For days, Guwahati belonged to Durga Puja. The streets stayed awake a little longer, pandals glowed against the night sky, and families stepped out with no particular hurry to return home.
Friends met after months, children demanded one more ride, and someone was always suggesting one more pandal before calling it a night.
Then came Dashami.
The dhaak continued to beat, but its rhythm carried a touch of sadness. The idols began their journey towards immersion. People gathered for one last glimpse of Maa Durga, folded their hands and watched her leave.
And suddenly, the city felt different.
The lights were still there. The roads were still crowded. Yet something seemed to have gone quiet. It was as if the city had lost a little piece of itself.
Why does the end of Durga Puja leave us feeling so empty?
Perhaps because we are not merely missing a festival. We are missing a feeling.
For a few days, life takes on a different rhythm. Work can wait a little longer. Dinner happens late. Sleep becomes negotiable. We find time for people we have been meaning to meet for months.
We walk through familiar streets as though seeing them for the first time.
Even the traffic, which tests our patience on ordinary days, becomes part of the Puja experience.
We complain, laugh, get stuck and move on, often with the same excitement that brought us outside in the first place.
There is something beautiful about a city celebrating together.
We may not know the people walking beside us, but for those few evenings, we share something.
We are all looking for the same lights, the same familiar faces, the same feeling of being part of something larger than ourselves.
And then, almost overnight, we return to our separate lives.
The pandals begin to disappear. The roads become ordinary again. The clothes bought for the occasion go back into cupboards.
Photographs fill our phones, preserving moments that already seem further away than they really are.
Perhaps the emptiness comes from how quickly it all ends.
We wait for Durga Puja for months. We discuss plans, buy clothes, decide where to go and promise to meet friends.
Sometimes, the excitement begins long before the first dhaak is heard.
And just when we begin to settle into the happiness of it all, the celebrations are over.
Perhaps that is what makes the final evening so emotional. We know, even while enjoying it, that this particular Puja will never return.
Next year, the lights will shine again. The dhaak will play again. We will stand before Maa Durga and pray for another year of happiness, health and togetherness.
But next year will not be this year.
People will change. Children will grow older. Friends may move away. Some familiar faces may not return. Life will have carried us all somewhere new.
We may stand in the same pandal, hear the same music and eat the same food, but we will never be exactly the people we were this year.
Perhaps this is why festivals become memories even before they end.
Durga Puja has a beautiful sadness woven into its traditions. We welcome Maa Durga with devotion and joy, knowing that Her stay among us is temporary.
We decorate our pandals, offer our prayers and celebrate Her arrival, while somewhere in our hearts we know that Dashami will come.
There is something deeply human about this ritual. We know that not everything we love can stay. Yet we embrace it wholeheartedly, knowing that its absence will leave a mark.
Maybe that is not foolishness. Maybe that is love.
We do not stop celebrating because the festival will end. We celebrate because it came into our lives at all.
Soon, Guwahati will return to its familiar routine. The pandals will be gone, the lights will come down, and the city will once again hurry through its ordinary days.
But somewhere, a child will remember the balloon bought on Saptami. Someone will revisit a photograph of friends laughing beneath the lights.
A family will talk about the evening they spent together. Someone will remember a loved one who was missing this year.
And slowly, sadness will make room for anticipation.
We will begin waiting again.
Perhaps the city feels empty after Puja because, for a few days, we allow ourselves to feel full. Full of people, laughter, prayer, colour and the simple happiness of being together.
So let Guwahati feel a little quieter for a while. Let us miss the lights, the crowds, the music and those long evenings when going home could always wait a little longer.
Maa Durga will return next year. Until then, we will carry this Puja within us, holding on to the warmth of what was and the hope of what is yet to come.
The lights may have gone out on the streets, but the festival has left something glowing inside us.
And perhaps that is how a celebration truly lives on: not in the pandals that remain standing, but in the memories we carry long after they are gone.