Reluctant Assignment In the bustling heart of New Delhi, Ajay, a twenty-five-year old seasoned journalist from “The Daily Chronicles,” sat hunched over his desk, immersed in the ambient noise of clattering keyboards and distant conversations in the busy newsroom. The sharp call of his boss, Mr. Verma, jolted him from his reverie.  “Ajay, my office. Now,” Mr. Verma’s voice cut through the hum. In the editor’s cluttered cabin, Ajay took a seat across from Mr. Verma, who was sifting through piles of papers and photographs.  “I have an assignment for you,” Verma said without preamble. “Makar Sankranti. Bihar. You’ll leave tomorrow.”  Ajay's heart sank at the mention of Bihar, stirring a whirlpool of memories he had long tried to suppress.  “Bihar, sir? Specifically, where in Bihar?”  “Gaya,” Verma replied, scanning a document. Gaya. A chill ran down Ajay’s spine. The word echoed in his mind, a stark reminder of his father, whose memory was intricately woven into the fabric of his soul. He fought the urge to decline, keeping his emotions veiled. He wanted to refuse, but the words wouldn’t come out. “Is there a problem?” Verma asked, finally looking up. “Aren’t you from Gaya, Bihar?” “No problem, sir. It’s just that I’ve been covering a lot of festivals lately…” Ajay’s voice trailed off. “I did spend my childhood days in Gaya sir, but I left Gaya, ten-years ago, after… ah…”  “So what? This is a different type of festival, Ajay,” Mr. Verma interrupted. “Is there a particular angle you're looking for, sir?”  Verma looked up, his gaze piercing. “Ajay, think beyond the festival's surface. It’s also the Pitrapaksha Mela. It's deeply personal. It’s about the connection with our ancestors, our roots. You have a knack for uncovering hidden emotions, right? Capture that. I want you to delve deep, bring out the human stories behind the celebrations.” Ajay nodded, masking his internal struggle with a practiced smile.  “Of course, sir. I’ll capture the essence of the festival.” That night, as he packed his camera and gear, Ajay couldn’t help but feel the weight of his emotions. He tried to distract himself with the mundane tasks, but his father’s memories flooded in – the laughter, the shared love for photography, and the abrupt goodbye. He touched the old camera his father had given him, now a relic of a past filled with shared passions and unspoken words. The next morning, Ajay boarded the train to Gaya. He watched the landscapes change, his thoughts a whirlwind of past and present. The rhythmic clatter of the train seemed to echo his restless heart. The journey to Gaya was a blur. Ajay was lost in thoughts. He arrived in Gaya to a world painted in the vibrant hues of Makar Sankranti festival, a stark contrast to the grayness of his heart. On arrival in Gaya, Ajay was immediately engulfed in the festival's vibrancy, which would start the next day. But the streets were already alive with colors and sounds. Vendors selling kites, sweets, and flowers lined the paths. Families bustled about, children’s laughter ringing in the air. Ajay began his assignment professionally, capturing the jubilant faces, the colorful kites dotting the sky, and the festive fervor that filled the streets. Yet, each snapshot was a poignant reminder of something very close to his heart. In the morning, Ajay wandered to the ghats of the Falgu River, where families gathered for the kite-festival and Pitrapaksha Mela rituals. He observed from a distance, the prayers and offerings to ancestors unfolding before him. The air filled with a solemn yet peaceful reverence. He felt like an outsider, a spectator to India’s Hindu ritual. Just then, an old man, noticing Ajay's camera, approached him, “You have a keen eye, young man,” he said, gesturing to Ajay's camera. But remember, the true essence of these rituals lies beyond what the eye sees. It's about what the heart feels.”  Ajay nodded silently, his voice caught in his throat, “These rituals, this connection... I feel it's lost to me now, sir.”  “Is this your first time at the Mela?” the old man inquired.  Ajay hesitated, then decided to keep his story to himself, “Yes, first time,” he lied, feeling a pang of guilt.  The old man smiled knowingly, placed a gentle hand on Ajay's shoulder, “Sometimes, we find more than just stories in such places. Sometimes, we find a part of ourselves we thought was lost. This festival, it’s about honoring that connection. Maybe this is where you find your way back to your heart.” Ajay sat by the river, pondering the old man’s words. Perhaps this assignment was more than just a story. Maybe, amidst the rituals and celebrations, he could find a way to confront his grief and reconnect with the memories of his father he had tried so hard to leave behind. As the first ray of sun shimmered on the water, Ajay found himself drawn deeper into the heart of Makar Sankranti festival, each moment a step closer to facing the shadows of his past – a painful yet necessary step towards healing. Echoes of the Past The late morning in Gaya was a palette of soft reds and oranges, casting a serene glow over the city as it woke. Ajay strolled through the