Our chosen family's Durga Puja

For years, Durga Puja was the most beautiful and the most painful week of my year. Beautiful because of the lights, the dhak, the food. Painful because every year I had to dress as someone I was not and answer questions about when I would get married.

Three years ago, my friends decided we would do Puja our own way. There were five of us — two trans women, a gay couple and our friend Rimi, who calls herself "the token straight". We borrowed a pass to a big pandal from Rimi's uncle and made a plan: new saris for everyone who wanted one, new kurtas for everyone who did not.

On Ashtami, we stood together for the pushpanjali. I held the flowers in my hands and wore a red-bordered sari, and for the first time I did not feel like I was pretending in front of the Goddess.

Afterwards we ate far too many rolls, danced badly to the dhak, and took a hundred photos. An old man next to us said, "You all look very happy." We were.

We have done it every year since. Family is who stands next to you at the pushpanjali. Mine happens to be loud, queer and terrible at dancing.