The reverberating sound of the dhaak grew louder as the small procession approached the colony, bringing Sucheta running out of the house. She watched as three ladies dressed in white sarees with red borders, gold bangles shining on their wrists alongside the shakha-pola and bright sindoor adorning the parting of their hair, walked slowly towards the decorated pandal, their heads covered by the ends of their sarees.
The woman in the center carried a broad kansa plate with small kansa bowls, filled with an assortment of food and covered with a banana leaf. The short woman in front, sprinkled droplets of sacred Ganges water on the path while the one behind, blew intermittently on a conch while ringing a small brass bell with her left hand. Two dhakis beat vigorously on the dhaak, urging children and others to step out of the way.
The sacred Bhog which had been prepared by the three women in the procession, was on its way to the pandal, ready to be offered to Goddess Durga on the auspicious day of Ashtami.
“How lucky and blessed these women are,” Sucheta thought, looking wistfully at the procession as they entered the pandal.
"I wish I could also cook bhog for the Goddess next year on Durga Puja," she said to herself, a desire born out of an immense yearning to feed the goddess with her own hands of devotion.
But no, she was told that she had to be a high-caste Brahmin by birth as well as by marriage, besides having taken diksha from a renowned Guru.
"I'm a Brahmin by birth, a high caste Brahmin if that makes a difference," Sucheta told the Puja Committee members, “and I'm married to a high caste Brahmin too."
"But you are not a Chattopadhyay or Bandopadhyay, Mukhopadhyay or Gangopadhyay," they scoffed.
"What's your gotra?", one piped in sarcastically.
"Swarnakaushik by birth and Shandilya after marriage", she replied softly.
"Hmmm, and who is your Guru? Have you taken diksha?" they sneered.
"No, I haven't found my Guru as yet and therefore I haven't taken diksha," replied Sucheta, now almost in tears.
"Then how can you approach us? Don't you know that only high-class Brahmin women who have taken diksha have the privilege to cook the sacred Bhog for the Goddess? Come to us only after you've met your Guru and taken diksha," they reproached her contemptuously as she walked away slowly, tears coursing down her reddened cheeks.
That was almost thirty-five years ago but the bitter memory of that one incident had left an indelible mark, returning year after year to taunt her every Durga Puja. She never ever ventured into the sanctified kitchen where the bhog was prepared nor did she get involved in the preparations for the worship in any Durga Puja pandal thereafter. In fact, the community celebration of the festival had lost its charm. No more did the sound of the dhaak mesmerize her as it used to when she was a little girl nor did the fragrance of the dhuno stir up her senses as it wafted from the priest's dhunochi when he performed the customary arati in front of the Goddess.
She was content worshipping her beautiful panch-dhatu Devi with humble offerings of flowers and fruits while chanting melodious stutis and shlokas in Her praise.
The beginning of the millennium saw a change in community Durga Puja celebrations. Mammoth sized idols stood encased within magnificent pandals that recreated trending issues of the time, sometimes gaudily and sometimes aesthetically. These massive images of the Goddess and Her divine entourage were crafted in creative ways, their size commensurate with the inflated ego of every sponsor and organizer.
The chanting of shlokas from the sacred Devi Mahatmya or Chandi Paath (as it is known in Bengal), was reduced to a mere whisper in the midst of loud and vulgar music blaring from speaker systems, ego tussles, drunken revelry, trivial arguments and superstitious practices, all in the name of goddess worship. Very few had the patience to listen, read or understand the depth of Devi’s Mahatmya. The sanctity of the worship was slowly compromised, with each passing year.
AUGUST, 2020
The world was in the midst of a pandemic, grappling with a virus, an unseen enemy whose lethal tentacles took control over everything, bringing fear and death in its wake.The residential housing complex where Sucheta lived now, had its share of cases too and the residents took up all measures to keep themselves safe from the life-threatening virus.