streets, his camera slung over his shoulder, the early January morning chill biting at his skin. The festive air was already buzzing with anticipation for Makar Sankranti celebration. He walked past a group of children, their faces alight with excitement, discussing their kite-flying strategies. Their innocent laughter reminded Ajay of his childhood, of days spent with his father on these streets, their hands entwined in the art of kite flying. “Bhaiya, are you going to fly kites with us?” a young boy asked, tugging at Ajay’s sleeve. Ajay forced a smile, “Maybe later, champ. Today, I’m here to capture your victories.” As the sun rose higher, the streets filled with vendors selling colorful kites and spools of thread. Ajay took photos, each clicking a reminder of a tradition he once shared with his father. The scent of Tilkut and Chuda-Dahi-Gur wafted through the air, the traditional delicacies of the festival. He stopped by a stall, watching a family buying kites. The father lifted his son to choose a kite, their laughter echoing in Ajay’s ears. He snapped a photo, the scene a bittersweet reflection of his own memories. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” said a voice beside him. An elderly woman, her eyes crinkled with age and wisdom, smiled at Ajay. “Yes, they are,” Ajay replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “You know, young man, this festival isn’t just about flying kites or eating sweets. It’s really about the connections we hold dear – both the ones we can see and the ones we cherish in our hearts.” Ajay nodded, feeling a lump in his throat. “My father... he loved this festival. We used to fly kites together, right here. He’s... he’s.” The woman’s expression softened, “Wherever he is, I’m sure he is with you, in your memories, in your heart. This festival, it’s a time to honor those bonds, to feel their presence.” Ajay spent half of the day wandering, capturing the essence of the festival. He documented the elaborate pujas, where families prayed and offered respects to their ancestors. The rituals, steeped in tradition, were a poignant reminder of his father’s teachings. As the sun climbed high up, casting a bright golden hue over the ghats of the Falgu River in Gaya, the ritual of Tarpan was being performed. Families stood in the shallow waters, offering prayers for their departed loved ones — an integral part of the Pitrapaksha Mela coinciding with Makar Sankranti — fourteenth of every January. The ghats were lined with people, each there to perform the sacred ritual. The air was filled with a somber reverence, a stark contrast to the festive jubilation of kite flying. Ajay, camera in hand, felt a profound sense of solemnity as he observed the proceedings. He noticed families gathering by the river, each carrying offerings of food, flowers, and holy water. Priests in saffron robes moved among them, guiding the rituals with chants and prayers. He watched silently, his camera hanging unused. The chants of the priests, the serene flow of the river, the devoted expressions on the faces of the families – it was overwhelming. “Are you okay, son?” asked a priest, noticing Ajay’s distant look. “I’m fine, just...,” Ajay nodded.  “Would you like to perform Tarpan for anyone in your family? Tarpan is a sacred act. It's our way of paying homage to our ancestors, of acknowledging their continued presence in our lives,” the priest offered gently. “Oh… no, it’s fine,” Ajay replied and started looking away, watching as people stepped into the shallow waters, cupping their hands and letting the water trickle down, reciting prayers, and calling out the names of their departed loved ones. “It's more than just a ritual,” continued the priest. “It's a bridge between the living and the departed, a moment of connection across realms.” Ajay sat on the ghat, watching the Diyas float on the river. Each Diya was a tribute, a silent prayer. He thought about the day, the laughter, the rituals, the unspoken words between him and the people he met. Ajay decided then, he would write not just about the festival’s colors, joys, and kite flying but about its deeper connection, its power to heal and bridge the gaps between the past and present, between the earth and the skies, between a father and his son. Immersed in Traditions Around midday, Ajay was greeted with a sky awash in brilliant hues, the sun casting a warm glow over Gaya. The city, already vibrant, seemed to pulsate with an even greater fervor. Ajay set out, his camera ready, determined to delve deeper into the heart of Makar Sankranti. As he navigated through the crowded streets, he stumbled upon a group of locals in front of a large, open field preparing for a traditional kite-making and kite-flying competition. People of all ages were gathered, their eyes fixed on the kaleidoscope of kites in the sky. Intrigued, he approached, capturing the meticulous process. “Ah, a photographer! Are you here for the competition?” a man with a warm smile asked Ajay. “Yes, I’m covering the festival. I’ve never seen kites being made like this,” Ajay replied, his curiosity piqued. “Care to join us in a kite duel?” called out