Durga is a fiery Goddess who came to the aid of the Gods when the conventional powers of masculine strength failed to vanquish a certain demon called Mahishasura. Durga pooja means pandal -hopping and eating delicacies particular to this iconic festival.
Ours was quite different. In order to be able to educate their brood well, my grandparents had abandoned their much loved ancestral village house and moved to a nearby town.This was one time in the year when we congregated back , and the village welcomed us back , infallibly, with wide outstretched arms.
As we lived in a part of rural Bihar , lot of local customs had been incorporated.
Preparations would begin months in advance. Monthly expenditures would be curtailed to put away some money for the "Pooja".
Orders were placed with the village potter for large numbers of ghee 'diyas' and "chiraags"(large terracotta lamps on stands). The village cowherd was bargained with, cajoled, and coaxed into supplying large amounts of ghee(clarified butter), and milk . The sole village weaver was summoned to the town and talked into producing crisp dhotis, and gamchchas(towels) by the said date.Our own mason was dispatched with a group of flunkies to whitewash and repair the cracks ,if any.
On the Mahalaya day, the goddess would be invoked from the banks of river ganges , in a crescendo of mantras, evocatively sung .Every year, on this day, Akashvaani broadcasts these age-old sanskrit hymns, sung in the deep baritone,at daybreak,(roughly, any time between 0430hrs to 0530hrs). Memories are still fresh, of cuddling half awake in the bed listening to the breathless rendition almost in marching rythm(not unlike the famed MS Subbalakshmi)
Rain would almost always play the spoilport. It would rain incessantly and the elders would remark that the goddess is arriving on the elephant. Like the chinese new year, every year the Goddess would select a new vahana(animal vehicle)for arriving on earth. When it was the elephant , it rained , torrents.
The rivers and seasonal canals , usually a trickle the entire year through, would assume fearsome and violent proportions.
A travel to the village was like a travel back in time. First half of the journey had to be accomplished by bus,till the village D. We would sit in the ample shade of the mango trees in the temple courtyard, with the dwarfish priest fussing over us('zamindar's family')and wait for the bullock cart to arrive. If we were lucky, the cart would have arrived early in the morning, the bullocks watered, and the driver would sit , hunched up beneath the tree, impatiently swatting flies with a leafy branch.
Once the suitcases were loaded, females of the house seated inside,(away from the prying eyes),my brother, being male, was allowed to be seated, next to the driver .Any amount of padding the walls or the base cannot prepare you for the total discomfort of the ride. Every step the bullocks take, you are either thrown forward or are lurching backwards,against the bony projections of the bamboo framework.A stone in the path of the wheels, and you are jostled heavenward, to hit your head against the narrow bamboo rafters, to be followed by a fall , on the hard and uneven base.Add to this the constant shouts of encouragement to the oxen(ranging from the shrill 'hurrrrrrr" to the gutturral "haaaaaaarrrrr"), liberally sprinkled with choisest of expletives mostly directed against the oxen,whenever the pair of them had the temerity to veer off-course.Half and hour of this ride left us with sore bodies, aching bones , bumps and bruises.
When we would reach the river of villageD,which would be in full spate most of the time , the bullocks would halt abruptly.A brave attempt to cross the waters would end in a total act of rebellion by the oxen.At some point the wooden wheels would be caught in the rocky bottom, covered with churning, frothy waters , and they would stop moving. Any further whipping or cursing would elicit a comically human reaction from the pair of them. As if on tandem, they would throw down their yokes, or at least try.One of them would sometimes break into a trot in a totally different direction, dragging the rest of the cart with its screaming female occupants into deeper and more dangerous waters.
This would prompt acts of supreme bravery, as literally an army of villagers would jump into the waters, dhotis tied high,all shouting and' haarraaaaring' simultaneously, to save the women , belongings and the cart from certain annihilation. The oxen would stop in bewildered midtrot and the day would be saved.
At this point, the matriarch would emerge from the cart, looking terribly upset and the rest of the journey would commence on foot. Smaller kids would perch on shoulders of the larger villagers and the oxen, glad to be on dry ground, would resume their brisk step, as if nothing had happened.
This journey would almost always be repeated ,every year.
We would reach home at dusk. A hot cup of tea awaited all of us , a bath and a clean bed in a freshly painted room later , all of us would be ready to welcome the Goddess next day.
