As a kid, I was lucky. Ma Durga would be welcomed into my grandmother's humble abode, where all of the family would come together to string together all that goes into such a festivity. The children of the family would function on an adrenalin overdrive those five days. From zipping down the stairs to pluck flowers from the tiny garden at 5 am, to helping an aunt roll the naru (a coconut shondesh), carefully carrying a gigantic plate of offerings from the kitchen to the big room where Ma Durga would wait patiently, be the first to find the dhak sticks for the dadas, frequently yell out messages from the top floor to the ones below, and always, always refuse to nap in the afternoon. Then wait impatiently for the evening, when we would all empty talcum powder bottles onto ourselves, wear a new dress, and hop on one foot while an aunt tied our hair. And as the eldest dada struck the dhak, everybody would gather around Ma Durga, and therein began the competition of who would be the best percussionist. My youngest aunt would always win, hands down. Buoyed by her victory, she would take all of us out to the nearest park, to eat phuchkas and get onto rather dangerously feeble ferris wheels. We'd then walk to as many pandals as possible to see the very many different visions of Ma Durga. Thus would go by each day, till the last, when we had to bid goodbye to Ma. That day would herald a new competition—the one who yelled out the goodbye the loudest, walking by the cart that carried Ma, all the way from the house to the Ganga, would win. I would usually win this one.