Maha Shivratri महा शिवरात्रि

February 27, 2014

     The sun dips low into evening as we round the narrow road built on the bank of Begur lake, sharing the small space with oncoming traffic.  Sanjeev breaks the stream of pure Hindi spoken between himself and Akhilesh to comment in English about the number of cars conglomerating on the other side of the lake.  I lean forward in the space between the front seats and see for myself.  I keep my disappointment about the unexpected crowd to myself, knowing that I would be the only one to complain.  Normally, our favorite mandir maintains quiet evening pujas sparsely populated with devotees due to its tucked away location in rural Bangalore.  But today is one of the most sacred of all Hindu festivals celebrated in honor of the Supreme God Shiva.  Hindus across India and the entire world celebrate Maha Shivratri (The Great Night of Shiva) in a personal and spiritual manner through a fast that lasts for a full 24 hours, extensive prayer, and the recital of sacred mantras.  According to the Hindu calendar, from which the day of Maha Shivratri is determined, the planetary alignments of this day make the recital of sacred mantras particularly powerful, with the practice of yoga and meditation also providing an enhancement in spiritual energy. 

Today, in attempt to honor Lord Shiva and receive his divine blessings, thousands of Hindus will visit Naganatheshwara temple (Sanskrit meaning "the god of the snakes") – a mandir dedicated purely to his worship.  Locals of Begur attest that Naganatheshwara temple is the origin from which the city of Bangalore sprouted, and that Rama himself prayed there – which if correct –would date the temple to be as ancient as 5,000 years.  Now designated as a national heritage site, the Naganatheshwara temple is actively being preserved, its grounds undergoing a painstaking process of restoration. 

The car kicks up a small sandstorm as pull into the area serving as the parking lot.  I slip my sandals off and leave them under the front seat along with my purse, taking the time to neatly fold and tuck away the 300 rupees in various denominations I will use for monetary offerings. Walking across the sandy lot, still warm from the sun’s heat, we stop at phool walle, (flower lady) her various flowers and puja necessities arranged carefully on a blue tarp.  Sanjeev and the lady discuss the price in Kannada, quickly exchanging 120 rupees for two plastic bags, each filled with a coconut, roses, jasmine garlands, and marigold flowers, agrabati (incense sticks), and small bags of vermillion and turmeric powder.  Puja necessities obtained, we walk toward the crowd at the back entrance of the temple. 

Sanjeev and Akhilesh leave their sandals at the gate entrance amongst countless similar pairs of black and brown chuppals.  We join the crowd kept in order by a passageway made out of carved wooden poles and thick rough rope, walking single file in the line into the temple’s courtyard.  I stand on my tiptoes to see that the ropes zigzag around the temple’s grounds, in and out of the various antarylas (temple chambers) like lines at an amusement park.  Hundreds of people crowd in its confines – black hair and varying shades of brown everywhere.  Despite that I can’t quite seem to stop reaching up to cross my arms, I ignore the uncomfortable sensations of being in the crowd.  Long braids of hair brush across my arms, feeling coarse next to the soft swish of fabric across my skin.  I stand feet close together to avoid being stepped on, and to also avoid committing the taboo myself. 

The Dakshin Dwaar (photo taken during the monsoons)

     We slowly file to our first checkpoint – the breaking of the coconut.  (Symbolizing the opening of our minds for enlightenment).  Normally devotees perform the act themselves, but two adolescent boys have been enlisted for the job to keep the line moving.  They stand barefoot on the elevated and narrow rain-smoothed concrete block, dressed in dirty jeans and button down shirts.  One-by-one, they smack the coconuts on the raised edge in the middle of the block, cracking noises accompanying endless coconut water that flows over the edges and soaks into Earth.  I flick my hand at the flies surrounding the sticky sweetness, and watch as the boy who cracks our coconut looks at Sanjeev in a half remorseful way and tells him in Kannada that its bad.  Akhilesh gives us the other half of his coconut and I try not to laugh when one of the boys splashes the white shirt of the man in front of me with a mix of coconut water and bits of husk– the man engaged in conversation and unaware, or just uncaring of the mess. 

(The Dakshin Dwaar Restored - taken from Sanjeev's phone)

We move incredibly slow, advancing only inches per minutes. Akhilesh tells me a story about how someone once stole his chuppals (sandals) while he was inside a temple, an issue that he solved simply by stealing someone else’s.  Facing west, I admire the temple’s Dakshin dwaar (the south facing entrance), its newly painted gold color framing a scene with the setting sun and coconut trees in a way that has me wishing I had my camera.  As the crowd gets thicker, Sanjeev stands behind me to protect me from “accidental” groping in the line.

 

(The first Antaryla with Nandi, taken on a previous trip to the temple)

  

               I carefully climb the three stairs to the antaryla (temple chamber) that leads to the first garbhgruha (the literal translation from Sanskrit meaning the “the womb house” – the room that houses the idol representations of deities).  Each of the temple’s five womb houses contains a Shivalinga (a phallic statue symbolizing the union of Shiv and Shakti – the male and female creative energies).  To the right, people crowd around a statue of Shiva’s animal familiar and protector Nandi the bull.  To the left, devotees cram into a narrow entrance into the antaryla.  A man stands at the entrance constantly alternating between yelling banni (please come) to the people exiting and nillisalu (stop) to the people entering.  I somehow manage to keep my balance as I duck down and squeeze through the gate, careful to step over the threshold.  Inside, it is like a cave, air heavy in its heat and moisture.  Amongst fewer people, I easily make my way up to the even smaller space that houses the Shivalinga.  I peak past the pujari (temple priest) sitting at its entrance to see the black stone linga draped in jasmine, marigold, and red rose garlands – the floor covered in more flowers, coconuts, and bananas.  The pujari holds out a golden aarti plate with a single diya (ghee lamp) and a bowl of vibhuti (sacred ash).  I place ten rupees on the plate, and pause to wave my hands over the diya and place them over my eyes.  I hold out my cupped hands, the pujari dropping a pinch of sacred ash into my palms.  Switching the ash from my right to my left hand, I use my right finger to make a tilak on my forehead, carefully cradling the remainder of the ash in my palms as if it is a piece of Shiva himself.  I move to the right of the room – back toward the yelling escort, and somehow avoid bumping my head on any of the stone pillars or the low ceiling. 

