Sushil made his way to one of the manholes through which three people had entered.

It was located in an alley out of the way of traffic and pedestrians, a design choice made to minimize the inconvenience to the citizens due to sewer maintenance work. A design choice which had facilitated the operation of whatever shady racket Raunak Bose was running.

Sushil shot a glance to his right. There, blending with the shadows, moving with an utterly silent gate was the chauffeur of the Adhikari family. Feeling his gaze upon him, the tall dark and silent man glanced at him briefly before turning away.

Supernaturally silent movement, enhanced senses and a practised knack of moving within shadows. The man was an expert. One comparable in skill to himself.

Sushil turned his attention back to the task at hand. The man, Ravi as he was called, had given him the cold shoulder. Probably none too pleased with being conscripted to participate in such a dangerous task.

They reached the manhole and Sushil leveraged it up with the handle. He set it aside, revealing the entrance to the sewers. The dark hole looked like the gaping maw of a beast waiting to swallow them up.

Shaking off the uncanny feeling, the both of them climbed down the ladder and landed on the sides of the sewer, away from the rill of sludge water that ran through the middle.

The latest in sanitation technology that included biological filters meant that the cloying smell that had pervaded sewers not so long ago was absent. Yet, the sludge contained enough detergent and household chemicals to render it quite toxic. Sushil didn’t fancy getting his feet wet.

Ravi dropped down by his side, silently. He had drawn the cover back over their heads, plunging the sewers into darkness. Sushil blinked a few times before his cat-like pupils dilated and his night vision kicked in.

Ravi brought out a pair of night vision goggles and switched them on. The two of them silently made their way to the grating they knew was the entrance to the tunnel. They had already scoped the place out beforehand and their steps were sure and precise.

Reaching the tunnel, they were confronted with the obstacle of the electronic lock.

Sushil brought out a small vial of liquid and poured it over the lock while activating a signal jammer at the same time. The lock was wirelessly connected to some sort of alarm. Whenever it was opened, it would send a notification. Just like the pressure sensors Sushil had installed on the manholes.

The chemical fluid soon ate through the lock and it fell off. The grating swung open silently.

The two of them stepped into the tunnel that went to the bunker.

It was a crude construct, just a tunnel gouged out of the earth, really. The crumbly soil of its walls seemed quite unstable, supported by wooden crossbeams.

The two of them navigated the tunnel to its end, cautiously, on full alert for any sentries. They found none.

Suddenly, they felt a muffled drumbeat travel through the layers of soil that separated from the ground. The climax of the Puja had begun.

***

Aman heard the first roll of the large drums known as the dhak as he overlooked the pandal from his vantage atop the roof.

He could imagine the scene in his mind’s eye.

The interior of the pandal would have been cleared and the purohit (the brahmin priest) would have started his chanting of the sutras praising the Devi.

The drummers, in their colourful garb, with their large drums slung on their shoulders would be leaping and twirling to the rhythm of their beats as they moved together in a circle in front of the idol of the Goddess slaying her foe. The long feathers attached to their drums fluttering in the breeze of their motion.

In the centre of the circle, men dressed in the traditional Bengali attire of dhoti and a kurta and men dressed in their saris would be joining their hands in supplication to the Devi. With the first beat of the drums, they would move.

Censers, earthen goblets filled with camphor and coconut husks would be lit. The thick white smoke from them draping the entire ring of dancers in a haze. Then the men and the women, in the centre of the ring of dhakis (the drummers) would pick up the censers – the dhunuchis – and they would dance.

It was the traditional dance called the dhunuchi naach. To demonstrate their devotion to the Devi, their love of the Goddess, their gratitude to her, these men and women danced with literal goblets of fire in their hands and for the most experienced and devout of dancers, even held in their teeth.

The smoke would swirl and roil as they moved to the frenzied beat of the drummers.

Dhak dhak dhak da-dhak da-dhak dak da-da-dhak da-da-dhak.

A beat no Bengali will ever forget no matter how far they are from home. Even on the other side of the world with oceans separating them from their hometown.

They danced, the purohit chanted his sutras, the drummers leapt and twirled as they played the beat that swayed the hearts of the crowd.

One could not stand in that mass of people, witness that dance, the magnificence of that idol, the opulence of that pandal, feel the hearts of thousands beating to the beats of reverence and remain unmoved.

Aman was moved.

Not by reverence, but by horror.