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As the famous Gurjar Aarto did another yearly circulation round on social media with each regional group claiming its copyright on its invention a woman appeared. I had seen her before. Clad in her customary shirt over her salwar with an Oddhni ( heavy colorful chunri with gota) round glistening face she stood there with a shiny big brass pot filled with ghee and the fattest wick she made with her small soft hands. The flame had to last till the wee hours of the morning. Anything would, if you pour a quarter kg of ghee without even a second thought for the sacred combustion. She was abundant thanks to all the Pashudhan she owned and raised.
The goddess was not as pretty as in the glossy digital images available today none the less she was handcrafted with love and devotion into a familiar feminine figure of Devi. Created from the chikni mitti procured from the local pond the mud was first kneaded into a soft moldable dough. Every part , then separately shaped, designed till the tip of fingers and nails , dried ,painted and adorned. Her dress would come from most ornate red saree pieces saved for the occasion. A touch of gold- silver paint, pearls, mirror pieces, shiny glitter for the earrings and necklace and “She” was ready.
Every part of her body was so arduously designed , the bountiful bosom highlighted , reassembled and stuck with cow-dung in a clean corner in the verandah painted with white lime commonly known as Kali or Chuna.
The Goddess (Jhanjhi/Sanjhi ) would arrive to stay for full nine days in the house while we feasted in the name of fasting . She would be accompanied always by her brothers and cattle for company . No Goddess thrives without the masculine for balance . Aarto would be sung by the local children in groups who would bring their handmade paper lanterns with burning diyas after the sunset. The children would be monetarily rewarded along with some sweets and they would be busy counting the change received only to hop on to the next house and collect some more. The Goddess kept everyone busy in their matters. Abundance , blessings of growth and happiness resonate in each phrase of the traditional aarto wishing each house with a good harvest ,food enjoyed together by large families filled with members of all size and age. My closest guess is that this is the true meaning of “Doodho nahao pooto phalo “Devi spirit was everywhere in those days she explained.
What’s a Devi?
A divine woman who has conceives, creates , births , nourishes, cares and comforts. She is all capable by herself and has the power to transform the life of everything that she touches.
Are you a Devi ?
Yes …we all are. We carry her within us for Devi is a connection. Benevolent beyond measure she is joyful , kind and open. I was lost trying to make sense of what she said in her vernacular language looking intently for those traits in the Jhanjhi .
So you are Dhaula Devi ?
That was her funny name . Remove the Devi and her name still was unfamiliar. “Dhaula” was the slang version of the word “Dhaval “ meaning white , pure which my mother explained to me later.
She was born fair like the white rabbit , married at thirteen to be the third wife of an illustrious educated man whose progeny just didn’t survive from his earlier marriages. Fair complexioned , simple, round face her flawless skin glowed without the aid of night creams. She was covered with intricate tattoos around her eyes ,chin, forearms and wrists. Initials of husband and brothers hidden in designs. The intricate pattern of a dancing peacock allured me hidden in her cleavage. I always hoped she would reveal more but she was shy. The tattoos must have hurt considering the size and locations . I got glimpse of the peacock while she would bathe at Gangaghat at Sharad Purnima oblivious to the cold. She never missed an opportunity to visit the Ganga . She liked washing her Paap (sins) and encouraged me to wash mine which I was still to commit or had no idea about. She would nudge me to shed my clothes too while taking the “dubki” and I used to be so uncomfortable by the nudity at display engulfed by the vastness of the holy river.
She told that Ganga Maiyya would purify me and there was no need to be scared . She is the mother. She can’t harm . She made me join the resonation of “Har-har Gange” as loud as ever and she would happily join the chorus as the Ganga aarti was sung . She did not know the words but she sung to the tunes. I huddled closely holding her while sandalwood teeka would be put by someone on our foreheads and I tried hard to feel purer by the whole experience. She wholeheartedly is responsible for my love for Ganga even today. We watched together the impossible miracles and the divine atrocities in Jai Baba Amarnath , Jai Santoshi ma and Harishchandra shedding tears of awe and returned refreshed in reverence. Her faith was unflinching and she was a firm believer that God always protects . She would tell me stories to prove that and I believed her. Whether you face an avalanche, get bitten by a snake , face death or lose all materialistic wealth He is taking care of us all times just that we can not see him . She sowed the seeds of faith in my childhood and injected my soul with something I felt always and never learnt to question .
