Shikha Tandon was a woman on a mission. Every year during Navratri, the housing society in suburban Mumbai where she lived echoed with the sound of dhols, clapping, and cheerful shouts as the Gujaratis and Marathis celebrated the festival with their beloved garba and dandiya. But to Shikha, it always felt hollow, like something essential was missing.
ਇੱਕ ਵਾਰ ਜਦੋਂ ਉਹ ਇੱਕ ਸਹੀ ਮਾਤਾ ਕੀ ਚੌਂਕੀ ਵੇਖ ਲੈਣ, ਤਾਂ ਉਹ ਨਵਰਾਤਰੀ ਦੀ ਭਾਵਨਾ ਨੂੰ ਸਮਝਣਗੇ...ਨਾ ਲਾਲ ਚੁਨਾਰੀ, ਨਾ ਸਿਰ ਢੱਕਣਾ, ਰੰਗ ਬਿਰੰਗੇ ਕਪੜੇ... she’d mutter to herself, watching the merriment from her balcony, arms crossed in disdain. ਅਤੇ ਉਹ ਡੰਡੇ ਮਾਰਨ ਅਤੇ ਅਤਰੰਗੀ ਕੱਪੜੇ ਪਾਉਣ ਦੀ ਇਸ ਬਕਵਾਸ ਨੂੰ ਬੰਦ ਕਰਨਗੇ। ਸਿਰਫ਼ ਪੰਜਾਬੀ ਹੀ ਜਾਣਦੇ ਹਨ ਕਿ ਮਾਤਾ ਦੀ ਭਗਤੀ ਕਿਵੇਂ ਕਰਨੀ ਹੈ।
For years, she had tried to convince the housing society to let her organize a Mata ki Chowki, complete with microphones, loudspeakers, and a playlist filled with stirring Punjabi and Hindi devotional songs dedicated to Vaishno Devi. She could already picture the entire complex resounding with the powerful bhajans and kirtans she remembered from her childhood in Punjab. It would be glorious, a true tribute to the goddess that these Gujaratis and Marathis could never understand.
Finally, after much persuading and wheedling with the society’s committee, Shikha got her wish. The event was sanctioned. She prepared everything meticulously. The pandal was set up in the society’s courtyard, with a small shrine decorated with flowers and lights. A list of traditional bhajans, all in honor of Vaishno Devi, was carefully curated by Shikha. She even invited all the ladies from the society, asking them to dress appropriately in red and white.
The evening of the Chowki arrived, and Shikha beamed as she welcomed everyone. She took the microphone and, in her best authoritative voice, announced the start of the celebration. The first Punjabi bhajan filled the air, and Shikha felt a deep sense of satisfaction.
But as the evening wore on, things started to unravel. One of the ladies, a cheerful Gujarati woman named Priti, requested a song. અરે શિખાબેન, શું આપણે અંબે માતા માટે ગુજરાતી ભજન ગાઈ શકીએ? she asked innocently. Shikha hesitated but nodded stiffly, her smile faltering. Before she knew it, the microphone was passed to Priti, and a Gujarati song praising Ambe Mata echoed through the courtyard.
It didn’t stop there. More requests came flooding in, and soon, the Marathi ladies chimed in with their own favorite songs. अहो! आम्हाला अंबाबाईसाठी काही मराठी भजनेही गायची इच्छा आहे! One by one, Shikha’s carefully curated playlist was pushed aside, and her vision of a pure Punjabi Mata ki Chowki was being washed away in a wave of Gujarati and Marathi devotion.
When the garba music started blaring, it was the final straw. Shikha stood on the sidelines, her arms crossed tightly, eyes narrowing as she watched the ladies twirl and clap. Even the few Punjabi women she had invited had abandoned her carefully planned event to join in the garba.
ਬੰਦ ਕਰੋ ਇਹ ਗੰਦਗੀ... ਸ਼ੋਰ ਸ਼ਰਾਬਾ ਕਰ ਦੀਆ Shikha muttered angrily, her face flushing with frustration. ਤੁਸੀਂ ਨੀਚ ਲੋਕ ਨਹੀਂ ਜਾਣਦੇ ਕਿ ਮਾਤਾ ਦੀ ਪੂਜਾ ਕਿਵੇਂ ਕਰਨੀ ਹੈ। ਤੁਹਾਨੂੰ ਸਭ ਨੂੰ ਮਾਤਾ ਦਾ ਸਰਾਪ ਮਿਲੇਗਾ। ਇਹ ਸਭ ਤੁਹਾਡੇ ਲਈ ਮਜ਼ਾਕ ਹੈ!
With a loud huff, Shikha stormed out of the courtyard, her head held high but her fists clenched tightly. As she stomped up the stairs to her flat, the sounds of laughter and clapping only seemed to mock her more. She slammed her door shut, her chest heaving with anger. The night, which she had hoped would be a glorious tribute to Vaishno Devi, had turned into a nightmare.
She was still fuming the next day when a knock on her door interrupted her thoughts. Opening it, she was greeted by a committee member, who handed her a folded piece of paper. Confused, she took it, and as her eyes scanned the contents, her heart sank.
It was a bill.
मायक्रोफोन आणि स्पीकर भाड्याचे बिल, the man said politely, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. आपण कार्यक्रम आयोजित केल्यापासून.
Shikha’s mouth fell open. A hefty sum was circled in red at the bottom of the paper, more than she had imagined.
ਹਾਂ ਹਾਂ she repeated through gritted teeth, crumpling the bill in her hand. Muttering under her breath, she slammed the door once more, cursing the entire society under her breath.
ਦੁਬਾਰਾ ਕਦੇ ਨਹੀਂ! she spat. ਇਹ ਲੋਕ ਕਦੇ ਨਹੀਂ ਸਮਝਣਗੇ!
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