Of Mahalaya, Memories, and Moksha
Photo: Amey on Unsplash
Personal Essay by Mallika Bhaumik: At the Bengali festival for the goddess, the pomp and grandeur involved in the worship of ‘Nari Shakti’ is in stark contrast to the apathy shown towards the Durgas whom we come across every day.
Rupam dehi Jayang dehi Yasho dehi Disho jayi
The river ghat is crowded since the wee hours of the dawn, while the city yawns out of sleep to the iconic voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra. The mellow morning rays of the autumn sun caress the bosom of the river. Speckles of amber happiness ripple on the muddy waters of the Hooghly.
The day marks the end of Pitrupaksha and the beginning of Matripaksha or Devi Paksha, ushering in the greatest festival in the calendar year for Hindu Bengalis: Durga Puja.
In my mind, Mahalaya traces the route map to the Durga Puja of my girlhood years. The day used to start with the flow of slokas and songs aired by All India Radio. The unmistakable voice of Biren Bhadra chanting “Chandipath” filled the air. Living in essentially a Bengali para (neighbourhood), all the houses had their radios on. My grandmother used to listen most attentively, while my sleepy ears would pluck some tunes, and miss some others, hardly realizing that the soundscape would remain in me as a relic of a time, one enveloped in blissful happiness.
This day is also the day of veneration of the dead by Hindu Bengalis. People offer ‘Tarpan’ or ‘Shraddh’ to the departed souls of their ancestors at the river ghat. It is believed that, at the end of Pitri Paksha, our ancestors come down from Pitri-lok and hovered around us, along with numerous other spirits. The author C.H. Buck once famously commented that. “Of all Amavasyas, the chief is Mahalaya, the 15th or last day of the moonless fortnight of Ashwin or Kuar.”
The ritual is performed on the banks of the Ganga or any water body that is nearby. It is chiefly done to please the departed souls and help it attain liberation from the eternal cycle of birth and death. Thus, while we pray for the end of worldly involvement of our dear departed ones, we begin the ritual of worshipping the triumph of good over evil, with Durga slaying Asura, the evil incarnate.
The ritual of appeasing one’s ancestors is, of course, not restricted to the Hindus. The ancient Romans celebrated their Parentalia in honour of family ancestors held on the 13th of February. Catholics visit the graves of their ancestors on All Saints’ Day on the 1st of November, the night before which the graves are lit up with candles. The Irish and Scottish venerate their dead as Samhain on that night/day. Americans have their Halloween during this time, while Mexicans follow their rituals of the ‘Day of the Dead’. Many Muslims remember their ancestors on the night of Shab-e-barat. And on and on.
Hindus, being idol worshippers, put a lot of emphasis on the look of the goddess. On her regal pose atop the lion, her ten hands holding weapons create an aura of a warrior woman, her beautiful eyes looking into the very soul of human existence. The appeal is almost surreal.
Curiously, the first soil used for the idol is supposedly taken from a brothel, which is called ‘punyamaati’ or holy soil. While no particular reason is known for this ritual, it is believed that when a man enters a sex worker’s house, he leaves behind his virtues and purity outside the house before yielding to carnal desires, thus making the soil at the doorstep holy. Some others point at the inclusiveness of Hinduism that initiated this practice. Another theory propagated by the Vedas says that there are nine classes of women known as Navkanyas who are to be worshipped, including women from the brothel.
There is glamour, glitz and special themes at any big budget Pujo… It is a far cry from the simplistic non-branded Pujo of yesteryear. Amidst all the fanfare, somewhere a loss germinates: The loss of sincere, low-key pujas, the fading fragrance of shiuli, the faraway voices of childhood.
However, there remains a huge disparity between reality and ritual, as robust flesh trades have flourished uninterrupted over the years. Every year a number of girls go missing. The charcoal sketches outlining their absence stand as mute wall graffiti, while the city traffic moves along undisturbed. The disquieting predicaments of such lives might become the subject matter of poetry, plays, dissent and protests, but beyond the penumbra of urban empowerment lies the sooty darkness of inequality and misogyny.
The pomp and grandeur involved in the worship of ‘Nari Shakti’ is in stark contrast to the apathy shown towards the Durgas whom we come across every day. The stories spilling out of crowded buses, metros, autos talk of the ‘warrior spirit’ of women and their struggle, who often multi-task to keep up with our fast-moving consumerist society. Their sagas remain unsung in a world where age-old patriarchy rests like layers of dust on archived files.
The Devi, considered to be a symbol of divine energy, is also called ‘trinayani’ for the third eye on her forehead. Her three eyes get the first stroke of the brush on the day of Mahalaya. Kumartuli—the pottery hub of Kolkata where idols are made—remains abuzz as the chief artist or potua (potter) engages in ‘chakkhudaan’, or imparting the elusive gaze of the goddess; This is a gaze that supposedly looks at and into every devotee or even non-devotee that stands before her. The onlooker is encouraged to face the Devi while keeping a fast; nowadays, however, very few adhere to such strict norms.
A kaleidoscope of images of my girlhood days glide past me when I visit the pandals of today. There is glamour, glitz and special themes at any big budget Pujo, one that comes with sponsorships, political patronage and awards. It is a far cry from the simplistic non-branded Pujo of yesteryear. Amidst all the fanfare, somewhere a loss germinates: The loss of sincere, low-key pujas, the fading fragrance of shiuli (an autumn bloom), the faraway voices of childhood, home-made delicacies like narkel naru, nimki, ghoogni served during Bijoya—the concluding ritual of Durga Puja marked by greetings and blessings—and our enthusiasm to visit the household of our elders, to touch their feet, to devour the goodies.
Ten days from Mahalaya, the ghat is again peopled with voices and dhak beats. Water is the ultimate nurturer, and thus, during the ‘Bisarjan’ or immersion ceremony of goddess, the larger-than-life idol—in its finest regal form—gradually drowns and merges with the waters of the Hooghly. Some fragments of its bamboo and hay structure float, some get stuck in the clayey soil of the ghats, as the journey continues. The fake zari and colourful foils of trinkets carry the narrative of a faith that teaches detachment, and allows to let go of all that is worldly.
And the melancholy of autumn floats towards moksha.
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Mallika Bhaumik has a Master's Degree in English literature from the University of Calcutta. Her works have been featured in Mad Swirl, Cafe Dissensus, Oddball Magazine, Shot Glass Journal, Kitaab, In Parentheses, Stag Hill Journal, Harbringer Asylum, Madras Courier, The Alipore Post, and more. She is the author of two poetry books: her first, Echoes, won the Reuel International award for the best debut book (2018); her second, How Not To Remember was published in 2019. She is also a nominee for the Pushcart Prize for Poetry. She lives and writes from Kolkata. You can follow her on Instagram: @bhaumikmallika.
