Bhawana Somaaya

My earliest memory of Diwali is of mother standing in the corridor and haggling with the maid to cut down her fees for spring-cleaning. “It’s too much,” she would argue “Besides your services don’t even match your price.” They would have futile arguments and finally agree on half the price they started. This was post Dassera, after the earthen pot- garbi was submitted to the Goddess.

The work had to begin after the maid finished her other jobs and mother her afternoon nap. Mother would prepare tea for both and then wait eagerly for Kashibai. I have vivid memories of Kashibai climbing on to the storage room and bringing down enormous pots and pans. She scrubbed them till they sparkled like gold. The process took hours and at the end of it spread them in a row to dry in the sunlight.

For the next few weeks, Kashibai was a part of our life. She dusted the cabinets, settled shelves, brushed tiles, washed windows and doors and most important, settled old baggage in the attic. In the process, innumerable memories stumbled out of the trunks in to the present…The blackboard I used as a child, the three-tier tiffin sent to sister at school, the old milk can, mother’s broken bangle-stand, faded mosquito nets tied over father’s four-poster bed…My sister and I would rummage through the cloth bundles excitedly and Kashibai was a part of our nostalgic journey.

A few days before the festival, Kashibai accomplish her task and stopped visiting us. We missed her presence, particularly mother. She would now seek father’s help to hang new curtains and change bedspreads in every room. They would jointly change the cushion covers and my sister and I helped in clasping the buttons. Mother would mention to father about getting a sari for Kashibai and three days later, father would bring home a brown packet. We were always around to participate in the moment, to react to Kashibai’s new sari.

A few days prior to festival, mother opened her Godrej cupboard and revisited her old zari saris. She had a way of holding them against the sunlight to check for damage and efficiently trained the elder siblings in the art. She supervised her zardosi fabrics preserved in white muslin cloth and tucked them away for a precious day. The damaged saris combined with antique borders and transformed in to divine ghagra cholis for us younger children. A local tailor Narayanbhai arrived home with his sewing machine and worked tirelessly all day in the balcony listening to a pocket transistor. Narayanbhai was paid rupees 100 a day and churned out ensemble costumes in matter of hours. Mother left all decisions to him; he mixed and matched borders and defined his own fashions. When he fond the fabric insufficient, he cut our sleeves short and if there was excessive fabric, he made double folds on our skirts, as a result we had to wear the same ghagra until we outgrew the size.

The newer saris were distributed amongst the older siblings and mother extracted adequate ornaments from the bank locker for everyone. Like Kashibai and Narayanbhai she was autocratic in her decisions and surprisingly nobody complained. On Dhanteras, popularly referred to as the chopda pujan, we held a small puja at home and strung marigold torans outside the doors. Mother made sure to prepare a special meal combined with a sweet dish on all four days of the festival.

Kalichavdas or Amavas is the Lord Krishna and his youngest wife Satyabhama fought the monster Narakasura and perished him. It is a day of exorcising evil and it is believed that if the woman of the house stands at crossroads and sprinkles water mixed with grains, the family will be free of turbulence. It is said that she must never look behind or the turbulence returns. Mother made sure to follow the custom and also to lamp a light all night to welcome Goddess Laxmi.

On Diwali morning, one of us took charge of inscribing Laxmi footsteps and Swastika on the floor. All the idols were emptied from the temple and bathed in curds mixed with vermillion. Mother sprinkled the idols in holy water as she chanted her daily mantras and dressed them in fragrant flowers. It sounds a complicated process but in reality it doesn’t take that long. Mother was God fearing but practical not to get weighed down by rituals.

The Laxmi pujan was always after dusk. A silver idol of the Goddess purchased by father pre partition was removed from mother’s treasure box along with the paraphernalia. The honour of bathing the special idol and putting her on her throne was bestowed on the eldest girl child. No pundits ever came home and no stutis were read from a book. We lit a lamp, clanged the bell, participated in the aarti and sought blessings of the elders. Mother and father finished the puja and left for grand parent’s home to seek blessings while we children were ordered to stay at home and await Goddess Laxmi.

On Saal Mubarak or New Year day there was a stream of visitors at home. As children we woke up at dawn because it was the right way to begin a new year. The old house we lived in had a custom where in the neighbours assembled and prayed collectively, after which men, women and children in different groups visited the elders and sought blessings. The first group of guests to ring our doorbell would be at 6a.m and they continued to come in large groups till late night.

