In the heart of Kolkata, where trams still clang along narrow lanes and the air thickens with the scent of kaash flowers and street food as autumn descends, Durga Puja is not just a festival—it is a collective act of performance art. Every year, thousands of pandals mushroom across the city, each competing to be more elaborate, more conceptual, more Instagrammable than the last. Yet in 2024, one pandal broke the mold not by drawing inward into the realm of Bengali folklore or rural nostalgia, but by reaching skyward—evoking two towering symbols of modernity and tragedy: the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center.
Located in Sreebhumi, a northern suburb notorious for its grandeur, the Twin Tower Pandal became an instant sensation—and a topic of pointed cultural debate. From afar, the structure was unmistakable: two tall, silver-gray facades with narrow windows and a square form, rising vertically from the ground like sentinels of a forgotten skyline. The pandal’s creators, the Sreebhumi Sporting Club, are no strangers to spectacle. Their previous efforts have included replicas of the Burj Khalifa and Disneyland’s Cinderella Castle. But the 2024 Twin Tower homage was perhaps their boldest and most controversial effort yet.
An Architectural Devotion
At the entrance, the signage read: “Tribute to Global Harmony.” But for many onlookers, especially those familiar with the history of 9/11, the symbolism was far from harmonious. “Is this reverence? Is it kitsch? Is it tone-deaf?” asked Shreya Mitra, a Kolkata-based art historian standing near the pandal’s entrance, shielding her eyes from the floodlights. “Architecture is never neutral,” she said. “Especially when it carries the memory of such a global trauma.”
The pandal was not an exact replica, but an inspired reinterpretation. Inside, Durga stood tall and serene, encircled by her children and the symbolic vanquishing of Mahishasura. Around her, LED screens showed a montage of “global unity,” flipping between images of skyscrapers, white doves, and famous landmarks from across the world. The effect was dizzying—a fusion of architectural imitation and spiritual narrative, part Las Vegas, part Louvre, part local temple fair.
When asked about the inspiration, Rajat Dutta, one of the lead organizers, explained: “We wanted to show that in today’s fractured world, Durga Maa is a unifying force. She rises above destruction. The Twin Towers are a symbol not just of loss but of resilience.”
It’s not the first time a Durga Puja committee has borrowed from global iconography. Eiffel Towers, Roman Colosseums, Egyptian pyramids—all have made appearances as temporary shrines in Kolkata’s festive landscape. But the Twin Towers struck a different chord. Perhaps because they are not merely an architectural marvel or a tourism totem, but a site of unresolved grief.
Public Response: Awe and Unease
For many of the hundreds of thousands of daily visitors, the Twin Tower Pandal was nothing short of a marvel. Crowds lined up for hours, selfies were taken in rapid-fire succession, and drone cameras buzzed overhead. “It’s beautiful,” said Sayan Roy, a college student from Barrackpore. “It shows how far our creativity has come.”
Others were less certain. Anjali Thomas, a teacher visiting from Bangalore, expressed discomfort. “It feels odd to turn a site of mass death into a place of celebration. Even if the intentions were good, I’m not sure this should be part of a religious festival.”
Online, the debate raged with typical Indian intensity. Some hailed the pandal as a symbol of Kolkata’s global vision. Others accused the organizers of cultural appropriation, or worse, insensitivity. International media took notice as well, with several outlets questioning whether grief can—or should—be aestheticized in the name of festivity.
Yet such reactions miss a crucial dimension of Indian cultural life: its unique relationship with mimicry. In a country where imitation often walks hand-in-hand with reverence, replicas are rarely just replicas. They are acts of aspiration, attempts to fold the world into local identity, to bring the global home in ways both literal and symbolic.
Pandal as Palimpsest
To walk through the Twin Tower Pandal was to experience a kind of temporal layering. The towers, emblematic of a 21st-century global order, housed a goddess whose mythology is thousands of years old. The juxtaposition wasn’t accidental. “We wanted to show that Durga is everywhere,” said Dutta. “Whether in the Himalayas or in Manhattan, her power protects us all.”
In this way, the pandal became a palimpsest—modern steel and concrete overlaid with ancient narratives. It may be easy to dismiss it as gaudy or gimmicky, but for many Kolkatans, the pandal was a form of cultural translation. “It’s like watching the Mahabharata on Netflix,” joked a local radio host. “Old stories in new buildings.”
Such buildings, of course, vanish within days. That is the nature of the pandal: impermanence wrapped in grandeur, devotion built on scaffolding. And perhaps that, too, is part of the symbolism. The real Twin Towers are gone. But in Kolkata, they stood again—if only for a week—as vessels of collective memory and divine presence.
The Global and the Local
The broader question that the pandal raises is not just about taste or tact, but about the evolving grammar of Indian religiosity. In an age of global migration and cultural exchange, what does it mean to “localize” the global—or to sacralize the secular? Can a skyscraper be a shrine? Can a site of tragedy become a space for transcendence?
The answers are elusive, shifting with each visitor’s gaze. But one thing is clear: Kolkata’s pandals are no longer just religious installations. They are barometers of cultural imagination, shaped as much by TikTok trends and international headlines as by ancient scriptures.
As the sun sets on the city and the lights of the Twin Tower Pandal flicker on one last time before immersion day, one hears the soft chant of dhak drums and sees the faithful gathered, hands folded, eyes uplifted—not toward Mecca or Manhattan, but toward a vision uniquely their own.
A vision where skyscrapers can house goddesses, and devotion can wear the skin of any architecture. Even two towers, once brought down by hate, now standing again in a city that knows a thing or two about rebirth.
