A thicket of self-doubt
A dampness spreads
sunny hope bereft
mildew layered dreams
Dreams hang limp
On a day sun-charged
Dreams –
Sodden leaves squelch
Under feet
On a day sun-thrilled
When you go digging
For the bones of a dead past
Leave my deathly still dreams alone
They might wake up to new life
When no one skirts their spaces
With suspicion
Friday, October 30, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
'Face'
‘Face’
On my
spruced-up face
layered with
the borrowed glow
of an illuminating cream,
a thought smudge
appeared
and
spread.
On my
spruced-up face
layered with
the borrowed glow
of an illuminating cream,
a thought smudge
appeared
and
spread.
Monday, October 26, 2009
'Thought bogs'
Find yourself
being sucked into
thought bogs?
Yank yourself
out of it!
Use thoughts
as ladders
to survey
other thought spaces.
Or, sometimes
as a slide
for a
zipping glide
I am
facetious?
Heck, no!
Time
to sample
thoughts
delicious?
Inhale the aroma
slowly …
be wary
of the ones
too well garnished,
but prepared
of ingredients
fallacious.
Dubious,
you look
at me.
Find
my thoughts
capricious?
being sucked into
thought bogs?
Yank yourself
out of it!
Use thoughts
as ladders
to survey
other thought spaces.
Or, sometimes
as a slide
for a
zipping glide
I am
facetious?
Heck, no!
Time
to sample
thoughts
delicious?
Inhale the aroma
slowly …
be wary
of the ones
too well garnished,
but prepared
of ingredients
fallacious.
Dubious,
you look
at me.
Find
my thoughts
capricious?
Friday, October 23, 2009
The first page of my novel
30 September 2004
An image followed me relentlessly today. It was part of a dream. And I can make no sense of it. I must have fallen asleep briefly – there is no other explanation for it - while reading in the afternoon.
I’m waiting for a concert, perhaps it is part of a Carnatic Music Festival here in Paris. I have great expectations from it as if it will mean something significant for me in an intensely personal way. The evening comes. Almost everybody is seated in the concert hall. I’m nearly the last one to enter. The musicians are introduced; they tune their instruments - a benign assurance of something splendid to follow or the usual preface to the recital. There is near perfect silence and the stillness of anticipation. The vocalist mentions the ragam and the talam. It is Ritigowla—one of my favourite ragams—it’s going to be a beautiful evening, perhaps one of those rare lustrous moments that leaves its lingering glow on the humdrum ones that follow, making them easier to accept.
And then, soon after, I hear nothing. I’m slightly perplexed. I wait patiently for the silence to melt away. It remains. It is too complete, absolute and unremitting to be real. I look at the musicians: the singer, the tambura player behind him, the mridangist and the violinist. They are all performing but I hear nothing. I focus on the vocalist. From the expressions on his face, his lip movements, his shake of the head, his absorption, his keeping of the talam with his right hand by thumping on his thigh, I know that he is singing the composition. I look at the people around me, watch them. I know they can hear and seem to be enjoying the music. Why can’t I hear anything? What’s wrong with me? I stuff my index fingers into my ears, pull them out and repeat the act several times in order to clear my ears. No sound enters. I discreetly clap my hands before me but the clap is a mute gesture. I clap a little harder. I hear nothing. My neighbours glare at me. I look at them bewildered.
I shrink into my chair and press hard against its back to contain the incipient panic. Then I close my eyes hoping that if I shut my eyes my ears will open up. Guardedly, I thump the right armrest of my chair with the open palm of my hand and, as I do so, I incline my head to the right to catch the sound. Silence—thick, seamless. At first there is confused fear, then agony, anger and gut-wrenching frustration with each passing silent desolate moment. I sit there petrified in my soundproof, soul-negating world. Delirious panic seizes me as I realize that something that can make me feel exquisitely fulfilled can never be mine even for a moment.
The memory of this horrible dream circled inside my head the rest of the day, potent and untiring. Leaving me as enervated as the other one I keep having where I am ceaselessly engraving a script on invisible walls. Why? Because I want to record and save memories but that is not the way to do it. The nervy etchings that a sense of loss makes cannot nurture future moments. I know that, yet I persist.
An image followed me relentlessly today. It was part of a dream. And I can make no sense of it. I must have fallen asleep briefly – there is no other explanation for it - while reading in the afternoon.
