal’s help that he had bought the clay again.

Now, pulling himself from the plastic sheet, Sanatan rubbed his tired feet, wiped his calloused hands.

The fragile shelters of Kumortuli trembled in the wind, like old men caught in the storm’s fury. Somewhere, a sheet of tin tore free and flew into the night, clattering like a cry.

Even the plastic above them seemed ready to give way.

Two buckets placed to catch the leaking water now overflowed, unable to hold back the sky’s endless tears.

Sanatan whispered softly, his words nearly lost in the storm,

“Come, Mother… sit beside me in this ruin.”

2

After the storm’s furious departure, it left behind a trail of devastation. As if the pandemic alone weren’t enough, now this disaster.

Cries of despair filled the narrow lanes.

Gopal spoke first, his voice steady despite the chaos:

“I told you before, didn’t I? We have to find a way. We can’t keep working like this, just waiting for the clay to betray us.”

Gopal’s home stood across from this part of the alley, separated by little more than a tramline. On one side of the tracks, the artisans’ sheds clung together like forgotten relics; on the other, the Ganges flowed silently, its waters no witness to human struggle. Between these two boundaries stretched countless makeshift shelters, each one holding a world of fragile dreams.

Life here had turned into something like a lump of abandoned clay.

No trains whistled.

No factory sirens called workers to their shifts.

The restless hum of traffic was gone.

No quarrels broke out between neighbors.

No crowd gathered at the tea stalls.

Farther down the lane, the ghats stood empty. Beyond them, the cremation grounds waited in stillness.

There were no lines of mourners, no children’s laughter, no crowds of pilgrims making vows before the idols.

Even bustling Kolkata had fallen silent.

And here, at the city’s edge, Kumortuli lay quiet too—its usual visitors and worshippers vanished.

Gopal said again, more firmly this time:

“We have to find an alternative. With losses like these, how will we ever stand back up? How will we deliver the idols this year?”

The others nodded, faces drawn and tired.

An elderly artisan, drawing deep on his bidi, murmured, “We never thought it would be this bad. Never imagined a storm and rain could destroy so much, all at once.”

But Gopal shook his head.

“This isn’t just a natural disaster. It’s something more.”

The old man agreed, coughing smoke into the night.

“No, it’s not just the storm. The pandemic took away our food, our breath. Fevers have come before, but nothing like this.”

Gopal knew these streets like the lines of his palm. He had grown up in one of the small, forgotten houses of this alley, tucked away behind layers of neglect. His father had barely mixed with others.

In school, Gopal often heard the other boys teasing: “Hey, clay boy, go shape your gods!”

But Gopal remembered the afternoons when, under the harsh sun, he and his brother Sanatan would wait beside the frames of half-finished idols.

In front of every home, something unfinished stood—waiting to be made whole.

He especially loved climbing onto the lion’s back, pretending to be Durga’s mount.

When he was young, Gopal’s share of the work was making the owl, the swan, and the mouse—the smaller creatures of the goddess’s entourage.

As he grew older, the peacock, lion, and bull became his responsibility.

His first real work came after school, in tenth grade, shaping idols beside his elder brother Sanatan.

He often joked,

“Most children begin life learning to write. We began with clay. We are Pals, after all.”

He remembered another flood, years ago, when the streets of Kolkata drowned and Kumortuli sank with it. Back then, Gopal had tried to block the rushing water with cloth tied across the alleys, hoping to save the clay and straw.

Sanatan had laughed at him, saying, “Foolish boy, you think cloth can hold back a river?”

That memory returned now.

Gopal’s own craft had changed since those days. After studying at the art college, his work became different—more refined, perhaps, more modern.

Sanatan still built single-faced Durga idols in the old way. A few artisans now made miniatures, while the larger frames were handled by their elder cousins.

On their mother’s side, idols were made for household pujas, without the grand orders of modern temples.

The older artisans worked for the small votive ceremonies—no grand commissions, no buyers seeking contemporary innovation.

In this neighborhood, most idols were still made of earth.

And now that earth was gone.

