A few weeks ago, strange things started happening on the streets of Calcutta.

Teams of men tugged long carts piled high with bamboo poles to every part of town. The poles then got assembled and amazing structures began to form in every neighbourhood.

Some had domes, some had minarets, one I saw even called to mind an Italian palazzo.

These makeshift buildings were, I was told, called pandals, or makeshift altars.

The reason for all this activity was to celebrate Calcutta's most prized festival. That of Durga Puja. In short, the story goes like this.

Girl power

A ridiculously Rambo-esque demon called Mo-Hish-Ash-Aur emerged from a bullock and took human form. He began pestering the entire pantheon of Hindu gods and goddesses.

So, it was decided that, with her 10 arms, Durga - Shiva's consort and a very early embodiment of girl power - would be the ideal goddess to put him in his place. She was therefore assigned to kill him.

That simple story - like others we could easily name - has evolved and been remodelled to fit the times. Not simply a case of good triumphing over evil but themes of renewal, family togetherness and sharing. And SHOPPING.

Discount sales

Streets fill with shoppers

For the last few weeks, all the main thoroughfares have been packed. Puja discount sari sale. Unbelievable 40% puja offer on men's white shirts. Old hands plotted their escape to Bali or Bangkok or Kathmandu.

Even the local British ex-pat community newsletter trumpeted a rather colonial response by urging its members to perform a mass exodus. Not I.

My puja began early one morning two weeks ago went I went to a district of North Calcutta called Kumartuli where, for as long as anyone can remember, all the images of the gods - or idols - have traditionally been made, out of wood, straw and clay.

Someone even told me that - for a reason they couldn't particularly recall - the first layer of clay had to be taken from a nearby brothel.

Catwalk models

Kumartuli today is a narrow web of lanes and alleys lined with simple shacks. The day I visited, idols of every shape and size were in the final stages of readiness.

Tall, short, butch, feminine. Some still naked, some clothed in fine silk saris, some sporting real gold jewellery. Row upon row of Durgas looked like immutable catwalk models with perfect make-up.

All the idol-makers come from the same family, the Pals. One Mr Pal I spoke to was seventh-generation and had known no other life. I wondered whether anything ever changed. He smiled.

This year, he said, the monster's face resembled that of Nawaz Sharif.

As the days wore on, the pandals neared completion. Ceilings were erected, amazing chandeliers hung from them, the structures were draped in materials and floodlit.

The approach to each pandal was lit with a series of lighted panels and clear themes began to emerge. Many showed scenes depicting Kargil and lines of control.

Apparently, two years ago, it was Princess Diana and Mother Teresa.

Dream sequence

Bit by bit, Calcutta was transforming itself from its usual chaotic, decaying self. At night at least, it became a gaudy multi-coloured flashing dream sequence, entrancing and magical.

One night, just as I was going home in the small hours of the morning, I was headed down a usually deserted Chowringhee - the main thoroughfare. Then I got stuck in a traffic jam just of trucks containing groups of men chanting and beating drums.

Out of the darkness, I could see beautiful shimmering head-dresses and Durgas 10 arms swaying from the top of each truck.

All across the city, thousands of idols were being transported to their pandal or some to their private homes. The next morning, a friend rang me.

"My goddess has arrived," he trilled.

By then, the local media was at fever pitch.

"We rate the 10 best-lit pujas," belted out The Calcutta Telegraph.

Out in force

Idols: immersed in the River Ganges

That night, the first of five, the crowds were out in force. Police megaphones blared out instructions to pedestrians, the traffic ground to a halt, street food vendors were doing brisk business.

Large family groups wandered from neighbourhood to neighbourhood. Some hired taxis to take them round for hour after hour. Everyone was wearing starched saris and immaculately ironed shirts and trousers.

People gossiped and photographed their idols. The atmosphere seemed more social than religious.

Then, things turned ominous. A cyclone was building off the Bay of Bengal and for the next few days, rain lashed the city.

More than 162mm fell in less than 24 hours. Roads were flooded, some pandals were declared unsafe and the numbers of people out celebrating dropped away.

Calcuttans merely moved indoors. I was taken to visit a series of private pujas in one of the old zamindari or landowners houses in North Calcutta.

Rain stopped play

This was another world, far removed from the consumerist razzmatazz of the public spectacle. In a once-elegant colonnaded courtyard, priests chanted, bells were rung and plate after plate of food was offered to the Gods.

Small things mattered, big things would be taken care of by Durga herself.

After five days, the pandals were dismantled, and the idols were taken to be immersed in the River Ganges, if only to allow the process to take place again next year.

Rain may have stopped play, Kargil may have been this year's fashion accessory but Durga Puja does not skip a beat.