#Read 1992-1996
The 1995 Durga Puja remains etched in my memory with the glow of pandals, the drumbeat of the dhak, and the scent of shiuli flowers drifting through the evenings of Kolkata.
I was in Class IX, caught between adolescent uncertainties and the heady joys of festival season, when I received The Shooting Star, Tintin’s tenth adventure, as a gift. It became my secret companion during those five days of ritual and revelry—an odd pairing, perhaps, of the sacred rhythms of Puja with Hergé’s thrilling tale of apocalypse, greed, and scientific ambition.
The Puja that year began on September 29, a Friday, with Bilva Nimantran, and concluded on October 3, a Tuesday, with the immersion of the goddess. Each day was structured by tradition: waking to the crackle of loudspeakers announcing the rituals, dressing in crisp new clothes, visiting relatives, feasting on luchi, alur dom, and mishti, and in between, slipping away with my book.
The Shooting Star came to embody that interlude between devotion and escape.
The story itself begins with a sense of cosmic foreboding: a giant star, a possible meteor, threatening to collide with Earth. For a young reader steeped in the drama of the goddess’s annual battle with Mahishasura, the parallels were impossible to miss.
Just as Durga embodies cosmic order facing chaos, Tintin races against time, confronting forces of destruction, human greed, and natural catastrophe. My teenage imagination saw Durga in the background of every frame, holding her trident as Tintin clutched Snowy and leapt toward the unknown.
Reading it during those evenings was magical. I remember sitting on the veranda, still in my kurta from the pandal-hopping expedition, and losing myself in the panels where the sea swells under Tintin’s boat, or the mushroom-shaped island looms out of nowhere. Outside, the air throbbed with the rhythm of dhaak and the smell of burning incense.
Inside the panels, Tintin navigated rival expeditions, corporate villainy, and eerie landscapes. Together they made a strange harmony: the Puja celebrating cyclical renewal, and Tintin’s tale warning of imminent destruction.
It was also the book where I first felt the deeper philosophical undertones of Hergé. Up until then, Tintin had been an adventure hero for me—chasing criminals, saving lives, solving mysteries. But The Shooting Star suggested larger anxieties: scientific competition tainted by nationalism, the fragility of human life before cosmic events, and the unsettling greed of those who exploit catastrophe for profit. Reading it during Puja made me aware of how myths and modernity intersect.
The goddess slaying the demon and Tintin racing against catastrophe were both, in their own ways, stories of survival against overwhelming odds.
And then there was the personal context. I was in Class IX, a transitional stage—too young to shoulder responsibilities, too old to remain carefree. Durga Puja that year carried a subtle melancholy: I sensed that childhood was receding, that exams and expectations were pressing closer.
The Shooting Star, with its apocalyptic imagery, somehow mirrored that inner turbulence. It suggested that endings and beginnings are always intertwined, that destruction carries seeds of renewal.
On Dashami, as the goddess was carried to the river for immersion, I had just closed the final page of the book. The two departures—the goddess returning to her celestial abode and Tintin sailing back from his perilous journey—merged in my mind. Both left behind a sense of completion, a circle closed.
I remember standing in the crowd by the riverbank, the sound of conch shells echoing, and feeling that odd bittersweet ache: that Puja was over, the book was finished, and life would return to its usual rhythm. Yet the memory would linger.
Looking back, The Shooting Star was less about the specific plot and more about the atmosphere in which I read it. It became inseparable from Durga Puja 1995: a tapestry woven of incense smoke, festive lights, cosmic dread, and adolescent reflection.
Even today, when I revisit the book, I hear the dhaak in the background, see the goddess’s serene face in the glow of the pandal, and feel again the wonder of being a teenager caught between myth and modernity, ritual and adventure.