Shivalinga

 

Back outside, we move slowly down the stairs and onwards to the right almost immediately reaching a standstill against the outer wall of the main temple.  I focus on small things to fight discomfort of the 20 minutes stretched long for not moving.  I fiddle with a bulb from the blue strings of lights draping down the temples walls, then touch the wall’s faded sea green paint, made smooth with time, and find myself wondering about its age.  I catch curious glances from the group of women I am stuck around, and a young Kannadiga standing behind Sanjeev is brave enough to be the first ask him where we are from.  He asks it in English, and is surprised when Sanjeev makes his reply in Kannada.  At his sudden switch to the local language, several women around me quite unabashedly turn around to listen to their conversation.  I keep my head down and eyes averted, feeling uncomfortable at their gazes, finally distracting myself by watching a few small children play in the space between the crowd lines.  They happily run back and forth, stopping to look up at the setting sun through yellow colored plastic sheets cleverly extracted from incense packs.

The temperature slowly increases as we move toward the entrance of the second house of a Shivalinga – Akhilesh long since separated from us.  While I wait to reach the corner, I balance on my tiptoes to see clear above the crowd and watch a small group of young girls performing Bharatanatyam in the crowded courtyard away from the lines. This time, people are let past the steel gate and into the antaryla about ten at a time before a young man acting as a bouncer blocks the crowd.  Sanjeev and I manage to stay together in the squeeze through the gate, again performing the monetary offering and darshan (the viewing of the God) before quickly exiting.

(The Temple's Main Entrance)

Outside, I relish in few deep breaths of cooling evening air before I am again stuffed into the crowd that leads to the main house of the temple.  In the additional 20 minutes of our excruciating voyage, patience is running short in the crowd.  A steady push from behind eggs us around a corner serving as offering area.  Armfuls of flowers, bananas and coconuts litter the ground. Heavily burning diyas spout thick black smoke above their wicks, sending the scents of burning oil or ghee into the open air to mingle with heady flower scented wisps of burning incense.  Pressed tightly against the women in front of me, I struggle to keep my balance while I attempt to climb the few stairs to the entrance.  At a painfully slow pace, I squeeze through the gate, and am quickly rewarded with an unbelievably heavy and moist heat, its source a small shelf housing more incense and diyas lit by devotees.  Movement slows to a crawl, the crowd so thick that women’s backsides press into my front.  An elderly pujari dressed in a pale yellow dhoti, (traditional waist wrap) appears next to me and yells across the room in Kannada for us “to move or we will be stuck here forever!”   His voice booms through my ears, and I can’t resist analyzing his presence.  Several puja malas (prayer garlands) made of rudrakshas (sacred seeds believed the be the tear of Lord Shiva) hang heavily from his neck.  His forehead, shoulders, and chest are covered in clay markings – the three horizontal lines worn by Shivites (followers of Shiva). When we finally move forward, we are forced to crouch to avoid the low ceiling, standing awkwardly in line.  I place a single marigold flower on Nandi’s head as I slowly pass him – the statue deep black and smooth from being touched.  I wait for another man to clear my entrance through the small rectangle chamber, slowly making my to the aarti tray, beyond which the linga sits.  Laying my last hundred out on the plate, I again wave my hands over the flame, pausing to observe the adorned linga and to ask for enlightenment before I rush to exit the room.  

Back in the main temple room, I am suddenly aware of the dampness of my clothes, my dupatta and kurti clinging tightly to my skin.  I am about to make a beeline for the temple’s exit where the evening will have a cool breeze waiting, but Sanjeev apparently hasn’t felt enough punishment despite that he is sweating bullets and requests that we visit the final linga.  I resist the urge to whine and instead move forward with the crowd, watching pujaris deliver small spoons sacred water known as charna amrut (“the nectar from the feet of the gods”) into the palms of devotees who then sip it.  I vie for space through the room’s chamber, irritated when several women cut in front of me.  Inside the room, Sanjeev searches every crevice of his empty wallet for a single rupee to serve as monetary offering at the last aarti tray, all to no avail.  I move quickly through the darshan, squeeze my way through one last gate, before I am outside and trying not to visibly show the relief I feel at being out of the crowd.  My patience and energy spent, I join Sanjeev at the area serving as the puja offerings, hastily lighting an incense stick in the diya fire before stabbing it in a banana to hold it upright.  Sanjeev whispers his prayers, while I stand in the middle of the courtyard watching women and girls on the stage recite a mantra in unison, the girls’ voices ear splittingly sharp through the speakers.  When he joins me, we quickly head to exit through the gap in the courtyard’s walls. We walk across the sandy lot, pebbles and rocks jabbing into my feet as I try to keep up with Sanjeev’s pace to the car.  Once there, I hurriedly climb in, sprawling out against the back seat in my exhaustion.  Sanjeev swifly starts the car and exits the lot, the temple disappearing into dust and darkness as we join evening traffic on Manipal road.  On the way home, I hardly notice the jerking movements of road’s potholes, content in my moment of quiet in a maddening world.   

Om Namah Shivaya.

From a Window

December 13^th, 2013

     I sleep fitfully the first night, disturbed by the constant jerking movements of the train in the conductor’s apparent attempt to reach light speed in his haste.  On the lower bunk, I feel like I am slowly suffocating from the lack of circulating air.  I look around the cabin, the dim light creeping in through the gaps around the doorframe.  Is it possible to suffocate in here?  Surely the three of us breathing would have used up the oxygen contained within this box.  I feel like breaking the window to let the cool night air rush in, and instead climb out of bed and attempt to adjust the airflow.  Like I suspected, the knob doesn’t do much, and I lay facing toward the empty space, concentrating on deep breaths. 