3

In the fragile half-light of the shed, Sanatan looked up, startled.

“Mother Durga, why have you come at a time like this?” he asked.

The goddess, silent for a moment, finally spoke, her voice low and weary.

“I know you do not welcome me, yet I had no choice—I could no longer bear the agony. My arms burn, the pain shoved sleep away. What have you done, child?”

“Mother?” Sanatan whispered, confusion and fear mingling.

She raised her hands, eyes wide, and gasped, “Look—straw is spilling from my limbs! This is not straw to me—it is my very blood. Even divine nectar cannot soothe this ache. And your work—Sanatan—one misaligned nail in my veins! That’s why the pain drove me here.”

Swallowing hard, Sanatan asked softly, “Mother, where is my lion?”

Her answer was distant. “Your father? No one in this Kumartuli has fashioned him yet. So he runs off—lost—nowhere to stand.”

“He’s gone, Mother,” Sanatan murmured. “Washed away in the flood.”

Her tone trembled with anger and sorrow.

“Sanatan—did you set the demon’s head upon me?”

He shook his head, voice cracking. “Not yet, Mother. It’s still drying—waiting to be attached.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And those eyes you carved—small as a rat’s! Not the wide, fierce gaze of the goddess.”

He fell silent, then pleaded, “Please, Mother, only the finishing remains. Four more days—I promise you, I will bring back your true form.”

She walked the length of the room, scanning the frames. She paused again, shaking her head.

“No, child. I can’t recognize myself. This is what happens when one lingers too long in the same craft. Forty years, and still you lack focus.”

He bowed even further. “Forty years, Mother.”

Her voice softened but remained stern. “That is the answer. Exhaustion clouds the heart. You have grown careless. Last year—the arms hung wrong—one too short, one too long—and yet you sent the idols forth unfinished.”

“Torrential rains, Mother,” he defended himself. “I fanned those idols day and night, yet they remained damp. Mistakes followed.”

She glanced at his head, voice trembling with disappointment.

“And the hair for my crown? Only two thin bundles of jute—you said, ‘Enough—my crown will cover it.’ Fool! I removed your hair in return. I have cursed your line with baldness. Your mind has dulled, Sanatan. At forty you grow harsh, uncaring, careless!”

Tears brimmed in his eyes. “Please forgive me, Mother… I am tired. Mistakes come now.”

She turned away. “No more. You have passed your time. This year, another will carry my image.”

He fell at her feet. “Select who you will, Mother, but have mercy on me. Without your grace, what am I to do? How shall I earn my living?”

Her voice softened just enough to break his heart.

“It is your wisdom that saves you. I shall not leave your line… but only one may carry it forward.”

Only one—his daughter, Mala. His son had drowned in the Ganges at ten. Now, in the storm’s wake, Mala lay fevered.

“Seven days,” she said. “Will she survive?”

“She is frail, like clay that tears when molded,” he answered softly.

“In that case,” Durga whispered, turning toward the creaking shed door. At her touch, the thin metal gave way. Sanatan reached to steady her but slipped, falling to the earth.

And awoke.

Silence filled the room—Radha and Mala sleeping quietly against the dark. Sanatan lay on the hard floor, tangled in unfinished work.

He wondered if he should bathe by the river—a habit from his youth spent by his father’s side.

Out on the Ganges ghat, the river roared beneath a leaden sky. Sanatan waded in, water lapping cold—a moment of icy clarity. He felt his son beneath the waves once more.

He drew himself together, stepping away, gathering the wet cloth around him. A priest approached with sindoor.

He declined it, sprinkling water instead, then bowed before the temple in threefold prostration.

From the cremation grounds, mourners poured in—some moving to bathe after their rituals, heads shaven, faces sunken. Sanatan observed them, unmoved by tears. His brother Gopal would have cried, but Sanatan, true to his nature, carried grief in the silence of his heart.

Back in the shed, shadows swayed as lightning flickered through holes in the tin. Sanatan ran his weary hands over the unfinished frames—no lion, no demon, no final shape. He understood Durga’s anger.