One morning, Sucheta chanced upon a notice that was issued by the housing society about a certain asymptomatic patient who had tested positive for the virus. Since he lived by himself, he was looking for a tiffin service provider to deliver hygienic home-cooked meals for the fifteen days that he would have to stay in isolation.
Sucheta was not a ‘home-made-food-service-provider’ but she did cook simple and nutritious meals for her husband Anir every day. Her heart reached out to the young man who hailed from another region of the country, knowing very well how he must crave for his mother’s cooking, especially when he was unwell. She had never known or met him before but she volunteered to provide breakfast and lunch every day for the period of his home-isolation, without charging any money for the same.
With their children now having left the nest and a monotonous life made more difficult by the pandemic, Sucheta and Anir finally found something to look forward to. They fussed over the menu, working out healthy options for the next fifteen days, ordering groceries and vegetables, procuring and sanitising disposable containers and bags for packing the food and mentally working out a routine to include the catering service smoothly into their daily schedule.
She had a mission to accomplish and the grace of the Goddess was all that she sought to keep her physically fit and strong.
Every morning and afternoon, at the designated time, Kenaram Mondol, the house-staff delegated by the housing society would ring her doorbell and pick up the hot food to be delivered at the patient’s doorstep. He was a dedicated, sincere and committed helper, who ensured a safe and smooth transition of the food containers from her home to the patient’s.
Every morning, to the strains of sacred chants and melodious bhajans that poured out spontaneously from her heart, a wide variety of nutritious breakfast and lunch was cooked, packed and disposed- off with clockwork precision.
The aroma of pure ghee, spices, lentils and vegetables drifted through her kitchen window as she happily cooked Tamil, Marathi, Punjabi, Konkani, Gujarati and Bengali cuisines, digging up old recipes from her own mother’s collection, if only to cheer up the young patient. Sometimes a container of shrikhand and sometimes home-made fresh sandesh found its way into the package, while at other times, sweet mango pickle or amla murabba (gooseberry chutney) would just do the trick – anything to make sure the patient was well on his way to recovery!
And every night, she drifted off into a peaceful slumber, with not a trace of exhaustion to mar the contentment writ all over her face.
It was the last day of the patient’s isolation. The special lunch was packed and ready to be despatched. A sense of sadness filled the air. From tomorrow, their life would go back to its normal routine. She glanced at her husband who had been her greatest source of strength all these days and gave him a warm smile of gratitude.
Kenaram Mondol was at the doorstep to pick up the package. She handed over the food along with a small token of appreciation for his dedicated service and watched him shuffle down the corridor.
A faint, harmonious blend of sounds echoed in the distance and as she gently closed the front door, she distinctly heard the beat of a dhaak as it blended rhythmically with the sweet sound of a conch blowing intermittently between the ringing of a brass bell.
The sounds grew louder and louder, reverberating and resounding through the walls of her humble home. As tears of joy coursed down her cheeks shamelessly, she smiled a beatific smile and brought her palms together in gratitude.
Durga Puja had come early this year. And the Goddess had savoured and relished every morsel of the Bhog for a good fifteen days!
GLOSSARY OF TERMS USED IN THE STORY
1. dhaak - a type of drum used during religious worship in Bengal especially during Durga Puja
2. shankha-pola - white and red bangles worn by married women in Bengal. The delicate white bangles are carved out of shells.
3. sindoor - vermillon that adorns the parting of the hair, a sign of marriage
4. dhaaki - the person who beats (plays) the dhaak.
