Sonia reminisces that in Shantipur’s blazing night, Bama Kali’s immersion erupts in fire and devotion—where divine destruction births renewal, faith, and awakening, exclusively for Different Truths.

They carry her like thunder. That was what I had thought when I had seen the procession as a young graduate student in Shantipur.

Goddess Kali, draped in a sari, the red colour of fresh blood and wet earth, is borne on the shoulders of men whose bodies are slick with sweat. The idol’s mouth is bright, tongue thrust out— and her many arms are frozen mid-motion, as if the next sweep will cleave the sky. Around her neck: a garland of heavy, metallic skulls that catch the torchlight and throw small flashes, sizzling embers back into the crowd.

On either side of the procession, mashals (oil torches) roar — great staves crowned with flames. Each torch throws a living, unstable light: tongues of yellow and orange that lick at the smoke and make halos around faces. The smoke does more than blur; it wraps the lane in a moving veil, transforming the lanes into a cave of ash and an incandescent netherworld.

The sound is a physical thing. Dhaks (large war drums) and cymbals pound in a single, relentless heartbeat — a drum beat that seems to dictate the goddess’s steps: quick, violent, then suddenly arresting. Devotees chant in waves; their voices rise and fall like wind over a ridge. Sometimes the chant culminates in a scream of exultation, ulu, that makes the idol’s painted eyes look alive and fearsome.

Movement everywhere — not your graceful, fluid ballet but the concentrated frenzy of a storm. The bearers pivot as one, forcing the idol into arcs that read like destruction: a sweep of the arm that suggests the end of something old; a lurch forward that resembles the breaking of a chain. The sari and hanging tassels whirl outward, fanning sparks from the torches into an apocalyptic ember.

Video from CSRJournal

When they reach the ghat, the world changes. The water takes the torchlight and multiplies it — each ripple gets multiplied. Men wade forward until the idol tilts; for a breathless second, she stands like a living colossus at the edge of two elements, two realms. Then the plunge: water explodes, sending cool spray against the hot faces of worshippers. The goddess is swallowed, but her presence lingers — not silent but echoing in the hissing of the torches being held aloft, in the wet, rhythmic stamping of feet, in the smell of oil, smoke, and river mud.

Close your eyes and you will remember the metallic taste of incense, the sting of smoke in the throat, the way the torchlight makes everyone’s eyes look both sacred and savage. It’s a celebration that does not smooth edges — it sharpens them; a ritual that is less about comfort and more about reckoning, where the destroyer dances to make way for something new.

I remember feeling like I had witnessed an apocalypse.

Picture design by Anumita Roy

Sonia Roy

A lifelong student of literature, Sonia Roy finds joy in ideas, words, and human stories. Balancing intellectual curiosity with family life, she also serves as a grassroots leader with the Singapore government, working to strengthen social bonds and foster inclusivity. Her journey blends reflection with engagement—rooted in empathy and civic purpose. She believes that both stories and societies are crafted through shared connections, each encounter weaving meaning into the rhythm of real lives.

See Full Bio