Bringing Pillayar home for Ganesh
Chaturthi meant an early morning trek to the bustling Patel Road market – the team
of kids led by thatha on the morning before the puja. “MaNai” in tow, we
trotted behind thatha holding the wooden seat for Ganesha carefully. Patti’s
elaborate kolam in wet rice flour was already on it, now dried, decorating the
space on which Ganesha was going to sit. Choosing the Pillayar would be a tricky
affair, though.
Rows and rows of street shops had emerged overnight, each
displaying an array of pillayars, various shapes and sizes – all in traditional
clay. Each of us, tried to pitch our choice. “That one, thatha – looks very
good... No, this is really bigger than the rest.. this one has such a kind
face.. this one has a different design.” Yet, usually thatha made the choice
“Give me this one,” he would command the nervous shopkeeper as they hurried to
pack his choice. Carefully placing the idol on the manai, we would pick up all
the accessories – the umbrella, the garland, the flowers etc and trot back home,
chattering excitedly. “Why did you pick this one thatha? Was it better than the
rest?” He would always say “No, this is my pillayar, that’s why.” “How can you
be sure?” “I just know it” – at which we wouldn’t know what to say.
It was thatha’s constant story
each year – there was one pillayar that belonged to him and returned year after
year to his puja. We never tired of listening though we frequently tried to
break through this argument. “All the pillayars look alike... we don’t see any
difference; how did you make out?” “He winks at me to tell me that he’s the
one.” “We didn’t see it, we were also with you.” “That’s because he winks only
at me. He doesn’t want anyone else to notice.”
“Come on thatha...”
“Really. Didn’t you see I picked him almost right away?” and so on.
It took a busy hour to decorate
the Pillayar – the little dhoti, the cotton “poonal” the coin in his
belly-button, the holy ash applied delicately on his forehead and limbs – after
which he looked content and complete. Post puja, we gathered around and with kozhakattais
stuffed in our mouth, too satisfied with the treats to really go back to the
Ganesha story.
For two days, thatha’s Ganesha stayed with us in our puja room,
then it was time to immerse it. I always worried about this bit. “Do we have to
immerse him? He’s so much a part of the puja room now.” “Don’t worry,” thatha
would reassure me. “He has already told me where he will be next year and how
to find him.” As thatha dropped the Ganesha we watched it swirling and then
going out of sight in the waters of the well in our backyard.
Perhaps I did not
completely believe him, but these reassurances made me feel less bad about losing
the winking Ganesha who adorned our puja room for three days every year. I felt
comforted by the thought that he would be waiting for us in the Patel Road
market again next year, waiting to give thatha his signal and come back home to
us.
In an unconscious way, it also instilled in me early in life, the idea that
one could have personal connections with God. Thatha’s stories brought the
thought that beyond the custom and tradition of bringing a clay idol home, this
was a way to relate to God coming home to us. It made the Ganesh Chathurthi
idol buying walk, a spiritual journey in itself.
