Every year, I start with the exact same resolve: This time, I’m taking a backseat for the Ganesh festival. Let others coordinate.
And every year, as the day draws near, that familiar pull returns. I find myself drawn to choose the Murti myself. While others look at height, grand decorations, or price tags, my criteria has always been singular: Find the Ganesh with the kindest eyes. Eyes that speak, eyes that offer quiet guidance. I always apologize to the idols I walk past, until I finally lock eyes with the One. Even on years when I half-heartedly agree to buy a different idol, He has His own way of intervening—creating gentle obstacles until I end up right back where I belong, bringing home the Ganesh meant for me.
From the moment He’s loaded into the vehicle, our bond begins. We talk the whole way home. For the next week, He isn't just a deity to be worshipped with rigid, formal rituals; He is my closest friend. I don't get caught up in elaborate Pujas because I know my buddy understands. Instead, we share quiet, private moments. I open up about life, look into those kind eyes, and somehow, always find the answers I need. It is a few days of total, pure companionship.
Then comes the time to send Him off. I join the energy of the procession and celebrate, but the second we reach the water’s edge, my heart wells up. The sadness hits hard, and I blame myself for building such an intense connection with someone I knew I’d have to say goodbye to so soon.
I watch Him submerge, mourn the loss of my friend... and then, like clockwork, do it all over again the next year.
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