An early morning person she would wake me up much before dawn by my own demand. I needed to study and she needed to finish her ritual of elaborate bath , dressing , lighting the diya , feed the cows, sweep the common areas and would be ready to greet the other family members with a hot cup of tea. If I gave her trouble she would pour water or slap me as per our prior night arrangement because it was always tempting to lie a little longer in bed. Her anger appeared in minutes if I disobeyed her. We managed to get up before the morning Arti played at the local temple and she would just sit by my side while I studied like a good nice child . She believed that sleeping late was “Naash ki nishani “ , basically she meant that if you are still sleeping when the sun comes up then you have lost the most productive part of the day already. Her simple habits and discipline became a part of me thanks to her. Despite her inability to read the clock hands she instinctively knew what time of the day it was by simply observing the surroundings and the sun. Same with seasons Magh ,Poos,Phalgun, Bhaadon and she remembered her children birthdays in the same manner while I am still confused .
She would be equally anxious when my tension soared high during my board examinations. She would toss and turn in bed along with me and we woke up even earlier those days beating our own time to be engrossed in our respective chores. She never cared about her own discomfort as long as she was contributing to my growth by her mere presence. She could not read and write except scribble her name in a shaky handwriting but she took pride and charge in seeing her daughters and then granddaughters getting educated in a remote village lacking even basic schools. She faced criticism from the older woman of the village who told her how getting her daughters educated would lead to doom later. She could have been the torch bearer of “Beti bachao ,beti padao” movement had she lived now. That was then and my academic progress made her swell with pride and filled with gratitude she never failed to distribute the Paanch rupaiye ka Prasad after every successful year . She would boast of my achievements in the neighborhood to the point of embarrassment.
When she had some spare time she would groom herself massaging and oiling her hands and feet , taking care of her body .Her skin shone a little more after scrubbing and even the tattoos appeared smooth. Practically devoid of body hair with thin eyebrows which never needed to be shaped and groomed . She held them arched in some kind of permanent fury leading to wrinkled forehead . I used to make fun of her and she in return would mock me while I struggled with acne and facial hair in my teenage years . I often seeked her help in growing my hair and she would patiently oil, comb and later braid my hair into such tight knots that my scalp screamed. At one point I almost resembled a clown in my school. The winter months kept my hairy secrets hidden underneath a scarf anyway and I asked her faithfully every week if it grew a little. She would measure with her finger tips to show me and I delighted in happiness.
Her own hair was nothing but a thin braid tied with a red ribbon at the end covered under a Pallu. The Pallu never left the head especially in front of men as a mark of respect . She wasn’t afraid of confronting them either if she had reasons to disagree. She could argue wisely and made her point patiently without the candle march.
She deeply cared for her cows and animals. She could feed , bathe ,milk them like an expert and had the wisdom to know when the calves were going to come. I think the experienced mother in her knew just by touching the belly and spine of the animal if she was in labor pain . She would lie awake those nights expectantly waiting for the delivery to happen anytime and would be the bearer of the good news when I woke up in the morning . I would rush to see the cutest looking calves trying to stand up and she would forbid me not to go near the cow those days . She would sit for long hours on the chulha while the special diets “Aouti” were prepared . Later with the good news announcement the first milk or “Khees” was distributed in the neighborhood for its high nutritive value especially those with vision problems. She ably and wisely supported the men in the whole ordeal and could tame the most aggressive cow around this time. She would rest later catching a bidi amidst the happy chatter. She swiped the role of Bibi, Amma,Nani ,Dadi ,Tai easily fitting in all the roles. When touched on her feet blessings were uttered like a favorite song whose lyrics she knew by heart . She always blessed from her heart while she ran her hands for minutes ruffling everyone’s hair an irritating habit.
I would share my secret crushes and she would try to discourage me from my fantasy world as best as she could by shouting at me. She kept a keen eye on me while I hung around the balcony a little longer staring at the young lads. Strict, conventional and faithful yet when I introduced my boyfriend in the later years and as he touched her feet she transformed into the most cooperative woman and even gave him her bidi to smoke along. The fact that he was from a different religion didn’t even play in her mind. She accepted him whole heartedly because she knew he would take care of me. Devi knows the vibes of a provider and a man to be offered devotion too. She would burst into tears at the mention of her own husband with whom she had seen all seasons in life starting young bearing him children before she herself was aware of her own feminity. They discussed private matters without letting their children know of their struggles and were such a balanced couple. Nani would turn herself from her serious side with frowns on her forehead to a childlike gentle energy in a matter of minutes. She would play all kinds of stupid games including the Chausar with the little “Kauris” (modern day dice), five stones, kabaddi and even violent pillow fights with my little brother . She was such fun to be around. Though in the midst of all this her anger and her taps on my head made me give her the title of “ Chandi mai” she would make it all up by feeding me juicy Malpuas with the left over Kheer. Because of her the laughter and lighter moments continued always. She smoked and her persistent cough had a brassy intonation.
