Food and Other Chantings

      It is sometimes difficult to grab the first line by its forelock, especially when one is trying to bring heterogeneous ideas together. A rejoinder:   I have always loved the word ‘heterogeneous’ ever since I had read Dr. Johnson’s description of  17^th century Metaphysical poetry as: “[…]the most heterogeneous ideas […]yoked by violence together”.  The violence was art itself; nudging the readers out of their received complacence about the definition of poetry.
              But the daring of heterogeneity is not essentially about poetry; it is in mingling and articulating the apparently contrasted life experiences into a perfect oxymoron: bitter  sweet,  clay glasses, vegetarian meat balls.This is where I am trying to get to a point: sometimes the heterogeneity resides in bringing spirituality and deeply earthy experiences together, making them speak with a fused voice: harmonious heterogeneity, if ever there was one.
         For such is my memory of Saraswati Puja at my parental house throughout my growing up days (what sort of metaphor is that, I wonder?)  The spirituality was the backdrop naturally, with the image of the dainty, somewhat fragile and pale goddess bought from the pavements of Lake Market the day before. Her attire ranged from a gentle pale blue to a sunflower yellow, and changed every year, but the constant was the Veena which she held in the fold of her left arm, the books that lay  piled neatly at her feet and the duck, her familiar, that looked up dotingly at her.  But she was just a backdrop. I mean,  I knew my stuff. My god -doting mother had told me all about this strange woman, tied to Vishnu but actually the wife of Brahma the Creator. Of course you were not supposed to draw her ire. Then you fail your Exams, which is not a nice thing. She held the key to that impeccable grade report that you had to bring home, or else…

    But the exacting deity of Knowledge always mingled in my  wayward synesthesia with flavors of food:  Fresh fruits, chosen with special care, the smell of fresh coconut,  dry fruits and nuts.  There were spices and vegetables too, and lentils and mustard oil and ghee. That is exactly how ‘heterogeneity’ works as the magical word in my memories of  Saraswati Puja.
     The day started for my mother almost at the dead of night, for she would not allow anyone to touch anything that went into the edibles prepared for the smiling, strumming Goddess.   My waking in the early hours was to the clinking of utensils and serving platters that came out of my Grandmother’s enormous chest, brass, copper and black and white stoneware. Huge generous stone platters piled with chunks of freshly cubed apples, oranges, bananas, cucumbers and grapefruits. The smaller stone ones were meant for heaped dried fruits and nuts and for some reason, the  nadus, the crunchy, creamy coconut balls made with sugar (my mother was allergic to jaggery) were always served  in the white ones.  I never asked my mother why. A significant portion of the balcony was cordoned off for the preparation of the main afternoon offering. The kitchen was impure and unholy. It was tainted with meat and fish and other unmentionables.The gas oven was a complete ‘no no’.  My mother sat on a sturdy old stool, precariously poised between a portable clay oven and a stove that was kept precisely for this annual offering. The good thing: I was never called in to rise to the occasion before my annual ablutionary bath which smelt of a creamy scrub made with gram flour, cream, raw turmeric  and smooth creamy blob of neem leaves with a generous amount of mustard oil as the base. Then came the draping of a sunflower-hued sari, usually with borders and motifs in orange or red; that was the fun part: I got one every year. And graduated from a two yards to a six yards quasi-religious fashion statement commensurate with my age and rate of growth.

    By the time I was ready, the oven would be aflame and the stove hissing; The first was designated for the Khichudi, always made with Moog daal and Gobindo Bhog rice.  The goddess of learning was not demanding. Indeed, she ate very little, so not a whole lot of attention was paid to the garnishing. A simple tempering of bay leaf and cumin and ginger cumin turmeric was all that went into the making of the delicious, flavorful lentil rice concoction. (You didn’t stare at it with lascivious eyes. It was an offering for the Goddess, see? ) for some reason and I still wonder why, Ma never used whole, red chilies on this occasion. It was only a handful of green chilies, un-slit, added at the end and a generous, very generous dollop of ghee at the end, just before the huge brass haandi was taken off the oven.
       Meanwhile, the fine slivers of cabbages sat pretty on the stove in a jet black iron Kadai, mingling slowly, ever so slowly, with the usual spices and chunks of new potatoes and plump red tomatoes all turning into a near uniform yellow red fusion. The ghee would naturally go in at the end.
     The sizzling fries were the last to be targeted: roundels of potatoes, eggplants, small cubes of fresh coconuts, pumpkin squares, brushed with a little sugar and salt. What was the fifth one I wonder? For fries had to be the auspicious ‘five’. Probably cauliflower florets, although I don’t smell them in my memory.
     Throughout this entire feverishly coordinated effort, my pale-fair mother would grow pinker and pinker from being surrounded by flames. She never spoke while cooking, lest she contaminated the divine offerings if she opened her mouth. She was fasting too and the fasting would last till the official end to the worship around noon.  She made gestures if she needed to communicate with the two persons of extreme insignificance for those auspicious hours: her daughter and her husband. On that particular day, they hardly existed; it was the day of the Goddess and her servants.

           . The worship had an evening sequel. The Goddess would have to be shown the light: brass lamp holders that burnt cotton wickers doused in mustard oil or ghee; incense sticks and a smoky  incense pot that burnt coconut coils and  camphor. The fragrance from the lights mingled with things sweet and buttery as the priest jingled the bell and chanted praises for the deity :

She, who is as fair as the Kunda flower, white as the moon, and a garland of Tushar blossoms;

She who is draped in white;

She, whose hands are adorned with the perfect veena, and whose seat is the unblemished white lotus;

She, who is praised by Brahma, Vishnu, and Mahesh; and worshipped by the Devas

O Imperious Goddess, destroy my ignorance!
 

 

   Meanwhile, the high priestess brought in the evening offerings, sweet and buttery: Luchis fried in ghee, Payesh , dotted with plump and juicy raisins and sandesh, sparkling white. That’s all.
That was the end.

     Images, flavors, a pink and flustered mother, curries, spices and camphor; the aroma of ghee ,all fused into one synesthetic canvas . Heterogeneity  dressed as homage.
Add to that canvas a blossoming person, looking at herself with adoration, marveling at her yellow draped  reflection in the mirror,  blushing and bashful.  Pure blasphemy.

Or, is that part of the daring heterogeneity too?