COLOURS OF DEVOTION

Dec 2022

The evening is getting eventful.

There are people everywhere, moving about with a sense of purpose, pursuing their very own devotions – some allotted by circumstance, some chosen.

Outside the temple, by the roadside on a plastic sheet sits a toy vendor focused on selling a plastic car for twenty-five rupees to a restless little boy. The mother is haggling fiercely, her eyes sparkling.

Inside the temple premises, on the makeshift stage is the auctioneer, around him the bidders and bystanders. The coconut goes for more than two lakh rupees. This chosen one had had the privilege of lying at the devi’s feet for two days during her annual sojourn. Karmic rewards might not be limited to humans.

A few feet away in a discreet part of the temple corridor is the green room, lit dimly by a yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling, getting blurry with characters emerging from very different scripts.

Laxmi, played by a statuesque man, is intently aligning her ornaments, Vishnu has finished securing his mukut and is giving Ganesh a hand or two. Big bunny has zipped up his oversized white furs and is now getting his whiskers painted. Two men in their 30s are fastening their small-boy dungarees, little teddies hanging from their bibs. A woman is aligning her grey wig and thick frames.

I inch up, a little gingerly, and ask for permission to take pictures. They welcome me with a smile and nod, both the Sri Siddheshwar Paramparik Dashavatar Natya Mandal and the Kala Chetna Volvoi theatre troupes.

The stairs near the green room lead down to a basement where food is being fastidiously arranged on a long table. A gentleman comes up and insists I eat a little before continuing with my photography.

The spectators have begun streaming in. Mostly local village folk, they do their customary circumambulation, step into the sanctum to bow to the goddess, come out, light incense sticks and plant them among the dozens of others that herald nightfall with plumes of fragrant dancing smoke, and then they go find an empty chair near the stage.

Soon, the place will light up with dance and drama. This likely shall be a long evening of piety, discourse, and slapstick humour.

Winter Sojourn

This is the morning of prayer, two days before that evening of theatre.

Almost everything is yellow, orange, red: the idol, her ornaments, her lion, marigold garlands lacing the chariot, the shimmery gilt uniform of the brass band, and the sacred thread that a gentleman ties on my wrist.

These are the primary colours of devotion during the annual palki at one of the Shanta Durga temples in Goa.

The deity is carried on a palanquin into her ornate chariot and taken around the neighbourhood, making brief stops at the homes of devotees. Volunteers, some quite old, clear the traffic, and a loud brass band heralds her journey. A scattering of women in colourful saris and men in white and saffron follow the tableau.

The sun pours out more yellow on the pilgrimage.

Sweating under their thick shiny costumes, the men play their clarinet, trombone, saxophone and horn with full might. These are difficult and heavy instruments. The drum set is lighter now that it has been reduced to an electronic ‘octapad’.

The lead singer in yellow shirt, red jacket and blue denim cap beckons me with authority. He poses for pictures and then hands me a visiting card that says, Shri Hanuman Brass Band & Benjo.

The brass men get a tea break only after about an hour of the slow sunlit parade. In the daytime, winter here is summer.

After a few traditional invocations, they launch into an emotional rendition of Intehaa ho gai intezaar ki from Sharabi. The divine implications of this choice escape me.

When the goddess returns to her abode after staying for the night at the Vitthal temple nearby, the band welcomes her back with Aye mere watan ke logon.

The Homecoming

It’s after midnight that the goddess returns.

A middle-aged man in creaseless trousers and shirt is laying out an elaborate rangoli on the road. He is the local vendor of wine, and his house will be one of the stopovers. The next one will be the carpenter’s. He has turned out in a long crimson kurta and churidar. All the women are wearing saris or salwars.

The brass rings much louder in the ambient quietness, the lion looks more ferocious. Fireworks and blinking string lights keep sprinkling new colour on the chariot every second.

Two men hold long wooden poles to push up electric cabling on the road for the chariot to pass.

A couple examines the sweets stall they have put up for tomorrow’s mela. Across them is a half-done kiosk with a board announcing chowmein, that delicious Chinese dish that no Chinese has ever heard of. Next to it is the spot where the toy seller will lay out his plastic sheet.

Whenever the chariot pauses at a gate, people rush up to the priest requesting for prasad. I get bestowed with one banana.

On either side of the deity are neat piles of fruits and sweets. Among them sits that chosen coconut, unaware of its real worth.

Faith, after all, is a force that transcends rationality. It comes with its own set of measurements, its own colours and compulsions, manifestations and melodies.

~*~