5. kansa - a metal that shines like brass that is used to make utensils
6. bhog - food cooked under strict conditions especially to be offered to the deity that is being worshipped
7. Ashtami - the eighth day of the Hindu lunar calendar, considered to be the most auspicious day of Durga Puja.
8. gotra - lineage
9. diksha - initiation; undertaking religious observances for a particular purpose
10. pancha-dhaatu - an object (idol) made with a combination of five metals
11. dhuno - a type of fragrant incense
12. stuti, shloka - hymns in praise of a God or Goddess
13. Devi Mahatamya - The Glories of the Goddess composed in verses which are recited during the nine auspicious days of Navaratri
The woman in the center carried a broad kansa plate with small kansa bowls, filled with an assortment of food and covered with a banana leaf. The short woman in front, sprinkled droplets of sacred Ganges water on the path while the one behind, blew intermittently on a conch while ringing a small brass bell with her left hand. Two dhakis beat vigorously on the dhaak, urging children and others to step out of the way.
The sacred Bhog which had been prepared by the three women in the procession, was on its way to the pandal, ready to be offered to Goddess Durga on the auspicious day of Ashtami.
“How lucky and blessed these women are,” Sucheta thought, looking wistfully at the procession as they entered the pandal.
"I wish I could also cook bhog for the Goddess next year on Durga Puja," she said to herself, a desire born out of an immense yearning to feed the goddess with her own hands of devotion.
But no, she was told that she had to be a high-caste Brahmin by birth as well as by marriage, besides having taken diksha from a renowned Guru.
"I'm a Brahmin by birth, a high caste Brahmin if that makes a difference," Sucheta told the Puja Committee members, “and I'm married to a high caste Brahmin too."
"But you are not a Chattopadhyay or Bandopadhyay, Mukhopadhyay or Gangopadhyay," they scoffed.
"What's your gotra?", one piped in sarcastically.
"Swarnakaushik by birth and Shandilya after marriage", she replied softly.
"Hmmm, and who is your Guru? Have you taken diksha?" they sneered.
"No, I haven't found my Guru as yet and therefore I haven't taken diksha," replied Sucheta, now almost in tears.
"Then how can you approach us? Don't you know that only high-class Brahmin women who have taken diksha have the privilege to cook the sacred Bhog for the Goddess? Come to us only after you've met your Guru and taken diksha," they reproached her contemptuously as she walked away slowly, tears coursing down her reddened cheeks.
That was almost thirty-five years ago but the bitter memory of that one incident had left an indelible mark, returning year after year to taunt her every Durga Puja. She never ever ventured into the sanctified kitchen where the bhog was prepared nor did she get involved in the preparations for the worship in any Durga Puja pandal thereafter. In fact, the community celebration of the festival had lost its charm. No more did the sound of the dhaak mesmerize her as it used to when she was a little girl nor did the fragrance of the dhuno stir up her senses as it wafted from the priest's dhunochi when he performed the customary arati in front of the Goddess.
She was content worshipping her beautiful panch-dhatu Devi with humble offerings of flowers and fruits while chanting melodious stutis and shlokas in Her praise.
The beginning of the millennium saw a change in community Durga Puja celebrations. Mammoth sized idols stood encased within magnificent pandals that recreated trending issues of the time, sometimes gaudily and sometimes aesthetically. These massive images of the Goddess and Her divine entourage were crafted in creative ways, their size commensurate with the inflated ego of every sponsor and organizer.
The chanting of shlokas from the sacred Devi Mahatmya or Chandi Paath (as it is known in Bengal), was reduced to a mere whisper in the midst of loud and vulgar music blaring from speaker systems, ego tussles, drunken revelry, trivial arguments and superstitious practices, all in the name of goddess worship. Very few had the patience to listen, read or understand the depth of Devi’s Mahatmya. The sanctity of the worship was slowly compromised, with each passing year.
AUGUST, 2020
The world was in the midst of a pandemic, grappling with a virus, an unseen enemy whose lethal tentacles took control over everything, bringing fear and death in its wake.The residential housing complex where Sucheta lived now, had its share of cases too and the residents took up all measures to keep themselves safe from the life-threatening virus.
One morning, Sucheta chanced upon a notice that was issued by the housing society about a certain asymptomatic patient who had tested positive for the virus. Since he lived by himself, he was looking for a tiffin service provider to deliver hygienic home-cooked meals for the fifteen days that he would have to stay in isolation.