     At 3 a.m. I walk Bubby up and down the narrow hallway of the coach, amused by his attempts to stay upright against the shuddering movements and pee at the same time.  There is nobody around; the hard florescent lights emphasize the stark black outside the hallway’s windows.  It feels like I am on a ghost train, forever destined to move along endless rails.  I go back to my coupe and shortly thereafter, I am back underneath the bleached sheet I use as a buffer between the prickly woolen blanket, and myself, sleep still evading me.  I roll over onto my stomach and pull the curtain open to see stars glowing brightly against the black night.  I haven’t seen stars like this in months with the constant light and air pollution of the city.  I watch the moonlit scenery in the middle of nowhere go by, trees and fields, and imagine that I am looking out a window in Michigan.  I feel a sharp pang of guilt thinking about Little Pup and his distress at us leaving him with strangers.  Quite suddenly, I realize how much I love him and his constant company.

     Once the sadness abates, I finally drift off to sleep for a couple of hours, waking to seek the sun’s warm rays bringing the world to life outside my window.  It is really quite fascinating to witness India’s mornings from the window of a train.  Men stand around brushing their teeth from the sides of the tracks or on their apartment rooftops or balconies.  Auto drivers smoke their morning beadis and wipe the grime away from their autos with rags.  It’s difficult to tell that I am in Andhra Pradesh because it looks a lot like Bangalore. Telugu (the state language) uses the same script as Kannada.  It is in fact the different color of the autos (yellow and black instead of yellow and green) that informs me we must have passed into Andhra Pradesh. 

     The experience of watching India from a train is much like walking its streets, sobering, only fast paced.  Some sights are so beautiful.  We pass by a lake, smooth like a mirror and I watch a flock of stark white egrets fly up in unison and toward the deep orange morning sun.  Moments later, I am presented with the perturbing sights of makeshift slums housing the poorest of the poor, shacks haphazardly built next to trash dumps or rivers and ponds that have turned into open sewers.  Sites that serve as safe havens for the poor because they border on the fringes of undesirable environments where no one else would ever want to live. 

     Mid morning has led us away from small cities and into the more remote areas where nature reigns.  We pass by farmland, currently dry from winter’s weather, but undoubtedly bright green and full of life during the monsoons.  Mountains with smooth faces line the horizon, hazy from mist in the distance.  There is hardly a human soul about, a rare occurrence living in cosmopolitan India.  Those I do see are farmers tending to their crops or their cows, lone figures standing on a stretch of earth that seems to go on forever.  We pass a group of women and children gather around a small pond in the middle of a field to wash their clothes and bathe.  I feel a sudden urge to be out there with them, to feel the sun on my face and smell the air rich with the scents of the country.  Other than the clip clop of the tracks, and the periodic scuffle of feet outside my door, it is quiet – the perfect morning to stare out into a remote world, and reflect on one’s thoughts. 

Uttar (Northwards)

December 12, 2013

    

    We leave 3 ½ hours before the train departure to ensure that our taxi makes it through the city’s mad traffic.  Much to our delight, we arrive within a little over an hour, beating the evening rush. I step out into the evening air, chilly and damp, Bubby perched on my shoulder tucked away in his kennel.  The station is buzzing with movement and our rather obtrusive suitcases either glide easily, or have to be dragged haphazardly over broken bits, stones and gaps in the concrete.  We immediately move toward a railway restaurant called Dakshin (meaning South) posted on the outside entrance of station.  I wait outside with our baggage, Bubby fidgeting inside his cage, while Sanjeev gets us fried rice packed in parcels.  Walking away from the crowd, we find a quiet corner of the building to eat.  The rice is perfectly oiled and spice, and I have to restrain myself from inhaling it for not having eaten all day in my haste to prepare for the trip. 

     Moderately sated, we move through the station, me alternating from easily carting along my suitcase and keeping Bubby’s kennel upright, to struggling to maintain my composure.  It seems as though tonight, I am the obstacle on display, interested eyes analyzing me, and the little being I carry.  I feel as though our suitcases are enormous in comparison to what everyone else carries.  We watch the signboard in the center of the room depicting train numbers and departure times to see that we are so early ours isn’t even listed yet.  Not knowing what we should do with our time, we wind our way through the room littered with droves of people lying on the floor sleeping, or sitting on top of baggage waiting.  We drink boiling hot chai at a corner food stall, the aromas of fried foods filling the air.  I pretend not to notice the exorbitant amount of stares, and instead focus on a beautiful woman sitting amongst her luggage.  Her sharply defined eyes make her look Tibetan, but her smooth caramel skin and her Indian style jewelry tell me she is from the Northeastern parts of India.  Bubby continuously wiggles and periodically lets out small squeaks of annoyance at being detained, but I keep him concealed knowing that the attention I were to draw if I let him out would be overwhelming.  The station is warm from the presence of so many people and despite the cool night breeze, I start to sweat in my pashmina shawl.  People rush in from the entrance to my right; the sounds of conversation in multiple languages are drone out by the announcements of train numbers in Kannada and Hindi. 