an elderly man with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Ajay laughed and accepted the challenge, “I warn you, sir, I was quite the kite flier in my younger days.” As they engaged in their friendly duel, the man spoke, “These kites, they’re not just paper and string. They’re carriers of wishes, of prayers. You see, each color, each design, has a meaning,” the man explained, his hands expertly crafting a kite. “My father used to say something similar. He loved this festival,” Ajay felt a connection to the man’s words, each kite a metaphor for the messages he wished he could send to his loved ones. “Can I try making one?” Ajay asked tentatively. “Of course! Here, let me show you.” As Ajay learned to craft a kite, he felt a surprising sense of peace. It was as if, with each fold and cut, he was mending a part of his broken heart. He watched as the kites took to the sky, a mesmerizing dance of colors against the blue canvas. He couldn’t help but feel his father’s presence, imagining him smiling. He imagined his father’s kite soaring alongside his, their strings entwined in the dance of life and memory. Ajay felt a sense of camaraderie and pride as his kite soared high. It was lunchtime as Ajay looked around to have a nice meal. Families offered him to join the community feast. The air was filled with the aroma of traditional dishes, and Ajay was welcomed with open arms. “You must try our Dahi-Chuda-Gur and Tilkut. It’s a special recipe passed down through generations,” said an elderly mother, her hands expertly shaping the sweets. As Ajay helped, he shared stories of his family, how they used to cook together during Makar Sankranti festival. The family listened, their faces a mix of empathy and joy. “Your family lives through these stories, and now through the food you help prepare,” an elderly man said, handing Ajay a plate of the sweet Tilkut. “See this Tilkut— made from sesame seeds and jaggery. It symbolizes warmth and energy, important in the winter season. Sesame seeds have a special place in Hindu mythology and are considered auspicious. They are believed to bring good luck and ward off evil spirits.” Ajay’s mouth watered as he savored the Tilkut, its crunch muffled by the rush of saliva. “This is delicious!” he exclaimed, memories flooding back of his mother toasting sesame seeds, then coating them in sweet jaggery syrup. He recalled, too, his father’s skilled hands shaping the mixture into perfect round balls. The feast was a vibrant affair, with people from all walks of life coming together, sharing food and stories. Ajay felt a profound sense of belonging, the festival bringing down barriers and creating bonds. Groaning playfully, Ajay eyed the Dahi-Chuda-Gur, “I’m so full, do I really have to try this?” “Oh! Yes, yes,” an elderly man promptly replied. “This is a combination of beaten rice (Chuda), yogurt (Dahi), and jaggery (Gur). Each of these ingredients holds its own importance. Beaten rice is a traditional staple, yogurt symbolizes purity and good health, and jaggery, a natural sweetener, is believed to cleanse the body. This dish is not only nourishing but also symbolizes prosperity and happiness. It’s also a way of showing gratitude for the harvest and praying for good fortune in the coming year.” Intrigued, Ajay took a small bite, his taste buds awakening to the blend of flavors. “And don’t forget,” the old man added with a wink, “Sesame and jaggery keep you warm in winter!” As dusk painted the sky, a cultural spectacle unfolded. Ajay found a spot near the stage, the anticipation in the air palpable. The event was a tapestry of music, dance, and drama, each performance a reflection of the rich cultural heritage of Bihar. Ajay was mesmerized, his camera capturing each expressive moment. As drums rolled, a group of dancers in vibrant attire took the stage. The instructor encouraged them: “Feel the rhythm, let your movements echo the festive spirit!” Between performances, a young dancer sat beside Ajay. “I saw you helping with the feast. You’re not just a spectator, are you?” he asked. Ajay smiled, “I came here as a journalist, but I’ve become something more, I think. I’ve found a connection to my past. By the way, what form of dance did you perform just now?” “It’s the Bhojpuri dance, characterized by its lively steps and spirited energy,” the dancer tried to explain to Ajay the unique dances and songs integral to Makar Sankranti festival. “We dance to the rhythm of the musical instrument, dholak.” “That sounds fascinating! And what about the songs? Are there any specific genres or themes that are popular during Makar Sankranti?" Ajay asked. “Oh, yes! The songs are as integral as the dances. Kajari songs, in particular, are very popular. They are melodious and express themes of nature’s beauty and gratitude towards life’s blessings. During Makar Sankranti, these songs resonate with the themes of thanksgiving and joy, mirroring our gratitude to the Sun God and nature.” “Seems like it’s not just fun but also about connecting with your roots?” “Exactly! It’s how we bond with our heritage. Like the Jhijhian dance - mostly done by women. It’s