Finally,the massive iron doors creaked open ,after ages.moving slowly on its huge,ancient, hinges.A volley of shouts rose from the priests(pandas)gathered within and without the sanctum-sanctorum.
"Joi Joggonnath"
The mammoth cry rose from the swollen crowds, waiting patiently , all this while, now beginning to surge towards the open gates.
Several pandas, saffron dhoti clad,with trademark thread of brahminism around their chests,and broad stripes of chandan on the forehead, shaven headed,with a residual tuft tied into a knot behind their heads swung from massive ropes, like trapeze artists, pushing back the crowds, snatching the offerings from the pilgrims, flinging it at the huge well at the foot of the deity, and shoving the people back,all in one swift motion, all the while screaming directions in unintelligible oriya.
My panic stricken elder one clung to her father's arm, her eyes big with fear. I held the hand of the younger one,trying to make an ineffectual human chain against the incorrigible sea of faithfuls. Next moment we were all swept into the vortex of shoving, surging, uncontrollable flow of bodies pressed so tight together, as to suffocate the very breath of life.I lost the grasp of my younger ones hand. Terrible fear welled up in my heart. I must have screamed, for a young panda,who was accompanying us,came to my rescue. Skinny and slightly built, the teenaged panda, hit out at the crowd that had just swallowed my baby, with sharp jabs of his pointy elbows.With immense relief, I scooped up my bewildered baby.
We never got to see the Gods(Darshan).All we saw ,even after tiptoeing,was the moving mass of black heads of people, moving in and out in a totally amorphous pattern.
The air inside was decidedly stuffy. It reeked of burning ghee lamps, incense, stale flowers and belpatras(a holy leaf), tulsi and above all sweaty bodies.The cold stone floor was sticky with milk/sweets and slippery with the water and muck brought in by thousands of feet everyday.
We decided to beat a hasty retreat. My husband carried my elder one(a big child of eight) on his back, despite an ankle fracture , as the stone floor outside had heated up to scalding temperatures in the noon sun.
The younger one wouldn't let go of me, after what happened inside the temple.
Hopping, skipping, we made our way to the prasad counter, where I was in for a pleasant surprise. A flaky sweet from my childhood(called khaja) made an appearance, albeit under some other name. .
The panda insisted on performing a short, abbreviated version of pooja, for the sake of our souls, in the holy precincts. He, very predictably, hit a roadblock,when he came to the 'gotra' bit. As we are not hindus ,but sikhs, and my maiden gotra wont apply here,the problem seemed unsurmountable; and the pooja threatened to be undone, my resourceful husband came to the rescue by suggesting his family name-Ahluwalia's.
The priest happily recited rest of the mantras, appeased the various multitudes of gods,by patient turns, asking for prosperity and bounty for my husband, numerous sons and wealth("may you bathe in milk and bear several sons" goes the traditional blessing)for me (having been in total ignorance of my tubectomised/perimenopausal biological state)and good husbands/lots of sons for my daughters (who have professed staunch aversion to both matrimony and parenthood ).
At a short distance away, I saw another panda , engaged in performing a similar phony pooja for a group of barefooted, white tourists, assiduously applying red tikas to their white foreheads, while vociferously chanting unintelligible sanskritic verses, propitiating, Gods and Goddesses which the poor hapless souls had never even heard of.
Wonder what name did they offer as their" gotra"?
"Joi Joggonnath"
The mammoth cry rose from the swollen crowds, waiting patiently , all this while, now beginning to surge towards the open gates.
Several pandas, saffron dhoti clad,with trademark thread of brahminism around their chests,and broad stripes of chandan on the forehead, shaven headed,with a residual tuft tied into a knot behind their heads swung from massive ropes, like trapeze artists, pushing back the crowds, snatching the offerings from the pilgrims, flinging it at the huge well at the foot of the deity, and shoving the people back,all in one swift motion, all the while screaming directions in unintelligible oriya.
My panic stricken elder one clung to her father's arm, her eyes big with fear. I held the hand of the younger one,trying to make an ineffectual human chain against the incorrigible sea of faithfuls. Next moment we were all swept into the vortex of shoving, surging, uncontrollable flow of bodies pressed so tight together, as to suffocate the very breath of life.I lost the grasp of my younger ones hand. Terrible fear welled up in my heart. I must have screamed, for a young panda,who was accompanying us,came to my rescue. Skinny and slightly built, the teenaged panda, hit out at the crowd that had just swallowed my baby, with sharp jabs of his pointy elbows.With immense relief, I scooped up my bewildered baby.
We never got to see the Gods(Darshan).All we saw ,even after tiptoeing,was the moving mass of black heads of people, moving in and out in a totally amorphous pattern.
The air inside was decidedly stuffy. It reeked of burning ghee lamps, incense, stale flowers and belpatras(a holy leaf), tulsi and above all sweaty bodies.The cold stone floor was sticky with milk/sweets and slippery with the water and muck brought in by thousands of feet everyday.
We decided to beat a hasty retreat. My husband carried my elder one(a big child of eight) on his back, despite an ankle fracture , as the stone floor outside had heated up to scalding temperatures in the noon sun.
The younger one wouldn't let go of me, after what happened inside the temple.
Hopping, skipping, we made our way to the prasad counter, where I was in for a pleasant surprise. A flaky sweet from my childhood(called khaja) made an appearance, albeit under some other name. .
The panda insisted on performing a short, abbreviated version of pooja, for the sake of our souls, in the holy precincts. He, very predictably, hit a roadblock,when he came to the 'gotra' bit. As we are not hindus ,but sikhs, and my maiden gotra wont apply here,the problem seemed unsurmountable; and the pooja threatened to be undone, my resourceful husband came to the rescue by suggesting his family name-Ahluwalia's.
The priest happily recited rest of the mantras, appeased the various multitudes of gods,by patient turns, asking for prosperity and bounty for my husband, numerous sons and wealth("may you bathe in milk and bear several sons" goes the traditional blessing)for me (having been in total ignorance of my tubectomised/perimenopausal biological state)and good husbands/lots of sons for my daughters (who have professed staunch aversion to both matrimony and parenthood ).
At a short distance away, I saw another panda , engaged in performing a similar phony pooja for a group of barefooted, white tourists, assiduously applying red tikas to their white foreheads, while vociferously chanting unintelligible sanskritic verses, propitiating, Gods and Goddesses which the poor hapless souls had never even heard of.
Wonder what name did they offer as their" gotra"?
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