So I was cleaning my bookshelf, categorizing it, and wiping the covers clean.

Books were all around me. I loved that feeling. I made myself a papier Palace, I flipped through pages and smelt the vanilla fragrance from the pulp. Many books were virgin, many more were touched by me and others.

After almost two hours, I grew tired. I slept the way I was. In my drowsiness, I pulled a hapless book out of the pile and made a pillow out of it. I brought a book or two close to myself and slept off.

Mom wondered what took me so long. She peeped through the key hole and saw no one standing in the room. She opened the door a bit and noticed a silhouette sleeping. She carefully ushered herself in, careful not to step on any book. Each book is Saraswati, personified.

To think of it, I’d have indulged Saraswati many more times when I threw out more than 2 dozen books into the empty plot adjacent to our flat. But that’s another story for another day. I’m sorry didi.

She felt that I was cold. She covered me with a blanket. Like an infant who latches on to a nipple, I grabbed the blanket and pulled it closer – all in my sleep.

She took my phone, unlocked it – yes she knows the password to my phone, I taught it to her because I am an open book – and opened the Camera. With the rudimentary photography skills she possessed, she clicked this one photograph of me sleeping.

She quietly left the room like nothing happened. I woke up couple of hours later, and checked my phone for notifications. I rearranged my shelf, ate dinner and went to sleep.

Next day, I was cleaning my phone when I saw this picture. I went to mom and showed it to her, she smiled. I was in glee.

I remember this word from my childhood, from the time I learnt to recall and access my conscious memory.

My grandparents come from Raniganj. Their parents are still a demi-God figure in the township, because they did more for the people after they passed away than they could ever do when they were alive. It is a common fact that Marwaris (of all caste and socio economic status) were quasi nomadic who went to hitherto unknown parts of India, did business and assimilated themselves to the regional culture and religion. My familial lineage is part of that narrative.

I remember hearing the two hour long ‘Mahishasura Mardini’ every morning over the course of 9 days of Navratri. It was and is a ritual that my house follows. Most of the times, I do not understand it. I sometimes don’t even sit back and listen to it carefully. But, whenever I do listen, it fills me with this gush of positive energy and devotion.

I admit, in my childhood I used to listen to a lot of bhajans. As time went by, I saw the absurdity of bhajans and the fact that many of them were based on then popular songs. So I started to detest them. That said, I never seem to get enough of Mahishasura Mardini.

This particular clip that is uploaded here, sings the hymn through which the devotee implores the mother Goddess to wake up.

My father says that; during his childhood, Mahishasura Mardini used to be played on the radio at 4:00 AM, and people used to listen to it. You could listen to it by not even owning a radio, because it would be playing in all the houses of the locality you’re part of. I’m not sure if it happens now.

I feel at peace when I listen to it. I feel like a baby curled up in the lap of Mother. I feel like She’s singing me a lullaby while softly patting my head. I feel young. I feel bliss. There are times I’ve caught myself overwhelmed with emotions and letting a tear or two slide away, as a testimomy to that.

Jaago. Tume Jaago.