Once upon a time a local landowner wanted to transform his family puja. In order to escape the rather large and raucous affairs that happened at the local temple, he had already struck upon the idea of a grand private ceremony at his own home. Now, in order to fulfil the need for self-sufficiency that accompanies the love of spectacle, all he needed to complete the illusion of grandeur was an image. Not just any image, but an image that was large, richly adorned and permanent.

So he hired a humble potter. The potter worked with mud and hay for 6 whole weeks fashioning and moulding, colouring and painting. But as the Mother Goddess began to take shape, the potter began to feel a twinge of possessiveness. When the idol was almost finished - he had only to paint the Goddess's fiery third eye, seat of knowledge, power and rage - the landowner walked into his workshop and marvelled at the artistry of the potter. So smitten was he with the work that he had commissioned that he was ready to transport it back to his palatial home right away. But the potter, stalling for time, begged leave to paint the third eye before his image was carted away.

The landowner returned two days later with his family priest to retrieve the idol. He discovered to his chagrin that the third eye had not yet been painted. The potter, who was standing before the Goddess, seemed to be meditating, staring at the face he had created. "Why have you not completed your commission?" expostulated the landowner. The potter did not deign to reply. But when the landowner and his priest tried to remove the idol, the potter, suddenly coming to life, forbade them in a menacing tone and told the landowner that he would never possess Her. Shocked, the landowner left with his priest, threatening dire consequences on the morrow.

The next morning, the landowner returned once again with his priest and three henchmen. The henchmen carried thick staves and wore thin smiles. The potter stood before his creation as before, transfixed, giving the impression that he had not moved in a whole day. But when the henchmen were directed to remove the idol, the potter grabbed a stave from the man nearest him and proclaimed loudly that he would destroy his artwork before he surrendered the same to another man. The landowner urged his minions to stand down while he conducted negotiations. But no matter how hard he begged, cajoled and threatened, the potter would not relent.

Realizing that they had reached an impasse the priest, in a fit of inspiration, attempted to broker a compromise. His solution was simple. No man would possess the Goddess. The Goddess would be placed at the disposal of the landowner for the duration of the ceremony and then would be immersed in the holy Ganges. Literally returned to the elements from which She had sprung. And every year the potter would be able to recreate the Goddess. The joy of creation would compensate for the pain of loss. The potter heard, the potter thought, the potter smiled. And then, in a single flourish that signalled his acceptance, he painted the Goddess's third eye.

Centuries passed. The landowners gave way to community patrons. The potters remained. And the tradition of the original compromise was preserved at Kumartuli: river, mud, hay, shape, form, sun, paint, inspiration, meditation, ornament, carriage, pedestal, worship, carriage, discoloration, dissolution, river.

A myriad imaginations. A million images.