Rendezvous with the Goddess

I

It is Ashvin (আশ্বিন), the sixth month of the Bengali calendar. It is my favourite time of the year, not in the least because it is time for that much waited rendezvous with the Devi Durga. On a fresh, cool morning of this month, all dressed up in my Maha-Ashtami finery, I am standing in the local Durga Bari, an old and well known temple dedicated to the Goddess at my hometown. Around me, Bong women are milling around in beautiful new saris - bright jamdanis and  ‘Pure Silks’ with esoteric print, their pallus drawn reverentially around shoulders. They are carrying the Pujor Thala (plate with offerings for the Goddess), laughing, chatting, praying........!

Just then, the priest, an elderly man in a tasar dhoti announces the start of the Pushpanjali and the crowd surges forward. Flowers with bel leaves are distributed and service begins with the priest’s deep voice enunciating the beautiful Sanskrit mantras with perfect diction. Once the prayer segment is complete, a cane basket is passed around and the devotees place their flower offerings into it. This basket is then emptied at the feet of the Goddess by the priest. And so it is repeated for two more times and soon the Goddess’ shapely wheat-coloured, aalta lined feet is covered with marigold, hibiscus, periwinkle, shiuli and jasmine.

With the Pushpanjali over, the crowd is now slowly thinning as people move away from the altar seeking friends and family. I stand for a moment in front of the Goddess, gazing at her face and telling myself how beautiful she is. I’m not especially religious; in fact I think I can best be described as a part-time atheist but I’ve always made an exception for the Goddess. I’m an ardent fan of hers not only because she is exquisitely beautiful and a compassionate Mother but also because she is fearless and driven, virtues I sorely lack. I am mulling over these things, hoping she would let me borrow bits of these qualities from her this Pujo, when my thoughts are interrupted by a shrill, “Panditji, O Panditji!” I turn around to look. It’s a elderly woman, in a lovely beige and red cotton jamdani. She is clutching a brass plate weighed down with Puja offerings- flowers, earthen lamps, fruits, alta, and sindoor. She also has this huge Big Shopper bag containing more puja stuff strung across one bony shoulder. She is frantically waving to the priest in tasar:  “Panditji, please give me a flower from the Goddess’ feet...!!!” The priest complies good-naturedly, handing over a single hibiscus from the mountain of flowers before the Devi.  The woman is not satisfied. She asks again hungrily, “Could you give me some more?” The priest now picks up a handful of flowers and places them in her cupped palms, once again very kindly. But the woman is still not happy. She cajoles, “Please Panditji, give me a lotus bud!” Growing in abundance in the numerous ponds dotting rural Bengal at this time of the year, I had seen these lotus buds on the puja thalis of many of the women in the temple, all sad and wilted; and had thought to myself, ‘They would have been happier blooming to their full splendour in the mud of the ponds rather than lying lifeless on these Puja thalis,  plucked before their time..!’

I look carefully at the woman. Her palms are overflowing with the offering flowers but her face is scrunched with dissatisfaction, with a petulant hankering for that 'manna' of a lotus bud. The priest though, is un-waveringly kind and diligently searches out a tiny lotus bud now wilted and gives it to her. She clutches it as if it is gold and then hides it away quickly somewhere in the dark depths of her voluminous Big Shopper.  Then, with a deep bow before the Devi, she disappears into the chattering crowd. Just at that moment the Dhakis strike their drums and as the beloved beats fill the air, Tagore’s immortal lines come rushing into my mind: তোমার পূজার ছলে তোমায় ভুলেই থাকি (tomaar pujaar chhole tomay  bhulei thaaki, So busy am I in the rituals of Your worship, That I have forgotten You....!) 

But when I look up at the Goddess, behind the curtain of dhoop smoke and dhakis beats, I think I see her smiling: a divine smile of gentle amusement and of tolerant understanding!

II

Himachal is truly the Land of the Gods, a Dev Bhoomi as the HP State Tourism department advertisement describes it. In the Kangra valley where I now stay, there are numerous shrines, most of whom are dedicated to the Goddess Durga and a few to her consort, Lord Shiva. In fact there is a well laid out temple circuit that tour operators in the region follow which begins with the Jwalaji Temple followed by the Brajeshwari Temple and the Chamunda temple and finally the ancient Baijnath temple ahead of Palampur that is dedicated to Shiva.

