The story so far: Gouri cooked bhog every day in the temple kitchen and collected the leftovers for dinner. An old woman turned up one day and ate with her. Then she dined regularly. LPG supply is disrupted due to war. Gouri is jobless. Khiroda Pishi blew into the stove and created fire. She was a spirit. She helps Gouri start a tea stall. Khiroda left one day promising to return.
***
Gouri sat staring at the flame. The blue flame that appeared from nowhere. The one that was summoned to existence by the elderly, dawdling old lady dressed in soiled, once maybe white saree. Khiroda pishi had become an integral part of her life. To think she was not of this world, was unthinkable.
The decades old walls, crumbled at places. The thatched roof seemed to be sticking in place due to Divine blessings. It kept the heat of the sun out and let only part of the rain water in, like a trusted sieve. She was thankful to Ma Durga. Wasn’t she most of the time?
The monsoons had been unpredictable. When it was supposed to rain, the Sun shone resplendent. Birds, beasts and humans were baffled. When it was supposed to be sunny, the Rain Gods blessed abundantly. Seeming to be in a tearing hurry, to make up for lost time.
Soon, the war between powerful countries, far away, for reasons not clear to anyone, became the norm rather than something unfathomable. “With that some one hundred and thirty seven countries are in some kind of conflict or other!” the old retired men at the temple were saying as they gathered after the aarti.
She had been praying in earnest, completely immersed in bhakti, talking to Ma, in her heart. She was begging for a job, for food in her belly, for a life where ends would meet. The Devi sat silent and watchful, testing the people who came to Her court.
“Hey Gouri!” called the head priest.
“What have I done now?” muttered the old lady, as she opened her eyes, wiped the corners and slowly turned to look
The man looked at her with sympathy and like a monarch said, “Do you have a job? Would you like to start cooking the bhog, again?”
Tears cascaded down her face. She looked at Radha-Gobindo, smiling through the watery curtain, joining her palms.
“When can I begin Maharaj?” she mumbled in supplication.
“Tomorrow? Is that enough notice?” he asked, laughing loudly.
Barely able to control her trembling voice, wiping her eyes that seemed to flow no end, she looked at Radha-Gobindo once again.
“Is She smiling?” wondered Gouri.
Stirring the pot of the bubbling rice and dal, Gouri was humming. The aroma of the khichuri filled the cook house. She could feel her own stomach rumbling in expectation of a square meal after days. Prasad.
A shadow blocked the light at the entrance of the doorway. There she stood. Khiroda pishi! Gouri flushed and flustered. Had she not revealed she would not be coming back?
“Pishima?”
The old lady smiled. Her benign, comforting smile. Her face radiant, her eyes luminiscent.
“Is the bhog ready yet? Or have you forgotten to cook?” taunted the old priest. “Yes, it is ready. I will just put it together for Radha-Gobindo!” blurted Gouri as she ran around the cook house, pulling out big brass platters, banana leaves, and heaving the hot aromatic cauldrons.
She prepared the platter with the divine meal, immersed in pious thoughts, and handed it over to the Priest.
The tintinnabulations of the sanctum sanctorum, sounded glorious as it pervaded the corners of the temple, drawing the devout and the hungry alike. Gouri latched the door and ambled as swiftly as she could to participate in the prayers and offerings.
Walking home with the bowl covered with a banana leaf, fragrant with the khichuri prasad, she suddenly recalled Khiroda pishi. “Oh how foolish of me… I forgot about pishima. Hope she is not angry.”
As she sat to partake of her meal, the familiar form of Khiroda pishi appeared. She calmly started eating. Gouri was very uncomfortable.
“Pishima?” she probed gently.
“I told you I would come again!” smiled she between mouthfuls.
“Remember what I told you about my childhood?”
“That you were widowed when you were barely nine?”
“No, that my in-laws’ family lost all their wealth and status.”
“You did not explain the reason!”
“Let me tell you today. I was having my frugal dinner after having slogged all day, pandering to my mother-in-law’s instructions, when my elder brother-in-law came in. ‘Eat! How much you eat! You will fill out soon. Of course it will be good for me!’ And he laughed his head off, like Ravan!”
A silent hush descended in the cottage.
“ I could not put another morsel in my mouth. The food turned to sawdust in my mouth. That night when I lay on my mat, on the floor, I kept tossing for a long time. The moon streamed in, its silver beams filled my room. In the middle of the night I woke up with a start. He was staring, his eyes bloodshot. Probably from hours of drinking,” pishi’s voice was barely a whisper.
Gouri’s hand flew to her mouth, “Dugga! Dugga!” she gasped, eyes nearly popping, “Shorbonash!”
I was fully awake. I stared at him. We stared at each other.
I got up and left.
As I stepped across the threshold, I could smell smoke. I turned around to see the house engulfed in flames. Blue and golden flames leaped from the roof top, the floor and the balconies.
Whenever someone calls me from their heart, I can’t refuse. I turn up.”
Word count- 879
Glossary
Dugga! Dugga!- A vernacular phrase invoking Goddess Durga, for protection
Shorbonash- a Bengali phrase conveying everything’s lost
PS: Written for ArtoonsInn #P2P September 2026
Pic: https://unsplash.com/@jentheodore? for representation purpose only