slow, graceful, and really makes you feel part of something bigger. The songs accompanying it are usually folk tales - stories of our ancestors, our land. It’s a beautiful blend of art and storytelling.” Ajay thanked the dancer with a smile. The dancer nodded, “Festivals have a way of doing that. They remind us where we come from, who we are.” Unveiling the Heart As the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, the town gathered for the final Tarpan rituals followed by a night feast. The air was filled with laughter and music. Ajay, surrounded by new friends, felt an unexpected emotion. While talking to people in the group, Ajay shared his story – about his father, his loss, and how the festival had helped him find a path through his grief. The listeners offered words of comfort and shared stories of their own losses, weaving a strong connection through shared human experience. As the night deepened, Ajay took a moment to step away from the crowd, standing alone by the Falgu river. He looked up at the starlit sky. The ghats were serene, with families gathered in quiet reverence, performing Tarpan. Ajay watched, his heart a battleground of emotions.  “Papa,” he whispered to the stars, “I came here lost, burdened by your absence. But now, I see that you’re still with me – in these traditions, in these stories, in the lessons you taught me. Thank you for everything.” An elderly priest, his face etched with lines of wisdom and compassion, noticing Ajay’s curious gaze, approached him. “You seem new to the ritual of Tarpan,” he said, his voice gentle yet resonant. “Not really,” Ajay nodded. “But… today, I’m here just to document the festival. This... I haven’t experienced anything like this before.” The priest smiled, a warmth in his eyes. “Performing Tarpan is like reaching out across time, paying respects to those who came before us. It’s our way of saying they’re still part of our lives, even if only in spirit. The ritual, a sacred offering to the departed souls, is a poignant reminder of the unbreakable bonds between the living and the lost. We offer water, along with sesame seeds and barley, as a symbol of nourishment, hoping to bring peace to their souls.” “I came here a few years ago for the rituals of Tarpan for my father, but… left without offering,” Ajay paused. “I never accepted my father’s departure, always holding onto a thread of denial, a refusal to let go.” Ajay felt a lump in his throat as he remembered his father. He could now see how this ritual was a powerful act of remembrance and respect. “It’s never late. You are here now on this auspicious occasion of Pitrapaksha mela. Would you like to perform Tarpan for your father?” the priest asked softly. Ajay hesitated, a rush of emotions flooding through him. Ajay’s initial instinct was to decline, to run from the reality of his father’s death. But something within him stirred, a voice urging him to face the pain he had buried deep inside. Then, slowly, he nodded. A nod that felt like the heaviest decision he had ever made, Ajay whispered, “Yes, for my father.” The priest guided him through the steps. Ajay stepped into the river, the cool water enveloping his feet. He scooped the water in his hands, sprinkling sesame seeds and barley into it. As he let the water flow back into the river, he spoke his father’s name, a wave of memories washing over him. For a moment, time stood still. Ajay felt a deep connection, as if the thin veil between him and his father had lifted. It was a moment of profound peace and understanding, of letting go and yet holding on to the love and memories. The priest placed a hand on Ajay's shoulder. “Let the water carry your love and respect. Your sorrow is a symbol of your love, and in offering this Tarpan, you honor his memory and help his soul find peace. Your father’s spirit feels your reverence.” Ajay nodded, unable to speak, his heart full of emotions. He looked out over the river, now reflecting the deep hues of the setting sun. He understood that Tarpan was more than a ritual; it was a celebration of life, a testament to the bonds that transcend physical presence. The ritual of Tarpan, in the midst of Makar Sankranti, had given Ajay a new perspective on loss and remembrance. It was an integral part of his journey, a key that helped unlock his emotions and allowed him to embrace his father’s memory with newfound reverence and peace. Ajay felt a dam break within him, years of unshed tears and unspoken grief cascading down his cheeks. In this sacred moment, under the vast expanse of the early evening sky, he finally confronted the truth he had been running from – his father was gone. But in this poignant realization, there was a strange sense of peace. The ritual connected him to his father in a way he had never allowed himself to experience. It was as if the river, the prayers, and the setting sun had conspired to bring him this catharsis. He stood there for a long time, letting his tears mix with the waters of the Falgu, feeling the weight of sorrow lift with each passing moment. The ritual of Tarpan had become a bridge, not only to his father’s soul but to his own healing. As