There's a certain electricity in the air this time around in Maharashtra, you can almost feel it humming beneath the surface of ordinary life. Everybody seems just a little more energetic, a little more alive, even during the afternoon hours, and if you know anything about how Punekars operate in the afternoons, you'll know that's no small feat. Those hours are our mandated nap time, a tradition so deeply rooted in our city's culture, as unshakeable as any festival. Ordinarily, nothing short of an earthquake could pry a Punekar out of bed between one and four in the afternoon.

But there's exactly one thing powerful enough to do it: Ganesh Chaturthi.

For those ten days, and for around a month before that, everyone is just buzzing with excitement, pandals going up, rows of Ganpati murtis lined up in shops. I remember waiting eagerly every year for that mid-year break we'd get. It meant days spent rehearsing for our dance performance, helping Amma make the Ganpati we'd shape from rice flour, and stuffing myself with modaks before slipping into a food coma.

I haven't celebrated Ganpati at home in a very long time now. Moving to Bengaluru did make me feel connected to my Kannadiga roots, but I miss watching the streets come alive for those ten days. So, humour me and my childhood nostalgia, as I take you through my perfect day during the ten days of Ganpati, just for old times' sake.

The perfect Ganpati day starts a little earlier than usual, because Amma would force me to get up and help her make the modaks of the day. I was always on stirring duty, standing on my chair just to reach the stove, folding coconut and jaggery together as the distinct aroma of the sugars caramelizing wafted through the air. Of course, I couldn't eat a single one, they had to be offered as prasad first. After showering and stuffing my face with modaks, pooris, and shrikhand instead, Amma and I would finally head out for the day.

The first stop would obviously be Chitale Bandhu, to top up the modak boxes for all the relatives we'd be visiting and you have to get there early, or they sell out. They'd serve them with a small sachet of ghee, perfect for pouring over the piping hot modaks, which would just melt in your mouth. And if one has already set foot on Pune's snack holy ground, a couple of packets of bhakarwadi is a must. Pro tip: get the ones packed separately in the blue and red packets, not the pre-packaged ones. They are fresher and crispier.

Loaded up on snacks, we'd stop by a couple of relatives' houses to admire their Ganpati murtis, each one a different pattern, colour, or design, before finally making our way to Asha Dining Hall on Apte Road for the simplest but most hearty meal. Known for its no-frills, unlimited Maharashtrian thali, Asha Dining Hall is an institution most Punekars grew up on. Make sure to ask if they're serving their puran poli, it is to die for.

Amma would then drive us to my great-grandmother's house for an early evening tea, while I struggled to keep my eyes open in the car. I'd lie down in my panaji's room as my mum and her caught up, and then she'd sing her favourite bhajans at my mother's urging. I am not a particularly religious person, but something about the way her voice carried through the room would put me at complete ease, and I would slip into the most perfect mid-day nap.

My eyes would always open to the smell of incense sticks as everyone got ready for the evening aarti. Once that was done, my mom and I would bolt back home because I had dance practice for our apartment complex's cultural night. And man, did everyone show up for these things. I have dressed up as a doctor, Rani Laxmi Bai, and a South Indian bride (don't ask me why), and danced to every trendy Hindi song imaginable in my 17 years living in that society.

But before we made it back home, an evening pit stop at Sujata Mastani, my mum and I sharing that tall glass of equal parts milkshake, equal parts ice cream, and all parts delectable mango goodness, mango season be damned. The perfect respite from the Pune heat, and the perfect sugar rush for the intense dance rehearsals ahead of me. (Yes, I took it very seriously.)

My mom would drop me off at rehearsal with whatever snacks were left from the day, everyone bringing something of their own, vada pav, Budhani wafers (which I later found out was a Pune thing), shankarpali, chocolates, our reward for a successful practice, which usually meant nobody forgot their steps and nobody threw a crying fit. I'd come home drained and tired to the bone, waiting to get out of the itchy kurta I'd complained about all day, and fall asleep praying that Ganpati could just go on a little longer.

It has been five years since I've been in Pune during this festival, one born out of Bal Gangadhar Tilak's effort to build community and bypass British bans on political gatherings in 1893; a way for people to find joy and brotherhood in times of great social and political duress. Under all the commercialisation and noise pollution today, you can still feel that energy. It's something I can't quite put into words, and can only ask everyone to experience once in their lives.

For me, Ganpati was really just a way to spend more time with my favourite partner in crime: my Amma. I'd heard so many people say, "During Ganpati, something just pulls you towards home, and if you're not there, it feels like a part of you is missing." I used to think that was too saccharine for my liking. But now, after so many years have passed and my great-grandmother is no more, I feel that tug. I'm never entirely present for those ten days, my heart is always in Pune, shuttling across the city, trying to take in as much as I can, while it's at its best.

If you enjoyed reading this, here's more form Homegrown:

The Lesser-Known Political Past Of ‘Ganpati Visarjan’

A Question Of Decibels: Is It Time To Rethink The Way We Celebrate Ganesh Chaturthi?

Mumbai Initiatives That Are Making Ganesh Chaturthi More Eco-Friendly