This month, North America celebrates the start of Fall. The colours on the trees will touch every conceivable shade in the spectrum - from blushing red, to piquant orange and cheerful yellow. There will be a cool nip in the evenings and thoughts of Christmas with its associations of gifts and parties and snow, will strike you every evening as you watch the silent streets of your neighbourhood. The children no longer play outside like they used to in the summer. You can almost feel winter’s cold fingers as you turn away from the window.

For me, an Asian-born woman who lives in Canada, this season opens a magical box of memories and associations. It is the season of Diwali - the festival of lights. Hindu homes the world over, light small ‘diyas’, (oil lamps) banishing the darkness. For me, it is a time of home-made sweets, new clothes, family reunions (on the phone!) and reminiscence.

I was born in Bengal, that land of the mighty Ganga river, Tagore’s soul-stirring music and football. This season heralds the worship of the Goddesses Durga and Kali - the two powerful symbols of the Female. Durga, the mother goddess, worshipped for victory over evil, and then Kali, the fierce manifestation of the same deity. Kali is also known as ‘The Black One’ - revered as much for her fearful aspect as for her power to redeem from evil. No one takes her worship lightly!

"It is a serious business," I recalled the elders saying over thirty years ago, "and we must take great care to ensure that nothing angers the Mother."

Since childhood, in the home of my ancestors in Bengal, Kali Puja (the worship of Kali) has been a regular feature. My great grandfather, Atul Banerjee, started the practice in his home in a little village over a hundred years ago.

When my grandfather, Dr G. Banerjee, moved to the town of Howrah, he dedicated himself to the worship and ceremonies of Kali every season. And it has continued ever since, though my grandfather passed away more than twenty years ago. My father and his brothers continue the affair even today in spite of rising costs, lack of willing volunteers and a depleted fund of faith in the youngsters of my generation.

How well I remember the excitement of the ceremonies! Though I am no longer physically present, I see in my mind’s eye the big house full of family and the gleaming brass platters of fresh flowers and fruit piled high. I smell the sweet incense, hear the sonorous chant of the prayers and the moan of conch shell, I feel the prickling in my arms when, during the prayers, on everyone’s lips, the cry of ‘Mother’ rises to a crescendo.

So even while airing out the Halloween costumes for my daughters, in the fast-fading evenings, I light small lamps on the doorstep to welcome in the light from that familiar faraway celebration.