Over the years, when we shifted home it was a relief to celebrate the festival with just family and friends, to be a part of a cosmopolitan culture and later the glamorous film world. Money combined with taste is a great seduction and it reflects in the way the dream merchants decorate their homes, wrap their gifts and host card parties. Today, the festival of light has a different definition for me and yet many things remain unchanged. Like mother, I do the spring cleaning but a special maid does not come home to clear my attic. The new buildings provide no storage space to hoard old treasures as a result no Teddy Bear or a plastic doll ever stumble out of a rusty trunk and make us nostalgic

There is no emotional investment with the employee. Unlike my mother, I don’t make the effort to buy my assistants a sari for it’s simpler to give them bonus and they prefer cash to kind. It is not a priority for the juniors to seek blessings of the seniors as they feign excuses of work pressure and traffic jam. Fortunately some things remain consistent.
The pots and the pans and the diyas still exist but they are no longer scrubbed and dried in the sunlight as in the olden days. They are polished with Brasso which is faster and less strenuous. As for the old zari saris they don’t exist any longer for nobody has the time or the imagination to repackage and recycle them.

And so does the old silver idol of Laxmi, unscratched after sixty plus years, she still reigns on her throne with her accessories. I sometimes wonder though if she feels stifled locked inside mother’s Godrej cupboard for 360 days in a year or maybe she likes it that way. It is her power-game.

Bhawana Somaaya
www.bhawanasomaaya.com

Yesterday we immersed Godess Durga into the occean. A few weeks ago, we immersed Lord Ganpati and prior to that Godess Gauri. After ten days of fun and frolic, of celebration and rejoicing, the deities leave our homes with an aching vacuum.

After the departure of Lord Ganpati we observed the shraad period when we paid obeisance to our ancestors. We recalled our forefathers and performed charity in their memory and when the rituals ended, came the Navratri festival. Up North they celebrate the festival with nine days of relaying the epic Ramayan through the Ramleela an enactment of Rama’s life. In Bombay, we dance to the disco beats in playgrounds. In Gujarat they still perform the traditional Garba and down South, they hold the custom of hosting the Golu-the seven steps to salvation visited by the relatives.

On the tenth, the Vijayadashmi day, when Lord Rama shot arrow at Ravana we burn effigies of Ravana, his son Meghanand and brother Kumbhkaran. Those who cannot for reasons witness the ceremony of effigies ablaze cut a cucumber at home, symbolizing the chopping of Ravana’s head. The victory ends the days of fasting, music and celebration. The earthen pot Gujaratis preserve at home during the nine days and sing aartis to symbolise Goddess Amba/Kali’s body and the lamp they light within the pot, symbolises her soul. At the end of the festival they deposit the earthen pot and the Jawar plant inside a temple. The South Indians pack up the Golu and the Bengalis immerse the Goddess idol into the water.

There is a tradition of Pranpratishtha where the priest arrives on the innaugral day of the Durga puja and transmits life into the Goddess. On the last day she is released from the earth and we bid her farewell by dancing to the beats of the dhaks/drums. Before the immersion, the women usually dressed in red and white saris, smear each other’s faces with sindoor. The custom is recognized as sindoor khela. Ganesh Chaturthi follows an identical tradition where the priest brings life into the idol on the first day and releases the deity from earth on the last day.

I have hosted Lord Ganpati for fifteen years for all ten days at my home but resisted the custom of Pranpratishtha. I disbelieve that a human being-so what if he is a priest, holds the power to put life into an idol. That is why I bring the deity home as a friend and as a companion. He occupies the privileged position in my abode. I wake him with a lamp and feed him all I eat- that is breakfast, lunch and dinner. I serve him tea when I make my coffee and give him dry fruits when I eat my cornflakes. He watches my routine, my life. I share my anxieties; my dreams and my friends and relatives visit to seek his blessings like they would from a senior member in the family.

Contrary to the tradition, I don’t guard him all day and don’t invade his privacy. I don’t entertain him with blaring music as people think he ought to for I don’t think Ganpati approves of cacophony! He is a writer and I treat him like a sensitive artiste. I provide him with paper and pen should he feel inspired to write and I respect his solitude and space. There are times we write together in the same room. He writes my destiny and I write my columns and often we make eye contact in silence.

On the tenth day, when it is time to bid him farewell, I am heavy hearted and sad. I reluctantly pack his belongings and feed him dahi-shakkar for a safe journey in to the rowdy, overcrowded occean. At the door, I whisper sweet nothings into his ear and though he appears calm and unruffled, I have faith that he has heard my woes and absorbed my dreams and will make them all come true.
So will ma Durga, ma Amba and ma Kaali. They make certain that I will emerge strong and empowered and will not bemoan their departure. They remind me that it is only few days before they will be visiting me again. This time as Goddess Lakshmi, to bless me during the festival of Diwali.