     A thin man who looks to be in his early forties approaches us, looking to make some good money from porting our suitcases through the maze of the station to our platform.  Sanjeev at first ignores his offers but then begins negotiating after I tell him I have no intention of hauling a 40-pound bag over uneven pavement and up and down flights of stairs.  Why Indian railway stations have no easy way to transport baggage is beyond my comprehension.  The porter and Sanjeev agree to a fee of 250 rupees (less than $5) and I watch him wrap a worn rag into a support on the top of his head.  He utilizes the help of another to quickly place the first bag on top of his head, and I realize he fully intends to carry the second as well.  I protest that it is far too much for him to carry, but he ignores me and has the second bag tossed onto his head momentarily almost dropping it, but quickly regaining his balance.  He sets off through the crowds, Sanjeev on his heels and me tailing behind struggling to keep Bubby’s kennel in front of me and untouched by the rush of people.  We squish through a metal detector that appears to be long out of service and weave between the moving and rushing people on the first platform and up the first set of stairs to the bridge.  I watch nervously as the porter climbs, the bags bouncing on his head, narrowly avoiding dangling cables and signs above.  The chilling winter wind blows my hair wild once we reach the top of the bridge crossing the tracks and trains below.  The bag walla speed walks and I further lose distance, getting stuck behind slow walkers whom I respectfully attempt to overtake.  Platform 8 is one of the last exits on the bridge, and we descend the stairs struggling to avoid colliding with others.  The porter breaks into a jog once we reach the platform, walking the edge of the concrete where there is a good 4-foot drop to the tracks below.  People move aside like waves seeing him coming toward them, and I feel rather snobbish with the porter slaving away while I cart around my dog. 

     After a few more minutes of rushing we reach the spot on the platform where our coupe will be, the porter skillfully unloading the heavy bags.  I tell Sanjeev to give him 300 and he does, only to be manipulated into giving him 50 more for the labor.  I can’t really blame him, yet I can’t help but wonder how one acquires such a profession.  We settle on a small granite cube amongst a crowd of others waiting, and relax that we are finally so close to boarding.  Bubby’s persistent whines convince me to let him out, but his inability to sit still in my lap, and the immediate crowd that is drawn at his sight makes me tuck him away again. 

     There are so many people speaking so many different languages; so many sounds here.  Trains on other platforms blare their horns, the sounds deafening for a moment.  The hum of machinery in various states of movement is constant, and I hear a jackhammer somewhere nearby tearing up concrete.  The smells of train stations are as variant as their sounds.  It smells of oily and spiced food or steaming chai one moment, stale concrete, urine, or trash the next.  I wrap myself in my shawl, its warmth welcomed now that the evening’s chill has set in, and I settle myself.  I decide to pass the time by writing, immersing myself in the solitary act of moving pen across paper.  Like working in a bubble, I am untouchable for a moment, unaware of the curious stares of the people passing me by, only periodically interrupted by Sanjeev’s comments of excitement.  I scribble out my thoughts as fast as I can, hunched over under the artificial light above me, but time moves too fast, and before I know it, Sanju is nudging me to watch our train back into the platform.  He quickly stands, anxious to board, but I make him wait for a few more minutes, thoughts flooding my head.  Finally, his standing over me breaks my concentration, and I gather my things, and look for our coach.  A couple of minutes later, I am reading the white printed sheet of paper posted outside the train’s coach door, seeing my new last name in print for the first time.  Sanjeev clumsily loads the bags through the narrow entrance, and we cram our way through the hallway, squeezing by train waiters to our coupe.  I arrange our belongings underneath the lower bunk bed and in various other nooks of the tiny room that is to be our dwelling for the next 33 hours.  Bubby is excited to be free of his confines and happily plops into his beddie, snuggling up in is striped PJs and blankets.  Shortly thereafter, the train sounds its horn, it is almost time to leave the platform.  We are visited by multiple train servers, who provide us with bleached white sheets, pillows and blankets.  A man with a contagious smile takes our order for food and fascinated with Bubby, points at him and says in Hindi Maja a gaeya “I enjoy him”.  He tells us that Bubby’s needs will also be catered to.  A few minutes later, an unbelievably tall and thin man with a long face and kind eyes provides us with water bottles and pitcher with boiling water for Bubby’s food.  He looks as though he is a Jhatt – a fighter clan from North India reputed for their strength and stature, but his soft-spoken demeanor and avoidance of my eyes tells me he is a gentle giant.  A few minutes later we feel the first tugs of movement, which evolve into growing pace.  Within 15 minutes we are promptly served hot tomato soup and breadsticks before dinner, the trays on which the bowls are placed sway with the movement, but never manage to spill.  The train increases its speed and the cabin’s rocking makes me struggle with my penmanship.  Giving in to the lack of writing ability and feeling the lull of sleepiness from the long day, I snuggle in my blanket and let the journey begin.

Navaratri 2013 नवरात्रि

     

© Rebecca Delekta 2013

     Twice a year, every year, during the seasonal changes that mark the beginning of summer and winter, Hindus across the world celebrate Navaratri  – a nine night festival worshipping the Mother Goddess.  In Sanskrit, nava means nine, and ratri means night.  Navaratri is one of Hinduism’s most ancient and complex spiritual festivals. Like most other auspicious days, this festival is determined according to the seasonal and lunar calculations of the Hindu calendar. During this time, nine different aspects of the supreme Goddess are worshipped, most notably are Durga – the female representation of power, and the destroyer darkness; Lakshmi – the Goddess of wealth and Saraswati the Goddess of knowledge.

     The intricate cultural elements of Navaratri celebrations differ immensely across India.  In West Bengal, where Goddess worship has the strongest roots, Navaratri is the most vividly celebrated.  The entire city of Kolkata is shut down for the extent of the celebration.  In Gujarat, throughout the nine nights, people get dressed up in their most ornate ethnic wear, and gather in the masses to perform garba – a traditional dance performed with small colorful sticks.  In recent decades, the celebration has also caught on in the South, and Bangalore, with a growing number of Bengalis, has risen to the occasion.  This year, over fifty separate processions took place within the city.  Although I cannot imagine the cultural intensity of Navaratri celebrated in Bengal, the festivities here in Bangalore adequately satiate the outsider with a taste of Bengali culture. 

     Processions across the city are centrally focused on the pandal – the temporary temple constructed for the display of Goddess Durga, and the pujas conducted in her worship.  Although her depictions vary, the sharply lined, almond-shaped, wild eyes of Durga always give her away.  On each evening, just as the sky has turned dark, pujas are performed to awaken and conjure the Goddess’s divine energy.  For roughly half an hour, pujarees perform these sacred rites, and devotees gather to pray and receive the blessings of the Goddess. Once ode is paid to the Mother Goddess, devotees are free to partake in the festivities.  Entertainment and celebration come in a variety of forms.  Known for their talents in the arts, Bengalis often perform dances or sing.  Stalls offer the cultural foods from Bengal, vendors of all kinds sell their products, and carnival rides entertain kids in the masses. 

