Durga Puja abroad: How food, rituals, and memory keep tradition alive

London: There's a word in Bengali - 'gondhey pushpey', literally 'smell of flowers' - that is so achingly evocative it could almost be a perfume, if not a spell. It is the fragrance of air that becomes plush and positively intoxicating with high notes of blossoming jasmine, tingle of orange marigolds, touch of frankincense and resin, and that deep, almost carnal richness of ghee melting in dancing flames. Here, the sacred mingles with the sensual, all wafting around the hush of incantations, each aroma yearning upward with the prayer. Every molecule designed to purify, to comfort, to renew.

But this romance doesn't always translate so smoothly when one is far from 'home'. Practicalities intrude. The fire alarm wails petulantly if one so much as thinks about a sacred blaze. Marigolds now carry the 'Made in China' label and the pandit's resonant voice booming with shlokas is, more often than not, replaced by the velvet baritone of Amitabh Bachchan, at Ganesh Chaturthi.

Festivals outside India are a kind tapestry, an edible map of India. If the homesick Maharashtrian is on the hunt for a modak that tastes as though it's been pinched and pleated perfectly, compromise won't do. The Bengali is on an altogether different quest. Come Durga Pujo, the trail leads pandalways, each one promising bhog with its own legend of perfection.


But bhog isn't just food. As witnessed yet again earlier this week, it's sustenance made sacred, first given to the deity, then ladled into waiting palms. To eat it is to taste devotion, gratitude, and the blissful reassurance that all nourishment, in the end, is a benediction.

In the US, Durga Pujo has been tidied into weekends. But in Britain, the season spills a little more generously, more forgivingly. In London's pandals this week, no one was ever turned away unfed. First came 'phol ahar' (fruit platter), followed by sandesh that seemed to melt away almost before you'd swallowed it.

And if fortune favoured, you had the likes of a Nila-di at Belsize Park pujo, with her homemade narus, golden mounds of coconut and sugar, still faintly warm from her touch, and utterly impossible to resist popping straight into one's mouth.

Bhog is a feast that anchors memory as much as appetite: luchis, not exactly flaking at the bite because of a minimum wage and hot service issue, but good enough with a gently spiced sabzi, languid comfort of khichuri, or a fragrant polau, its grains loose and shining. Always, inevitably, labra--five vegetables stewed into one lush, tangy muddle, the whole thing bursting with kalo jeera/kalonji seeds.

But pujo demands more than piety. It demands a day structured by nosh - 'noshtami,' or wicked decadence via the tummy in Bengali, if you will. You seek out meals that carry you back to evenings outside Kolkata pandals, where the air itself thickened with frying oil and spice.

In London's outskirts, the larger pujos oblige, conjuring chop, cutlet, and biryani with an enthusiasm that almost feels illicit. And in central London, where we are spoiled by delivery apps, you can summon your cravings as if by incantation.

In London's Navratri pujas hosted by communities following vegetarian customs, the offering of kala chana along with puri halwa has gained visibility over recent years, even in Durga pujo pandals. This is reflective of a blend of traditional North Indian and other regional Navratri food practices, where these dishes symbolise auspiciousness, purity, and homage to the goddess.

Emergence of this as novelty is part of evolving diaspora cultural expressions that both honour and adapt Indian rituals abroad. Little kumaris, dressed like devis, lined up on Ashtami, for some alta, bangles, and giggles.

Any puja is garlanded not just with petals, but memory itself. Here, fresh flowers and old familiarity flood the air with the same fragrance-memory of childhood pujos. aarti and ritualistic chanting. Rustling of silks, and shimmering of stories and spice. Ironed kurtas/panjabis and blisters from new shoes. Thermocol plates laden with bhog. The sizzle of 'bhaja' (fritters, literally 'fried') chasing the incense, the very edible promise of home.

Because after the sacred scents and hymn, comes the most elemental comfort: the welcoming fume of good food, shared laughter, and belonging--wherever you are and whichever soil supports your feet.