“Soumya, I have found another one, ‘Diganta Bandopadhyay, 02 Norfolk Road, Pennfields, Wolverhampton ph: 231512! He actually lives down the road and we didn’t even know he existed!”

I am not sure whether it was Manjula or Pratima, Subir’s wife, who had had this brain wave when we were wondering how to rally the troops: look in the telephone directory, wouldn’t that be the most obvious place where we would find the details of Bengali’s or Indian’s resident in and around Wolverhampton? Wouldn’t they be the obvious choice for us to reach out to in search of donations, volunteers, attendees and ambassadors of our programme?

To our surprise there were details of close to a hundred gentlemen and ladies who were hiding within the pages of the local telephone directory. The majority of whom, we didn’t know existed despite our longish stint in Wolverhampton. Presumably, they hadn’t bothered looking into this treasure trove either and had also so far spent their time hoping they would bump into someone the next time they went out shopping.

In the days that followed, we collectively assigned responsibilities to ‘couples” – committees did no work – that would help us further understand the feasibility of bringing our dream to fruition. ‘You are responsible for finding a hall’; ‘the two of you are responsible for checking with the Police and Fire brigade to see if they have an issue with a lot of people congregating in the same place over a five-day period’; ‘Can you check with relatives or friends in Kolkata how much an idol would cost? And whether Air India would bring it across to us at a discounted rate?’; ‘Will you please try to look up the telephone directory and see if we can find more people to help us?’.

The list of associated chores went on and on. We didn’t mind. Hopefully, at the end of the entire proceedings we would have brought a bit our culture and religion on to the English shores. That is not to say that the United Kingdom didn’t have a temple in those days, it did. It was rumoured that there were a couple of temples, one in the North of the country, another in Southhall – close to London – which we later discovered was a Gurdwara and not a temple – and another toward Liverpool. All of which were too far for us to take a stroll or a weekend drive to. This would be our initiative. Much closer at hand and far more personal.

Of course, we also had our fair share of hiccups along the way.

“Mr Bandopadhyay?” I asked, as the Indian looking gentleman opened the door, “My name is Soumya, Soumyabrata Ghosh and this is my wife, Manjula Ghose we live down the road. Could we speak to you for a moment?”

“Sure,” Mr Bandopadhyay said, still refusing to invite us in or holding the door open an inch more than was necessary to accommodate his somewhat robust frame.

“Mr Bandopadhyay,” I said quickly changing to Bengali, “we are part of the West Midland’s Bengali Association and would like to inform you that we are planning to organize a Durga Puja this year. This ,we hope, will bring comfort to many like us who are now residing in the UK”.

“So, how does that affect me?” he replied – in English – with his head slightly tilted on one side and a ‘why on earth are you disturbing me?’ look on his face.

“Well, we were hoping we could ask you to join us in our endeavour – either by way of making a generous donation to the cause or by helping us with your presence in the run up to the Puja. This will lend us immense moral support, and you could possibly even take on certain responsibilities in and around the Puja…” I continued in our mother tongue, hoping to clutch at a straw that would ring an emotional chord with the gentleman before me.

“I am not interested in your Puja!” Mr Bandopadhyay said, as he started to shut the door on us.

“But aren’t you a Bengali? Doesn’t the Puja mean something to you?” I asked placing a hand on the door, “Couldn’t we at least expect you to make a donation?”

“Please do not disturb me any more. Yes, I was born an Indian. But I am no longer so. Unlike you, I am British. I am now a Christian and I am not interested in you or your religion!” and he slammed the door on our upturned faces.

There were many such incidents we had to contend with over the weeks that followed. People who were no longer interested in being Indian; people who were no longer believers in the faith; people who had forgotten our native language; people who were going away; whose wives were pregnant and would continue to be through the Pujas; or those who were simply too busy to be so disturbed. We often felt like salesmen and women trying to peddle our wares. But for every one person who shut their doors on us there were two, or possibly three, who welcomed us with open arms. Be it on the phone or in person.

Much like the Pied Piper walking through the Streets of Hamelin, the Bengali’s came walking, dancing, tripping to the still imaginary beat of the dhak that was wafting through the air.

Durga was no doubt on our side. Our weekend meetings were no longer filled with news from home or how Wolverhampton Wonderers had fared or how Manchester United was trying to recover from the loss of its celebrated football team and piece its act together. We had now all found a new sense of purpose. A new goal. And all of us were eager to share the week’s developments with the rest of the group and the new ‘members’, who had come forward to join us.

Durga was a reality. She had charmed the Mayor’s office, the Police, the Fire Brigade, the Express & Star, Air India, a Priest and everyone else who mattered into allowing us to work toward the realization of our collective dream and desire.

Ten and a half weeks from the day we had first talked about the possibility, we all stood in front of a replica of our beloved Goddess who looked down upon us with a slightly bemused smile. “All of you really wanted me to be here, didn’t you?” She seemed to say, “How could I not be here then? Does a mother ever forsake her children?”

Our prayers had been answered. The Puja was to start the next day.