© Rebecca Delekta 2013

     This year on Soptomi, one of the most celebrated nights in Navaratri, Sanjeev and I decided to visit the procession organized by the Bengalee Association in downtown Bangalore.  On Saturday evening, after dressing in our best attire and braving the city streets for an hour, we reach Commercial Street’s procession gates.  Darkness has just set in and the crowds have yet to fill the grounds.  We roam, eating Krispy Crème doughnuts, and eventually proceed to the food stalls.  We patiently search for an all-vegetarian stall, walking through air thick with the smell of smoke and frying fish (most all Bengalis are non-veg, and seafood is a staple part of the diet due to Bengal’s position as a coastal state on the Bay of Bengal).  After careful deliberation, and multiple turndowns of fish offered, we find a Ganapati Catering stand.  Sanjeev gets poori (fried wheat roti) and Bengali style potato subjee.  I get two samosa snacks, hoping that they might taste like they do in Delhi.  We remove ourselves from the nauseating smell of seafood and stand in the middle of the courtyard, I pick at my Samosas, examining the masala inside, paranoid of finding meat.  It tastes different from the Samosas of the north – tangy with more lentils. 

 

    After we finish eating, we head back to the pandal display to see that the puja has already started.  The crowd is beginning to thicken, red plastic chairs aligned in rows are nearly full, and people crowd the front of the center isle to pray to the Goddess.  Sanjeev and I wind through the traffic, while he prays, I snap off quick shots of the pujaree waving a smoldering clay urn around the idols to awaken the Goddess, and quickly move on my way to make room for others wanting to offer their prayers.  I stand off to the side, and videotape the rest of the puja, large drums in front of me playing a beat that breeds excitement. 

     Once the puja is complete, and the crowds satisfied, we move to the next tent that houses the stage for the cultural events of the night.  We sit in the corner of the front row and patiently wait as the tent fills with people.  After some time, an announcer informs us in Bengali that several children’s choreographed dances will take place.  I photograph their movements in the color varying light, my favorite is an Assamese dance performed by young girls wrapped in red and white saris.  They sing as they dance, faces smiling and free. 

     After a much-anticipated wait, a stunningly dressed Odissi dancer comes on stage to inform us of the dances about to take place in observance of the Mother Goddess.  I am utterly enthralled when they take the stage, knowing that I am witnessing a dance that embodies ancient India. There are 7 different types of classical dance in India, in their varying forms they often beautifully articulate aspects of the divine.  Three of these dances are amongst the most renowned: Bharatanatyam – deriving from Tamil Nadu – the most ancient of all dance types; Mohiniattam deriving from Kerala; and Odissi originating from Odisha.  Traditional dances have been called “artistic yoga” for their controlled movements and poses, and the intricate use of mudras (hand and finger gestures that influence energies and signify meaning). ¹  Classical dances were originally performed to entertain the Gods, but have also been effective in passing on stories within mythology from generation to generation through dance. ²  Those who take on the immense task of learning an ancient dance commit to a lifelong journey.  Odissi is considered one of the most sensuous, passionate and bewitching classical dances. ³  Its roots can be traced back at least 2,000 years, when rulers of the region build kingdoms and the cultural arts were nourished. ³  Many Odissi dances focus centrally on Krishna – the God of love and joy. 

     The three Odissi dancers set to perform tonight are utterly stunning – their outfits consist of intricately wrapped blue and green traditional dance dresses.  Their necks and waists draped in silver jewelry.  Leather bands affixed with hundreds of bells wrap their ankles.  Jet-black hair is neatly smoothed back into buns and covered with white flowered headdresses.  Eyes are lined heavily with kajal and complete with the third eye bindi.  With their elaborate attire and makeup, they are transformed from modern day urban Indians, into representations of antiquity – reflections of Goddess Durga herself.  The first dance is in ode to Goddess Durga, with various poses depicting her different aspects – her softness, her ability to heal and create, and her wrath of power and triumph over evil.  Several scenes articulating the dark side of the Goddess are so powerful they send shivers of energy through my body.  My heart thumps in my chest, and I struggle to hold my camera still, its weight growing heavier.  The second dance is performed by a solo dancer in honor of Krishna, depicting a love encounter at Yamuna River.  The dancer moves her hands and body in ways that make you visualize water; she picks flowers, searchers for Krishna and flirts.  Two dancers perform a final dance, it meaning mysterious but still maintaining that powerful energy.

       After the dancing is finished, we listen to live music performed by an insanely talented Tamil woman, whose voice is reminiscent of old India, and laugh at a Bengali guy too full of himself to realize that he has no talent to sing.  A small group of sari clad Bengali women dance to the music in front of us, I watch them move, clearly enjoying the time they have to dress up and free themselves for a moment from the bonds of daily life.  Once I have had my fill of mosquito bites and the deafening noise, we leave the tent to see that the crowds have grown immensely.  We drive home with the radio low, the Odissi dancers’ bells still ringing through my head. 

