Three days after the puja the road is lined with white powder, bleach to get rid of the stink of cooking pots, onions and potato peel. The smell still lingers despite the generous scattering that makes the pavement outside my door look like it has been snowed on. Bamboos lie uprooted in piles, red plastic chairs heaped on more red plastic and the hammered light panels and twists of multi-coloured wire waiting for someone to remember them. This evening there is no aarti or collection for bhog, Rs 101 for a papad and bhog, the auspicious amount to be stuffed into the black box waiting to receive it.