Eventful Diwalis and the errant 'busvanam'

Siblings have their little weapons tucked away. The one I hold against my brother is the somewhat misleadingly cheerful 'busvanam'. Even today in the midst of all the Diwali 'atom bombs' and rockets, the one thing he actually pales a little bit in front of, is the 'flower pot' or the 'busvanam' (pronounced boo-svaa-nuhm). The reason goes back to that one eventful Diwali many moons ago, as they say.

Diwalis at Gokulam were a crowded riot. Sooner or later, aunts, uncles and cousins would converge to take thatha-patti's blessings. We waited expectantly for the cousins, mainly. While the adults wished and blessed us etc. and we fell flat several times at the feet of elders, the youngsters were in the thick of Diwali galattas and the crackers, sweets, noise and laughter too converged. With most of us about 25 cousins coming together (and yes we regularly counted ourselves) this was a real event. 

It was one such Diwali evening, which became more eventful than we planned for. My parents had some errand or visit to run, which really did not matter too much to us. Through childhood there were two aunts and a married cousin living next door and it was pretty much like an extended family. Those who have experienced a joint family know what it's like - there's a lot of familial things happening, from gossip, to food to playtime, or even wars! My sister would frequently for instance march off to one of my aunts to request for 'pottu kadalai' (fried gram) - seating herself down with a cup, without much ado. I would have standby hairdressers in my relatives whenever the need arose. So it went without saying that Diwali would be all across. 

We continued playing with crackers and as it became dark, there were a lot of the sparklers, chakras and flower pots now coming out. Among the fireworks, it was common sometimes to get a 'buss' - that is a cracker that didn't go off and we would just kick it away to the side and continue. My brother, boisterous as ever, was trying to make the most of every firework. In this instance he came across a flower pot that did not light. Pushing to ensure paisa vasool, instead of kicking it away, he tried to light it once more with a sparkler. The next thing we heard was a big bang and my brother was screaming. Used to his acoustics, very often I would not take his shouts seriously, imagining him to be playing the fool or just making a scene. Mind you, both happened very often. Here too, I almost started clapping to cheer him - this was usually also a mechanical reaction to anything he did - when I realised this was not play. 

We saw in horror that his hand had taken the impact of the blast and he was, actually in pain. My elder cousins rushed to help and his hand was immediately doused in water. But it was clear he needed medical help. My aunt and uncle - pattathai and athimber as I called them - also rushed. Very rarely had I seen my uncle look flustered or worried, but this was a unique situation. They took him in their black Ambassador car to the doctor to get his burns treated. My parents returned and heard all, but even before they could wonder about how he was, the brother also returned, hand covered in bandages and very often as is the case, looking more proud and heroic, than in pain. The scars and the burn healed very quickly, though the skin on his hand looked much paler for several days after the incident. My brother continued to milk it for all it was worth talking about the entire incident like an adventure; however, so did the whole family. 

We returned to business as usual, that year and the subsequent years, bursting the usual assortment of firecrackers though my brother ensured that he steered clear of the busvanams. 

Looking back it was possibly a narrow escape from what could have been a much nastier accident. In addition to any risks associated with crackers, what kept us feeling more safe and sane is the idea that there is a family and an extended family safety net that takes care of you. More than ever, Diwali or festival times are when these bonds get strengthened. The rituals around taking blessings of elders or the practices of sharing sweets and gifts are a way of reinforcing and reassuring ourselves of people who care for us, all around us. Here's to the spirit of family and the Diwali spirit!

You can read more about Diwali at Gokulam in an earlier post here.   

 

 

   

Bringing Pillayar home – Ganesh Chaturthi at Gokulam

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. 

Gokulam Chronicles: A Tale of Summer Theatre and Childhood Memories

Holidays at our ancestral home, 'Gokulam' were a much-looked forward to affair. There were the usual games – playing with tops, cricket, seven stones (or 'puncture-the-back' as we called it), kites and of course the eternal Hide and Seek. Most of all, during summer holidays – there was also an extra grand spectacle – The Gokulam Theatre Production.