She never tried to fit in whether it was her attire or the way she spoke. Comfortable with herself I could sense her feelings of oddity yet she never let it show. She was not very comfortable with the finesse, the sophistication of the city relatives from my paternal side yet she would gel in fluidly without being much noticed. She believed we should just own up who we are and not try to be like someone else. She never visited us empty handed with fruits stuffed in her bulging bag full of goodies and pickles and jaggery. She brought what she had always. She needed to change three buses from her village to visit us and a long stretch of two kilometers to the nearest bus stop. The village itself had no electricity and pucca roads. The grand old Haweli with its wide open verandahs had tall wood apple trees and the roof top used to be littered with peacock feathers. She would collect them for us to gift it to all of us. I wanted to put them in my books everywhere like bookmark so I acted extra nice to get more.
I loved to wrap my legs around her pendulous belly , smell her sharing a common cot listening to her stories of Bhoot pishaach and Mahabharata. Ghatotkach in her dialect sounded funny and interesting at the same time and the stories are permanently etched in my memory for their simplicity minus the heavy shlokas and morals. Like stories should. Only later when I read the actual books I realized how much she knew about the scriptures without being able to read and imbibe. She must have been like a sponge herself to remember them all . She allowed us to pick our favorite books from the old dusty cupboard from my grandfather’s era . My first Ramayana came from there.
Nani was never idle. She was always busy stitching ,washing, cooking, knitting, praying and making handmade dolls for my younger cousins. May be that’s why her Goddess was always beautiful then the rest. She could simply create as she was always involved in the process . Like every Devi it was time for Nani to face her demons too. They came in form of widowhood losing her strong solid male support leading to property disputes , sale of property, material wealth, cattle, field and her two younger daughters to dreadful diseases. The Dhaval complexion gathered some dust of time and became brown over the years. Her young sons succumbed to alcohol addiction and she even lost one of them in a hit and run accident. He was too drunk to save himself and laid unconscious by the roadside only to be declared dead. She embraced death again in silence with absolutely dry eyes. I think the harshness, cynicism , stoniness and anger have deep seated roots buried in the sands of time for every individual. Circumstances make and break a person simultaneously.
She became like the insensate Rudali who cried on being prodded and acquired little weirdness as she aged. In medicine we label it with different names from dementia to Parkinson’s. She became reckless to the point of leaving the gas stove on while lighting her bidis and sneaking out at the slightest opportunity only to be found wandering in the markets. Collecting something, keeping it aside for a future she had little inkling. Old habits die hard I guess. She slowly dissolved from a person to being a shadow. Life continued to run its course and she went to comfort her young widowed daughter in law and never returned to the city again. She could not connect to her grandchildren not the way she could to me. Connections are often lost for lack of time and drive to appreciate the nearness. The sorrow, loneliness and helplessness sunk their ugly teeth in her soft body and deep into her soul. She lost recognition of people and had faint recollections of an oscillating memory with older menfolk giving her company on a dirty charpoy where they sat smoking under a tree for long hours. All were perhaps in the same boat and had unique tales to tell and bond. Laughter and sorrows are contagious. They need mundane reasons and spread fast through sounds, body language and the heaviness. The messy hair ,dirty unwashed clothes, dwindling health made it harder for her to exist by the days and her children struggled to care for her. It is a tough job indeed. While she continued to fade further into nothingness with each passing day our hearts yearned for her touch ,recognition and that connect . Just once I wanted to hear her stories, wake up beside her, hear that brassy laugh , get a knock on my head, eat Malpua and receive the peacock feather . Kuch bhi kar ke ! She played with my daughter once holding her instinctively how she must have held her children and smiled. I think in that moment while they were looking into each other’s eyes while she whispered her blessings. She managed to wrap her into her blanket with her shaky hands and handed her back over to me. She got weaker and sicker till she stopped eating and on one wintery Sharad Purnima became cold just like the chill in the season. She was ready for her last Ganga-snan for the final immersion. Time for the Devi to leave. As we bid goodbye to Devi with gratitude for her presence I was lost in my own thoughts stimulated by the familiar Aarto. Does a Devi ever leave ? Can we own her ? Can we destroy her ? Is she ever less abundant irrespective of what she loses? Nani just like the Devi belonged to everyone alike and she finds her abode again in her own progeny through her virtues and values. She may lose her sheen and beauty but not her strength. She does not need to be educated , refined and needs no mention of her Sangraams. She is glorious by herself. She exists as a mother, sister , daughter,lover ,wife and in all the relationship dynamics I can think off. All she asks from everyone is a connection to experience her. She is a beautiful energy which can never harm. A pure , white ,sensitive, soft ,flowing epitome of Devi who owned a open heart , an ocean of unconditional love for every life form she was connected to. And she blesses with peacock feathers and resonates in the Aarto.
