Sipra Pati
There's a part of me that struggles with a part of me.
Nothing could be more clichéd than that. I do not believe in God. At least in
the version 'God' as manifested in the human domain. I consider the adulation of Krishna who unabashedly consorted with multiple women several shades ridiculous. I find the worship of
Shiva and his genitalia a tad too repulsive. I believe these multiple Gods and Goddesses who inundate our
religion are the outcome(s) of very fertile imagination - human imagination.
Although I am tempted to probe and analyse the overwhelming patriarchal
overtures here, I realize I will, as a consequence, digress from the intent I
began with.
So coming back to me being a non-believer. As long as I can
remember I have always asked my Mom or Grandma or Aunt or Uncle or some older
family member about the whys and wherefores of why 'should' we 'do' things a
certain way. The abstinence from a non-vegetarian diet, for instance, or the
absolute ‘no-no’ of trimming nails or hair on certain days, on why I should
wear bangles on both hands, or not... I could go on. Reactions to these
questions have been varied - a casual dismissal, a story (always a favorite), a
scolding, a look of irritation, and more often than not, an answer which
usually was "that's the way things are" or some variation of
it.
However, this scepticism, never deterred me from partaking
in Pujas and festivals - they were too much fun. Not all of them. But most of
them. I simply loved cutting paper to decorate for Ganesh or Saraswati Puja,
watching my Mom and aunts create a Savitri idol from haldi paste and listening to them read her heart-wrenching love
story, dress up on Dussehra, worship the moon on Kumarpurnima... I loved the
family gathering, the preparation of festival-specific food, and just reveling
in the general camaraderie.
I was not (still am not) a big fan of temples - I found the
present-day institutions too sterile and wanting in sanctity. The medieval
temples, however, were another story. I loved visiting them. Not because I felt
devout. These medieval feats of architecture created an overwhelming sense of
awe in me and I always found myself standing in the middle of the courtyard,
neck craned towards the top of the monument, till someone tugged on my hand or
shouted my name from a distance. The Jaganath temple in Puri was one such
temple. Tumultuous as my feelings towards the concept of a human-created God
were, this temple never failed to stir my aesthetic leanings. I was always in
awe - of the sheer magnitude of the physical structure, the expanse of its
campus and other structures, the devotees - their belief in Sanatan Dharma and their complete
surrender, the unique sense of belonging of and to this black-skinned
half-limbed God, the chaos, and even the protocol of a visit to the temple.
That one half of my family were from Puri, of course, had a lot to do with
this.
My visit to the Jaganath temple in the early part of
November this year came after a nine-year long hiatus. And it was a gap that
nagged me. I was expecting to see a new Jaganath and siblings. And, that was
about all that had changed. Well, almost. Structural modifications to control
crowds and their surges were evident in the parallel steel structures on the
north side of the temple. More importantly, and disconcertingly, our usual
walk-through the temple beda had changed. After the climb-up
the baaesi pahancha, we headed, uncharacteristically,
straight to the main temple. Given the time of the day (late afternoon), tourists/
pilgrims outnumbered the locals and there appeared to be more unconcealed
attempts by the temple servers to fleece money off the devout. Neither these
changes nor my aforementioned status of belief deterred me - for I held my
palms over the flames of a large dipa
and touched the top of my head with them; I moved my neck back and forth and
stood on my toes - all to get a better view of the Lord of Puri, the Universe,
and his siblings. As I kneeled and put my forehead to the ground, tears flowed,
unbid. I wiped my eyes as I stood up and looked at the murals as I had always
done in the past, the sting in my eyes refused to stop. I could almost hear my
grandmother, my Aai, ask me, "So which mural are you looking at
today?" I shut my eyes savoring her memory; a simultaneous effort refusing
to let the sting in my eyes condense to liquid. I did a 360-degree turn with my
eyes on the murals (like I had always done in the past, looking, not seeing)
and navigated through the throng to the south exit. Then we began our
ritualistic walk-through - Satyanarayan, then Bata Ganesha, then Maa Mangala,
then the customary couple-minute hang around the mukti mandap, followed by stops at Goddesses Bimala, Lakhsmi,
Saraswati and Savitri, Sakhigopal, and then Surjya. And the exit through Anand
Bazaar down those twenty-two.
The emotions this very fertile figment of human imagination
could stir within me defied rationale. I know, in retrospect, this here was the
very epitome of my connection to my roots, non-believer, or not. I know a part
of me will always struggle with a part of me. I owe this struggle to the Lord
of Puri. No regrets.
