Dressing up for Pujo

For 5 days starting today, the ordinarily sensible business of putting on clothes is elevated into an art form, a public performance and, occasionally, a competitive sport. The excitement, of course, started long before the festivities. New shirts, saris, kurtas, dresses and shoes await their appointed appearances with the solemnity of theatrical costumes.

Outfits are allocated to particular days, sometimes even to particular hours, with a precision otherwise reserved for military operations. Mirrors acquire renewed importance. As do compliments.

What makes Pujo dressing particularly delightful is its magnificent disregard for practicality. Shoes may pinch, silk may protest against July-like humidity, and elaborate hairstyles may surrender to the first push in a pandal-hopping crowd. None of this matters. Looking splendid is its own reward, especially when thousands of others have reached precisely the same conclusion.


There is also something wonderfully democratic about this collective vanity. Streets become catwalks, pandals become exhibition spaces, and everyone gets to make a grand entrance.

Above all, dressing up announces a temporary liberation from the ordinary. You aren't merely wearing something new. You are stepping into a brighter, more exciting version of oneself.