Every year, in the stillness before dawn on the day of Mahalaya, radios across Bengal and far beyond crackle to life. A sand-peppery but sonorous voice begins reciting verses from the Chandi, invoking the goddess who slays demons and restores cosmic order. For millions, Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s voice is not merely an audio file; it is a ritual, a memory and the announcement that Durga Puja has arrived.

Yet, few cultural traditions carry a story as layered as this one. To understand why attempts to modernise Mahalaya have always failed, one must look back at how the legendary broadcast was created, how it grew into an institution and how it survived its only major rupture in 1976.

When All India Radio’s Calcutta station decided to attempt a special dawn broadcast for Mahalaya in 1931, it was venturing into unknown territory. The studio on Garstin Place was cramped, with heavy microphones hanging from wires and engineers constantly battling static and interference. The air inside was hot, the soundproofing rudimentary. Radio in India was still an experiment, its audience modest and its cultural role undefined.

Into this setting came playwright Bani Kumar, musician Pankaj Mullick and announcer Birendra Krishna Bhadra. Their brief was simple on paper—design a programme suitable for the occasion of Mahalaya. But what they created was unlike anything that had been heard before.

The staging was elaborate for its time. Singers and a small orchestra sat close together, trying to maintain pitch while huddled around a single microphone. The tabla player had to soften his strokes so as not to overwhelm the violinist, whose bow creaked audibly. The harmonium wheezed between takes. The AIR’s engineers constantly gestured for balance, adjusting dials as sweat beaded on their foreheads.

At the centre sat Bhadra, rehearsing his Sanskrit........

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