It was a whirl of colour, drama and activity to me, rather younger than my cousins who pulled this all together. Preparations were usually elaborate. Scripts were written, costumes planned and designed and most of all – practice sessions day after day to get the scenes right. I usually sat out, a watchful audience all through, too young to be actually given a role, but awed at the mammoth efforts that my cousins (who seemed huge and immensely professional) put in for these family gatherings.

The programme itself was presented in a make-shift stage – usually the cows and the cars were driven out of the two sheds, an area cleared for the performance and seating organized for the audience – relatives, friends, neighbours. It was a mini-event in the neighbourhood. Consenting friends were roped in to act and participate.

Sometimes these theatre productions even garnered enough attention from passers-by on the street, as they crowded behind the wall to witness this unexpected event, uninvited though they were. Once, in fact, the proceedings got very exciting when an unknown member from the janta outside, proceeded to fling a pebble over the wall and into the stage proceedings. There was a furore and while my male cousins swore vehemently to pursue the suspect, they were cajoled to give up and continue the programme indoors.

It didn’t matter to me much, whether the proceedings were disrupted or continued as planned. It was all dramatic and a very engaging childhood adventure.

An open-mouthed audience through practice and performance, I got the opportunity to potentially make my stage debut – at the tender age of about 5! While I was witnessing one of the practice sessions, my cousins were hard pressed for someone to play the role of a female character. The male-dominant production team had short supply of willing female players. In desperation they saw me sitting and watching and proceeded to enroll me into the act. “It’s nothing much” one of my annas said, “All you have to do is to strike a pose like this”. Director-like he mimicked the action that I was to enact. I agreed heartily.

My epic role consisted of standing in a corner of the stage in the manner suggested, while the remaining dialogues of that one scene, played out for the next few minutes. I practiced furiously for the next couple of days. (This was saying something, as actually I had nothing much to practice except stand and leave at my cue).

The day of the programme dawned. The preparations hit a feverish pitch. A short while before the production was due to be staged, thatha called out to me. “Going up to the shops for a few errands, would you like to come with me in the car?” Driving out in the car was always a delight and I loved hanging around when thatha went shopping. He usually commanded the shopkeepers and made determined purchases, so much that the shopkeepers looked doubtful, if they should charge him or actually pay him for shopping! Excited I jumped into the car behind him, forgetting completely that I was to make my maiden effort on stage soon.

A string of errands later, we returned, just in time for the magnum opus. A harried cousin met me at the door – “Where have you been,” he hissed “You were supposed to get ready for your role. Now we had to make emergency changes.” The emergency change consisted of my brother, doubling up for the role I was supposed to have played, attempting to look unconvincingly coy and feminine right after the scene of a battle.

I didn’t mind much not having to play the part, so long as I could see the programme. My cousins came and went in their assigned roles. I sat, right next to thatha during the show, enjoying every minute and laughing loudly whenever he laughed. There was some battle, some mythology, some religion all in it – none of which I understood, but nevertheless found exceedingly enjoyable. Soon the show ended. There was much mirth and excitement all around when it finished. My uncle, usually the one who gave the verdict and the critics’ views, especially on those who had acted well, commended the show and thereby it was declared a certified success.

Over the years, as my cousins grew older and as they began finishing school and college, the enthusiasm and focus given to the show steadily decreased. By the time I was old enough to actually participate or contribute in these shows in a concrete manner, they had virtually stopped as we, the younger lot of cousins, were not as enterprising as to put up our own show. 

Summer holidays still continued to be time of fun and games, gathering of cousins, laughter and ragging. With 25 of us, we were capable of much noise and disruption. 

Though I never actually made it to the stage in that childhood phase, till today, some of my most memorable childhood summers, my moments of nostalgia, remain the ones which had seen the staging of the 'Gokulam Family Summer Theatre Production'. It was an era, etched into my memory with the colour, glamour and glory of modern-day film productions, only at a much more personal level - a world where we could be producers, we could be kings & queens and we could be just a bunch of young people, living life to the fullest. It was our Gokulam family of happiness.