night fell, and the stars began to twinkle in the darkening sky, Ajay felt a profound connection to the universe and to the cycle of life and death. He realized that in letting go of his denial, he had not lost his father; instead, he had found him again in his heart, in the memories they shared, and in the legacy of love and teachings he left behind. On this festival of Makar Sankranti, Ajay felt transformed. The kites in the sky seemed to dance with a new meaning, each one a symbol of the souls that had touched the earth and continued to soar in the heavens. His heart felt lighter, and unburdened by the grief he had carried for so long. Ajay took out his phone, dialing his mother, “Hi, Ma. I’m in Gaya for a project. The Makar Sankranti festival is just over. It was beautiful. You know, it reminds me so much of Papa. I... I miss him, Ma. I wish you were here to see this. Ma, today at the Pitrapaksha mela, I... I finally  performed the Tarpan rituals for Papa. It’s like a part of me has awakened.” His mother’s voice, warm and comforting, came through, “I am so proud of you, Beta. Your heart has been carrying this pain for so long — ten long years.” “Ma, I feel like I have been holding my breath for ten years. And now, I can breathe again.”  “Your father would have understood, Beta. There’s no timeline for healing. He’s always been with you, in every step, every breath.” “I just hope Papa can forgive me for taking so long to let go.”  “There’s nothing to forgive, Beta. He knew your love for him never wavered. This moment, this acceptance, it’s a bridge to him.” “It's hard, Ma. It still hurts.” “Beta, believe me, I know, and it’s okay. But now you can remember him with smiles more than tears. Your heart lightening is a sign, a sign that his love is eternal, just as ours is for him. And he’s smiling at you, feeling proud of the man you’ve become. Remember, Beta, in accepting the reality of his departure, you’ve opened your heart to the countless blessings and new beginnings that life still holds for you.” Ajay looked up at the starry sky, feeling a sense of peace amidst the ache in his heart. “I know, Ma. I feel him here, with me.” As Ajay hung up, and the night at the ghats deepened, Ajay captured one last photograph – a silhouette of the faithful acknowledgement by the river, a symbol of the eternal cycle of life, death, and the enduring nature of love and memory. The conclusion of the festival marked a new beginning for Ajay. As he packed his camera and prepared to leave Gaya, he knew he was taking back more than just photographs and stories. He was taking back a piece of himself that he had lost with his father’s passing. The train journey back to Mumbai was reflective, a time to process the profound changes he had undergone. Ajay realized that through the rituals and celebrations of Makar Sankranti, he had not only honored his father but had also rediscovered himself. He arrived back in New Delhi with a renewed spirit, ready to share not just the external beauty of the festival but the internal journey of a son who found peace and acceptance in the sacred waters of Gaya. As Ajay penned down his experiences, his words were not of loss, but of love, tradition, festivity and the timeless bond between a father and a son. In the heart of Makar Sankranti, amidst the kites and the rituals, Ajay had unveiled his heart, finding solace and strength in the shadows of his grief. _________ Note: Makar Sankranti, an auspicious festival in India, especially celebrated in Bihar. It celebrates the sun’s transit into the Makara (Capricorn) zodiac, marking the end of winter and the onset of longer, warmer days. This transition aligns with the winter solstice in the Hindu calendar and typically falls around January 14th. Unlike most Hindu festivals based on the lunar cycle, Makar Sankranti follows the solar cycle. The festival, celebrated with diverse customs across India, is known by various regional names like Pongal in Tamil Nadu, Lohri in Punjab, Magh Bihu in Assam, and Uttarayan in Gujarat. Each region has its unique traditions, but common practices include kite flying, special festive foods, holy dips in rivers, and prayers to the sun god. One significant aspect of Makar Sankranti, especially in the context of Bihar, is the  Pitrapaksha Mela in Gaya. This event is deeply intertwined with the festival and holds immense religious significance. It is a period when Hindus pay homage(Tarpan) to their ancestors (Pitrs), offering Pind Daan — a ritual to appease the souls of the departed. Gaya, considered a sacred place for these rituals due to its mythological associations, sees thousands of pilgrims during this time who come to perform these rites, believing it will bring peace to the souls of their ancestors. Makar Sankranti is a festival of socializing, celebration, and spiritual reflection, embodying themes of harvest, prosperity, and the renewal of life. It's a time for new beginnings and rejoicing in the hope of a bountiful harvest season.     Penmancy gets a small share of every purchase you make through these links, and every little helps us continue bringing you the reads you love!