Sucheta was not a ‘home-made-food-service-provider’ but she did cook simple and nutritious meals for her husband Anir every day. Her heart reached out to the young man who hailed from another region of the country, knowing very well how he must crave for his mother’s cooking, especially when he was unwell. She had never known or met him before but she volunteered to provide breakfast and lunch every day for the period of his home-isolation, without charging any money for the same.
With their children now having left the nest and a monotonous life made more difficult by the pandemic, Sucheta and Anir finally found something to look forward to. They fussed over the menu, working out healthy options for the next fifteen days, ordering groceries and vegetables, procuring and sanitising disposable containers and bags for packing the food and mentally working out a routine to include the catering service smoothly into their daily schedule.
She had a mission to accomplish and the grace of the Goddess was all that she sought to keep her physically fit and strong.
Every morning and afternoon, at the designated time, Kenaram Mondol, the house-staff delegated by the housing society would ring her doorbell and pick up the hot food to be delivered at the patient’s doorstep. He was a dedicated, sincere and committed helper, who ensured a safe and smooth transition of the food containers from her home to the patient’s.
Every morning, to the strains of sacred chants and melodious bhajans that poured out spontaneously from her heart, a wide variety of nutritious breakfast and lunch was cooked, packed and disposed- off with clockwork precision.
The aroma of pure ghee, spices, lentils and vegetables drifted through her kitchen window as she happily cooked Tamil, Marathi, Punjabi, Konkani, Gujarati and Bengali cuisines, digging up old recipes from her own mother’s collection, if only to cheer up the young patient. Sometimes a container of shrikhand and sometimes home-made fresh sandesh found its way into the package, while at other times, sweet mango pickle or amla murabba (gooseberry chutney) would just do the trick – anything to make sure the patient was well on his way to recovery!
And every night, she drifted off into a peaceful slumber, with not a trace of exhaustion to mar the contentment writ all over her face.
It was the last day of the patient’s isolation. The special lunch was packed and ready to be despatched. A sense of sadness filled the air. From tomorrow, their life would go back to its normal routine. She glanced at her husband who had been her greatest source of strength all these days and gave him a warm smile of gratitude.
Kenaram Mondol was at the doorstep to pick up the package. She handed over the food along with a small token of appreciation for his dedicated service and watched him shuffle down the corridor.
A faint, harmonious blend of sounds echoed in the distance and as she gently closed the front door, she distinctly heard the beat of a dhaak as it blended rhythmically with the sweet sound of a conch blowing intermittently between the ringing of a brass bell.
The sounds grew louder and louder, reverberating and resounding through the walls of her humble home. As tears of joy coursed down her cheeks shamelessly, she smiled a beatific smile and brought her palms together in gratitude.
Durga Puja had come early this year. And the Goddess had savoured and relished every morsel of the Bhog for a good fifteen days!
GLOSSARY OF TERMS USED IN THE STORY
1. dhaak - a type of drum used during religious worship in Bengal especially during Durga Puja
2. shankha-pola - white and red bangles worn by married women in Bengal. The delicate white bangles are carved out of shells.
3. sindoor - vermillon that adorns the parting of the hair, a sign of marriage
4. dhaaki - the person who beats (plays) the dhaak.
5. kansa - a metal that shines like brass that is used to make utensils
6. bhog - food cooked under strict conditions especially to be offered to the deity that is being worshipped
7. Ashtami - the eighth day of the Hindu lunar calendar, considered to be the most auspicious day of Durga Puja.
8. gotra - lineage
9. diksha - initiation; undertaking religious observances for a particular purpose
10. pancha-dhaatu - an object (idol) made with a combination of five metals
11. dhuno - a type of fragrant incense
12. stuti, shloka - hymns in praise of a God or Goddess
13. Devi Mahatamya - The Glories of the Goddess composed in verses which are recited during the nine auspicious days of Navaratri
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