References

(1) Yoga Technology LLC. (2013). Mudras. Retrieved October 17, 2013, from         

            http://www.kundaliniyoga.org/mudras.html

(2) Cultural India. (2013). Indian classical dances. Retrieved October 17, 2013, from           

            http://www.culturalindia.net/indian-dance/classical/index.html

(3) Cultural India. (2013). Orissi Dance. Retrieved October 17, 2013, from

            http://www.culturalindia.net/indian-dance/classical/odissi.html

Further Celebrations

      At ten thirty pm, I’m curled up on my couch, alone for a few hours.  I’m working on some recent photographs, my computer overheating from the task.  In the distance, I can hear the tempo of elaborate drumming.  I ignore it for the time being.  The celebration of Ganesh Chaturthi is still in full swing, and every day the gaiety of the festival seeps into my apartment.  Firecrackers go off at any time of day, their explosive booms causing my heart to skip a beat.  After nightfall, multicolor fireworks burst above apartment complexes and company buildings miles away.  A few days ago, well into the night, I watched a group of 15 men and boys celebrating courtyards over.  The quick drum beat music quickening to a climax over and over.  Full of energy, they danced wildly, bodies outlined by a tungsten lit shack housing a Ganesh idol.  Yesterday, while visiting Hosa road’s market, the street reflected the ongoing celebration.  Amongst the fruit and vegetable vendors, a large corrugated metal structure covered in plastic loomed.  What it contained wasn’t a mystery to me, I touched the plastic outside cover as we drove by on the bike and twisted around to see a dizzying display of colors inside.  Ganesh in all his splendor, drawing Hindus from every angle.  On the opposite side of the street, where alleyways between the small business shops lead to apartment villages, clusters of women were gathered around on the pavement, crafting deeply colorful rangolis (freehand design of sacred shapes using natural sand-like ingredients).  Children squatted around the finished designs, laughing and playing.  Above them, thin strings of blue, orange and green lights zigzag across the alleyway’s gap between apartments.  In the fading cloud diffused light, I stood watching them, cursing myself for not having brought my camera for fear of rain. 

      Back in the present, I’m analyzing a photograph I took on Ganesh Chaturthi during my visit to the temple, a close up of a bronze color metal entryway, Ganesh’s image imprinted alongside another God.  As I play with the sepia tint, the drumming gets louder, harder to ignore.  The bass resonates through my windows and walls, the rhythm filling me with an irresistible urge to move my body in tandem.  I toss my computer aside and run to the southwest facing windows of my bedroom pull back the curtains, and slam open the window.  I’m struck by the cool night wind, tainted with the fresh scent of rain, and further excited by the sharp increase of the drums echoing across the distance, and reverberating around the walls of my room as if it were a cave.  The subtle glittering lights from the hundreds of apartments outside provides the room’s only illumination as I search in my closet for my camera and zoom lens. 

      Camera assembled by feel, I pad across the icy marble floor and climb onto my bamboo chair propped against the wall.  I start video taping the scene before me, my camera unable to perceive the light that my eyes still see; the image grainy from pushing the ISO.  Although I could only dream of catching the constellation of Bangalore lights outside my wind at night, what I really want to document are the beat of drums.  Ten stories below, on the small road running parallel to my apartment, and disguised by the deep shadows of the buildings, I make out a tractor slowly pulling a flat trailer with a ten-foot high Ganesh idol.  A group of performers surround the idol, entranced by the rhythm of their music.  I make out the sound of South India’s classic bronze cymbals known as elathalam.  They complement the sharp and impossibly fast beat of tasha drums.  Several people make a shrill whistle common to popular Punjabi songs.  The most overwhelming sound is a deep base drum, its eerie thum thum… thum thum….thum thum… beat booming through the house and my body, reminding me of the alien heartbeat of a monster.  As Ganesh is escorted down the road, random spectators dance in celebration.  The tractor comes to a halt under the orange light of a street lamp, and passersby stop their motorcycles to observe and pray.

      Two days later, the celebration is repeated at 11:30 pm, this time the escort includes several idols of Ganesh, with a larger crowd of drummers.  A small goods truck carries an idol backdropped with a flat display comprised of small neon lights.  It reminds me of a large light bright display, the bulbs illuminating buildings with unnatural florescence in passing.  As they reach the intersection of the dirt road with Hosur main, a series of firecrackers are set off, and the beat of drums quiet for only a few minutes, before another three displays roll through.  Each night’s celebration, I spend it half hanging out the window from my vantage point, shooting the scene and attempting to keep the heavy camera body balanced and still.  I am utterly enthralled by the display, moved, and energized by the archaic sounds of exotic drums.  When both groups meet at the intersection, they meld into one giant and bedazzling herd of noise.  As they head back to their village their images slip into the night, though windows closed and wrapped in my blanket, I can still hear them playing into the distance

Check out this video, it is a closer look at a similar drumming celebration:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YKCue8KvnQ

गणेश चतुर्थी Ganesh Chaturthi 2013

     Yesterday, September 9, 2013, India celebrated Ganesh Chaturthi, a Hindu festival celebrated across the central and Southern India as the birthday of Ganesh, one of Hinduism’s most beloved lower deities.  Ganesh – also known as Ganapati – is the elephant-head God, son of Lord Shiva and Parvathi.  As the “remover of obstacles,” Ganesh is prayed to for blessings of good luck and for help in overcoming difficulties throughout the journey of life.  Ganesh Chaturthi is celebrated differently according to region.  In Karnataka, on the day of Ganesh Chaturthi, each Hindu family buys a clay, hand-carved and painted Ganesh idol and displays it in an area of their home devoted to puja ceremonies.  Doing so is said to invite Ganesh into one’s home, where he stays as the center of worship for 9 days.  In exchange for their daily offerings of incense, fresh flowers, and devotion to Lord Ganesh, the Hindu family is believed to be graced with his blessings.  On the ninth day, traditional religious ceremonies are conducted and the Ganesh idol is immersed in a natural body of water where his divine essence returns to the Earth as the clay disperses in the water. 

© Rebecca Delekta

     Although the festival is primarily celebrated in the home, like most other Hindu festivals, Ganesh Chaturthi is also publicly celebrated on a grand scale.  In Mumbai, where this festival is most elaborate, the clay Ganesh idols scale as high as twenty-five feet requiring the strength of a dozen men for its immersion into the Arabian Sea.  Millions of people flood into parts of the city to participate in the festivities.  In Bangalore, weeks prior to the event, goods trucks that look like tiny auto rickshaws converted into goods carriers can be seen traveling all avenues.  Ganesh idols carefully wrapped in plastic, neon colors still evident beneath cloudy covers.  Men and women hoping to make extra income arrange for several dozen idols from handicraft workers, and display them in order of size atop wheeled carts for purchase off the street.  On the day of the celebration, local temples set up ornately decorated abodes to house their own Ganesh idols.  Individuals on the street stop and pray, providing offerings of jasmine flower garlands, coconuts, and bananas. 

