Why Poila Baisakh celebrations in the 'new normal' don't feel the same
Noboborsho mornings are particularly etched in my memory. For one day at least, Ma would not have had to con me into waking up early by screaming it was past morning hours or turn off the fan to pull me out of sleep. I would almost leap out of bed and get ready to accompany her to the morning procession or 'Prabhat feri', with other enthusiasts from the neighbourhood.
We would all gather at a pre-decided location at 6-6.30 am, and walk through the nearby lanes, singing Esho Hey Baisakh or Hey Nutan, blaring through megaphones, our hearts brimming with pride of being a Bengali. The procession would end with a short programme where kids, women decked up in cotton sarees and gajra, and men in kurta-pyjama, would recite poems, sing and dance, after having rehearsed for at least a week.