Ours was quite different. In order to be able to educate their brood well, my grandparents had abandoned their much loved ancestral village house and moved to a nearby town.This was one time in the year when we congregated back , and the village welcomed us back , infallibly, with wide outstretched arms.
As we lived in a part of rural Bihar , lot of local customs had been incorporated.
Preparations would begin months in advance. Monthly expenditures would be curtailed to put away some money for the "Pooja".
Orders were placed with the village potter for large numbers of ghee 'diyas' and "chiraags"(large terracotta lamps on stands). The village cowherd was bargained with, cajoled, and coaxed into supplying large amounts of ghee(clarified butter), and milk . The sole village weaver was summoned to the town and talked into producing crisp dhotis, and gamchchas(towels) by the said date.Our own mason was dispatched with a group of flunkies to whitewash and repair the cracks ,if any.
On the Mahalaya day, the goddess would be invoked from the banks of river ganges , in a crescendo of mantras, evocatively sung .Every year, on this day, Akashvaani broadcasts these age-old sanskrit hymns, sung in the deep baritone,at daybreak,(roughly, any time between 0430hrs to 0530hrs). Memories are still fresh, of cuddling half awake in the bed listening to the breathless rendition almost in marching rythm(not unlike the famed MS Subbalakshmi)
Rain would almost always play the spoilport. It would rain incessantly and the elders would remark that the goddess is arriving on the elephant. Like the chinese new year, every year the Goddess would select a new vahana(animal vehicle)for arriving on earth. When it was the elephant , it rained , torrents.
The rivers and seasonal canals , usually a trickle the entire year through, would assume fearsome and violent proportions.
A travel to the village was like a travel back in time. First half of the journey had to be accomplished by bus,till the village D. We would sit in the ample shade of the mango trees in the temple courtyard, with the dwarfish priest fussing over us('zamindar's family')and wait for the bullock cart to arrive. If we were lucky, the cart would have arrived early in the morning, the bullocks watered, and the driver would sit , hunched up beneath the tree, impatiently swatting flies with a leafy branch.
Once the suitcases were loaded, females of the house seated inside,(away from the prying eyes),my brother, being male, was allowed to be seated, next to the driver .Any amount of padding the walls or the base cannot prepare you for the total discomfort of the ride. Every step the bullocks take, you are either thrown forward or are lurching backwards,against the bony projections of the bamboo framework.A stone in the path of the wheels, and you are jostled heavenward, to hit your head against the narrow bamboo rafters, to be followed by a fall , on the hard and uneven base.Add to this the constant shouts of encouragement to the oxen(ranging from the shrill 'hurrrrrrr" to the gutturral "haaaaaaarrrrr"), liberally sprinkled with choisest of expletives mostly directed against the oxen,whenever the pair of them had the temerity to veer off-course.Half and hour of this ride left us with sore bodies, aching bones , bumps and bruises.
When we would reach the river of villageD,which would be in full spate most of the time , the bullocks would halt abruptly.A brave attempt to cross the waters would end in a total act of rebellion by the oxen.At some point the wooden wheels would be caught in the rocky bottom, covered with churning, frothy waters , and they would stop moving. Any further whipping or cursing would elicit a comically human reaction from the pair of them. As if on tandem, they would throw down their yokes, or at least try.One of them would sometimes break into a trot in a totally different direction, dragging the rest of the cart with its screaming female occupants into deeper and more dangerous waters.
This would prompt acts of supreme bravery, as literally an army of villagers would jump into the waters, dhotis tied high,all shouting and' haarraaaaring' simultaneously, to save the women , belongings and the cart from certain annihilation. The oxen would stop in bewildered midtrot and the day would be saved.
At this point, the matriarch would emerge from the cart, looking terribly upset and the rest of the journey would commence on foot. Smaller kids would perch on shoulders of the larger villagers and the oxen, glad to be on dry ground, would resume their brisk step, as if nothing had happened.
This journey would almost always be repeated ,every year.
We would reach home at dusk. A hot cup of tea awaited all of us , a bath and a clean bed in a freshly painted room later , all of us would be ready to welcome the Goddess next day.
It used to be like an annual trekking event and we used to look forward with a mixed love-hate feeling.
ReplyDeleteyou used to suffer the most, owing to the "boniness" of your knees, etc.:)
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