     Over the years, as the business of idol making grew, new materials other than clay, and brighter, more vivid paints began to be heavily utilized.  Ironically, the act of worshipping a beloved deity and participating in a major cultural event celebrating life has subsequently resulted in an environmental issue.  The millions of Ganesh idols immersed into India’s major water bodies have created heavy water pollution; lead and mercury amongst other heavy metals and poisons leach into water, which result in sedimentation, the poisoning wildlife and degradation of fragile ecosystem health.  Each year in Bangalore, a city already struggling with an inadequate and polluted water supply, the issue grows worse.  For years now, environmentalists and activists throughout the country have waged an awareness campaign to effectively curb the pollution by encouraging individual homes to purchase eco-friendly idols that are created according to traditional practices: hand-carved out of natural clay, and adorned with natural paints like red earth and turmeric powder. 

© Rebecca Delekta

     This year, Sanjeev and I found a skillfully crafted natural Ganesh idol at our local mall’s grocery store.  For 500 rupees we happily escorted our eco-friendly Ganesh home and displayed him on our puja counter.  His presence is so welcomed in our home that I refuse to let him leave.  There will be no immerse or dispersion for this fellow despite being no threat to the environment. 

     In celebration of Ganesh Chaturthi this year, we decided to join a group of friends who planned to visit the evening puja ceremony at Raggiguda mandir located in Jayanagar.  On the drive over, the streets were eerily vacant, evidence that a large portion of Bangalore’s residents returned home to their respective states to celebrate the festival elsewhere.  Despite the significantly lower population, Jayanager was alive and brilliant with the senses of life.  Through a sudden mess of traffic, and crammed down as smaller side street, we finally catch sight of towering entrance gate to the festivities, warmly lit and portraying deities.  A plastic banner with Kannada text apparently identifies it as the local Ganesh Chaturthi celebration.  We park in the lot of the huge Central mall next door, its walls and entrance over-lit with harsh florescent lights.  The busy mall stands in contrast to the gate, modern and traditional India existing side by side. 

© Rebecca Delekta

     We make our way through the side street, blocked off to traffic and littered with people and small side stands selling food, idols, and small trinkets.  At the end of the road, we finally come to the temple grounds and its tall gates.  Seeing it, I now recall having been to this temple before, in 2010 with my friend Balaji who used to accompany me on outings to see some of Bangalore’s best temples.  Memories like photographs pop into my mind, and I remember the second temple at the top of the large rock hill, and sitting inside, lotus pose, absorbing the positive energy on a monsoon afternoon much less populated by devotees.  Amidst the other people dressed in their nicest outfits, Sanjeev and I slip off our sandals, place them in a woven bag, exchanging the bag for a token from a man who carefully files the footwear away during our visit to the temple.  The grounds are filled with devotees, families and friends gaily talking and moving single file through the maze of a walkway that leads one around the grounds and up to the temples built on top of the rock mountain, wet with the afternoon’s rain.  The daylight is fading and I have to push my camera’s sensitivity to its highest ISO in order to capture the scenes before me.  Waiting for the line to move, I watch people posing for pictures taken with mobile phones before a manmade waterfall carved into the mountain rock, painted and complete with idols.  We move slowly, the ground is wet and cold on my bare feet, and I try not to pay attention to the grit and wet leaves sticking to them.  As we move up the ramp walkway, I see that I am the only white person amongst hundreds of Hindus.  But in my new and elaborately colorful kameez suit outfit, complete with all the dressings right down to the toe rings, I am comfortable, a misfit perhaps, but an expert at being so.  We wind through the maze, and I feel as though we are in a line at an amusement park waiting to try out a new ride. 

© Rebecca Delekta

     After about ten minutes of foot traffic, we finally arrive at the entrance to the temple.  We give 100 rupees donation to a man sitting at a glass table, who types the amount into a little calculator which spits out a small receipt.  The donation sponsors the rice the temple acquires for the next day’s prasada – the food offerings to the poor from the Gods.  People push past me in the line, anxious to perform the darshan – the viewing of the Gods in idol form.  Finally at the end of the walkway in the center of it all, we are instructed to take two large red fabric bags of rice.  We carry it over to a bronze metal idol of Goddess Annapoorneshwari – the Goddess of food. We wait for our turn amongst the people crowding around her, each in turn, dumping their own bag of rice at her feet.  One by one, they empty their bags, the tinkling sound of dry rice flowing down the statue and into a large barrel.  I manage to push my way to the front and dump my rice feeling rushed and overwhelmed in the room.  We turn back to the primary idol, of Ganesh of course, give a monetary gift to the aarti tray, and run our hands through the diya flame, covering our eyes for blessings of insight and enlightenment from the Gods.  

© Rebecca Delekta

      Upon leaving the temple, we are again herded into another walkway that leads to marble stairs carved into the mountainside, and up to the temple at the peak.  I hold on to the railings as I climb, avoiding puddles, and feeling the threat of leg cramps as we move.  At the height of the climb, we enter an even more densely crowded temple that houses the idols of Shiva, Rama, and Hanuman, the three idols placed strategically around the corners of the temple, with Hanuman, the monkey God at the center.  Moving in line again, I watch an elderly lady wound in a peach color sari no taller than four feet, perform her prayers, moving swiftly despite her age.  We pay our respects to Shiva first, moving single file down the hallway that circles the idol, and do the same for Rama, where we catch up to the small aunty and watch as she prostrates before the idol.  The darshan complete, we slowly head down the marble stairway, stopping to stretch my cramping legs. 