Recently, we had some house guests over and it being a Sunday, I tagged along with them for a tour of the Kangra Valley. We began with the really ancient Masroor monolithic rock cut temple, a history buffs delight. We then decided to follow it up with a visit to the Jwalaji Temple before heading off for a quick lunch and then on to the famed Kangra Fort. But it being a Sunday, Jwalaji temple was teeming with devotees, all local Himachali people and the queue to the sanctum was almost a mile long. The chap manning the shoe stand cheerfully informed that it would take us not less than two hours to get a darshan. Though put off by the imminent sabotaging of our diligently planned schedule, we decided to go ahead with the darshan and so took our places at the busy queue.

It was definitely going to be a long and difficult wait. The queue was very long, a little disorderly and to top it all, the day was unnaturally hot and humid. But since my friends had come all the way from Delhi, they wanted very much to pay their obeisance to the Goddess. So we stood, with as much patience as we could muster, in that long line of the devotees, under a blazing summer sun.

The line was moving at a snail’s pace but at one point, when it suddenly surged ahead, I was caught by surprise and so fell much behind my friends. Worried a little in the beginning at being left alone in that sea of strangers, I soon realised that there was nothing to be worried about. The people of Himachal are gentle and courteous and though the crowd was thick and made up of both men and women almost stuck to one another in that cramped space, at no occasion did I feel uncomfortable with this complete absence of personal space. But it was terribly hot and extremely humid with the mountain sun shining in full throttle over our heads. To add to the discomfort was the fact that it was absolutely still with not a whiff of breeze or any movement at all in the air. Standing elbow to elbow with hundreds of devotees, I was perspiring like an open tap and it was some consolation to note that I was not alone in this regard. To top it all, the queue was not moving at all as if frozen in the heat and I could foresee that our ordeal was going to be a long, long one.

Then the woman behind me raised a chant. Though it was in the local Himachali dialect, I could make out the familiar ‘Jai Mata Di’ in it. People around immediately took up her chant and the temple ground now echoed with calls of praise to the Jwala Mata. Soon, a young man with a basket of offerings on his head and sweat dripping down his back began to sing. It seemed to be a familiar song of prayer, for all around me, the devotees began singing along, loud and clear and enthusiastic. And when he finished his song, a woman’s voice from somewhere behind me picked up a fresh one and so it went on, song after song to the Devi filling the air with piety and grace. And as I drummed my fingers on my forearm in rhythm to this music, I recalled a phrase I had read as a child, in a book of Russian folk tales: “The best way to make a long road short is to sing a song.....!”

The woman behind me was especially vocal and I turned around to see more of her. She was about my age, a little portly, clad in a deep red salwar kameez, the odhni wrapped around her head demurely, sindoor smeared on her forehead and her hands full of puja offering. In contrast to her demure, reverential attire, I was a study in irreverence: sleeveless top, black jeans and a flashy pair of sunglasses perched on a bright red cap that announced Maria Regina Angelorium..... ( Latin, my Christian convent school’s motto)!!! But when I caught her eye, she smiled at me, an open, non-judgemental smile that touched my heart. The songs continued, not flagging even a tiny bit and I could feel the vigour and enthusiasm return to my soul. And it was not just me. The entire crowd of people looked re-energised and reinvigorated as we moved forward, still slowly but with spirit, boosted by the songs that floated around us.

I looked up to spot the tips of the hills around us in whose bosom it was said the Divya Jyoti or Jwala of the Devi took birth. Though the hills stood still and silent, I felt very sure that at that moment, the prayers of the thousands of us who stood in that jostling heat-scorched queue would definitely reach the Devi who dwelt there.....

The line crept ahead and when we reached a little clearing, I found that my friends had abandoned the queue and were waiting for me at one corner. It seems that their elderly parents were not feeling too well in that heat. We decided for the sake of prudence to leave  immediately for the elderly couple really did not look to good, exhausted by all that heat and standing.

As we walked back to the car, I had no regret at missing seeing the Jwalaji sanctum. In that nearly forty five minutes of waiting, I had felt a oneness with the devotees around me as they sang paeans to their Goddess and in their songs of devotion I had had my glimpse of the Devi. I had had my Darshan. My worship was done.