He glanced toward his daughter, fragile and still as an unformed figurine.

He rose from the plank platform and reached for the scaffold—but his legs gave way. He collapsed in tears.

“Mother,” he whispered into the stillness, “forgive me. Just one more chance.”

No answer—but thunder rumbled overhead.

He lay there, clay and paint still on his hands. Exhaustion curled his limbs. Chill settled in his bones.

Gopal found him in that frozen pose later. It was the first time Sanatan had left Kumartuli behind.

4

A sharp ache twisted through Gopal’s chest. His family now meant only Radha and Mala.

At dawn on Mahalaya, the cremation was done. Across the restless Ganges, the sun was rising, casting a crimson hue across the waking world.

Radha, clad in a plain white sari, emerged from the riverside like a sorrow-carved goddess.
Gopal had never imagined Radha in this light. She was of his age, yet today she seemed distant, like someone from another life.

Mala stood silently, watching the last thread of smoke dissolve into the pale sky.

“Let’s go,” Gopal said softly.

“Let’s,” Mala echoed.

Barely a few steps and they were back in Kumartuli.

Smoke rose lazily from Ajay’s tea stall, the familiar scent of boiled leaves drifting on the air.

But today, Ajay did not call out for tea.

Gopal paused, unsure whether to put on white mourning cloth.

Lakshmi-didi from next door had taken Radha away into her own hut, closing the door gently.

Turning to Mala, Gopal said, “Let’s cross over.”

Mala walked ahead but stopped by the worn fourth doorway of their lane.

“No,” she said quietly.

Gopal stood confused, uncertain what to do.

In this morning light, life’s colors seemed paler than even the earth beneath their feet.

Inside, Sanatan’s old straw mat lay where he had last sat.

Exhausted, Gopal sank onto the wooden cot.

Mala stood silent at the doorway, her hand resting gently on her father’s unfinished clay goddess.

She did not cry.

Gopal knew then—she bore her father’s nature. She would not shed tears.

Around them, the work was not yet done. Three idols still awaited delivery. They must be finished before Chaturthi.

Loudspeakers blared all morning—the Puja was nearly upon them.

Mala sat cross-legged on the floor.

Gopal closed his eyes, trying to imagine the uncertain days ahead.

A few cold drops startled him awake. Evening had quietly filled the small room.

A single yellow bulb hung from a rope, struggling to pierce the shadows. Its light swayed and danced, throwing long, trembling silhouettes across the walls.

Gopal turned to call out—but the words died on his lips.

Mala was perched on the loft, her small figure like a living echo of Sanatan Pal himself.

She wore a sari, and her faint silhouette spilled over the floor, a hazy blanket of memory and clay.

Beside her, Radha sat quietly on a stool, her presence steady and still.

Mala was painting the goddess’s eyes.

Her loose hair fell across her shoulders, and drops of water from the leaking roof fell on Gopal’s face, feeling strangely comforting, like a blessing in the dark.

In that moment, a sharp memory pierced Gopal’s mind: his brother Sanatan, fresh from his morning bath in the river, wiping his wet face before bending over the clay to give the goddess her gaze.

Now, in that same softened light, on the familiar straw mat beside the sack of clay, the pose was reborn—not Sanatan, but his daughter.

The next artisan had arrived.

In a voice barely above a whisper, Gopal spoke:

“Kumbhakarī  the artisan Mala Pal.”

In the span of a few hours, she had become the sculptor.

Suddenly, the light went out.

Outside, a matador truck approached to carry away the idols.

Its yellow headlights swept past Sanatan Pal’s humble shed—the fourth doorway in the alley—and disappeared down the narrow lane.

Gopal turned back to his corner.

On the distant tramlines, somewhere ahead, the path of the next clay girl…  Kumbhakarī awaited.

###

Dr. Mou Chakraborty is a writer, translator, and researcher from Kolkata, India. Her works explore gender, mythology, and social struggles through fiction and drama. She is the Managing Editor of Kathakriti Natyapatra, a UGC CARE-listed journal, and has published over 50 creative works and research articles.