© Rebecca Delekta

     During our lengthy expedition to the two temples, the sun has given way to dusk, and in the quickly failing light, I attempt to catch some shots of the temple’s features.  At the bottom of the rock mountain we gradually follow the flow of people to a courtyard area decorated with multicolor strands of lights.  Small benches line the area in rows, and we watch individuals enter the courtyard from the entrance path carrying their Ganesh idols, ringing small bells to awaken the spirit of Ganesh as they walk.  Each family places their idol on the bench, lights incense, and an oil lamp, and begins to perform their personal puja to invite the spirit of Ganesh into the idols.  I watch two elderly men wrapped in a traditional white cloth perform their ceremony, snapping their photos from a distance. 

     As darkness settles in, Sanjeev and I sit on a granite ledge lined with plants and wait for the rest of our absent party to show.  Over time, the flow of families bringing their idols for awakening increases, and the air begins to crackle with energy.  The idols come in all sizes, some fitting in the palm of the hand, others need to be carried by two or more people.  We take note of the small amount of people using the natural clay idols, most everyone has purchased the neon colored, chemically laden statues.   

© Rebecca Delekta

     In droves, they march down the entrance walkway, the sound of hundreds of bells overwhelming and accompanied by the sharp beat of hand drums.  Young men and children happily shout phrases in Kannada honoring Ganesh, running alongside the person who has the honor of escorting the God.  A father yells in Kannada “Il nodi Ganesha!” (Look! here is Ganesha!)  His children yell back, “Al nodi Ganesha!” (Look there is Ganesha!) “Ellakadi Ganesha!” (Ganesha is everywhere!)  Others yell in Hindi, “Ganesh Maharaj ki jai ho” (Hail the king Lord Ganesha!).  Tonight, women don their most beautiful silk saris reserved for special occasions, their array of tantalizing rainbow colors still evident in the lamp lit night.  Their little girls follow them down the path, clad in heavily adorned and glittering ethnic wear, attempting to keep their dresses off the dirt ground so as to not trip.  Each family makes their way through the swarm, their festive spirits adding to the positive energy.  The sounds of the pujas, the riot of colors, the smell of burning incense on the moist cool air, the movement of every individual, all coalesce, creating a sea of life.  With each passing moment, the river of people increases, joining the tides of energy.  I remain seated in awe of the intense cultural moment I am experiencing, a persistent smile of enjoyment on my face.  I absorb the energy, feeling as though my skin might glow with its life seeping into me.  There is no place I would rather be at this moment, and I remain there, immersed in the tide of sentience. 

Echoes

     On any given night, I fall asleep to the gangs of local street dogs barking out their territory claims.  Occasionally a fight will ensue, with sharp yelps and growls echoing off the concrete walls of our apartment building, leaking through the windows and into the dark space of my bedroom.  At night, Bangalore belongs to the dogs.  In the beginning of my time here, the sounds of the random fights of angered canines vying for space I could not see perturbed me.  It served as a reminder of the cruelty of life here – the absence of love, food, and shelter for hundreds of thousands of dogs in this city.  In my sleep, their animal cries would seep into my dreams, drawing up images of feral street mongrels directing their grievances of injustice at me.  On the nights when their repetitive yelps refused to give way to the otherwise peaceful night, I wondered how I would ever fall asleep.  Over time though, their canine theatrics became just another set of noises I subconsciously learned to block out. 

      Around four a.m., human life in Bangalore begins to stir.  The first to come is the sound of increasing traffic, drawn long out over the stretch of Hosur road, only marginally populated in the early morning hours, and duly taken advantage of.  The drone of tires on pavement is accompanied by the sounds of short bursts of shrill car horns, and the obnoxiously elaborate songs of bus horns piloted by impatient and jaded drivers.  The gaps of silence are filled with the whirring sounds of heavy transport trucks driven too fast through the streets by cross country drivers wired and determined to escape the city before the morning rush hits.  Early morning risers, exposed to the cool and less polluted air contribute the nagging whines of mopeds and the putt… putt… pop sounds exuded from the tiny tailpipes of auto rickshaws.  Like the echoes of the dog brawls, the mechanical sounds of traffic blur away into nothingness as I sleep. 

      A couple hours later, after the sun has risen, the locals outside of our towering apartment complex have begun their day.  The steady thump…. thump… thump sounds of women beating wet soapy clothes against worn stone plates reverberate through the walls. The courtyard children commence their day of play with excited high-pitched voices, calling out to one another, laughing, screaming.  On the dirt road parallel to my bedroom windows, the heavy breathing sound of a tractor carrying its load over uneven terrain fills the air.  Metal shop workers begin shaping their work, the screech of saws and the clang of metal on metal sharp and intense.  Plots over, the gypsies work on the construction of several new apartment buildings.  The sounds of scraping metal on wet concrete join together with the pounding of carved wood supports into place, blending and carried on the wind over the distance to my windows. 

      As the mid morning hours come around, residents of my apartment head off to school and work, car alarms go off accidentally, and random arcade like tunes play as indicators to cars backing out of their parking spaces.  The first water tanker arrives for the day, diesel engine revving as the lone driver skillfully backs the clumsy truck up to the water well ten stories below my bedroom window. 

      Pigeons land on the air conditioner outside my unused window, concealed behind the thick yellowish curtains permanently closed.  They coo to one another, feathers swishing against metal and glass as they perch.  Their strange and soft murmuring sounds lost to my world of dreams. 

      As I slowly stir and become aware of my surroundings, I usually see Little Pup watching me from his bed, patiently waiting for the first signs of life from me.  I close my eyes again and wait for a few moments, absorbing the soft comfort of my camel printed Rajasthani blanket before I rise for the day.  Doggie breakfasts served, I pull back the curtains of the living room patio doors, and open the smudged glass wide to the sudden rush of life in full swing.  I sit down on my cotton sheet covered couch and drink my morning tea, the beats of the city, and the cool breeze inescapable but welcomed guests in my home.