I’m waiting for a concert, perhaps it is part of a Carnatic Music Festival here in Paris. I have great expectations from it as if it will mean something significant for me in an intensely personal way. The evening comes. Almost everybody is seated in the concert hall. I’m nearly the last one to enter. The musicians are introduced; they tune their instruments - a benign assurance of something splendid to follow or the usual preface to the recital. There is near perfect silence and the stillness of anticipation. The vocalist mentions the ragam and the talam. It is Ritigowla—one of my favourite ragams—it’s going to be a beautiful evening, perhaps one of those rare lustrous moments that leaves its lingering glow on the humdrum ones that follow, making them easier to accept.
And then, soon after, I hear nothing. I’m slightly perplexed. I wait patiently for the silence to melt away. It remains. It is too complete, absolute and unremitting to be real. I look at the musicians: the singer, the tambura player behind him, the mridangist and the violinist. They are all performing but I hear nothing. I focus on the vocalist. From the expressions on his face, his lip movements, his shake of the head, his absorption, his keeping of the talam with his right hand by thumping on his thigh, I know that he is singing the composition. I look at the people around me, watch them. I know they can hear and seem to be enjoying the music. Why can’t I hear anything? What’s wrong with me? I stuff my index fingers into my ears, pull them out and repeat the act several times in order to clear my ears. No sound enters. I discreetly clap my hands before me but the clap is a mute gesture. I clap a little harder. I hear nothing. My neighbours glare at me. I look at them bewildered.
I shrink into my chair and press hard against its back to contain the incipient panic. Then I close my eyes hoping that if I shut my eyes my ears will open up. Guardedly, I thump the right armrest of my chair with the open palm of my hand and, as I do so, I incline my head to the right to catch the sound. Silence—thick, seamless. At first there is confused fear, then agony, anger and gut-wrenching frustration with each passing silent desolate moment. I sit there petrified in my soundproof, soul-negating world. Delirious panic seizes me as I realize that something that can make me feel exquisitely fulfilled can never be mine even for a moment.
The memory of this horrible dream circled inside my head the rest of the day, potent and untiring. Leaving me as enervated as the other one I keep having where I am ceaselessly engraving a script on invisible walls. Why? Because I want to record and save memories but that is not the way to do it. The nervy etchings that a sense of loss makes cannot nurture future moments. I know that, yet I persist.
My experiences of Ganesha
My experiences of Ganesha
Sunday, 07 September 2008 at 14:21
Different experiences of Ganesha or Vinayaka
January 7, 2007; Sweta Vinayakar
During our week long travel in the Tanjore region, we went to Patteswaram, a temple that Rama is supposed to have visited for getting rid of his Chaya dosha or the stigma of reflection. From there we went to the Sweta Vinayakar temple in the Sivan Tirukkovil. It has the sweta or white Vinayaka. It was dusk by the time we got there and, as there were just a handful of people around, we got an uninterrupted darshan. Although this was the case, I could not see the image very clearly, no matter how much I bent forward or how intently I peered into the sanctum. At that time, I did not realize that my long distance eyesight had weakened. I was disappointed that I could not see this singular image of Vinayaka. Ganesha or Vinayaka is a much-loved god who inspires the modern artisan or artist in a unique way and lends himself very easily to being depicted in different ways and forms.
My first experience of the contemporization of the Ganesha figure was in Mahabalipuram. In some of the smaller statuettes, he is shown with a keyboard before him. Since he is a scribe and a scholar this comes as no surprise. It is his location in the present day world and thereby his greater accessibility that makes us smile. Two months later, in Mangalore when we walked into an arts and handicrafts emporium I saw an interesting bronze Ganesha. Like the hand-rickshaw pullers of Calcutta, a strapping Ganesha was pulling a handcart in which his vahana, the rat, is sitting very comfortably and regally, the only difference being that the poor rickshaw pullers have an arduous, backbreaking and ill-paying job whereas Ganesha seemed to enjoy his labour. This reversal of roles between Ganesha and his vahana was quirky and funny. The rat stands for all the difficult and unmanageable problems that Ganesha keeps in check by riding him. Here the problems have a joy ride. I think the artisan was not aware of this little twist in interpretation when he conceived this bronze piece.
As we know, Ganesha was created by Parvati using the turmeric paste with which she had anointed herself. I remember reading in the book Myth = Mithya by Dr. Devdutt Pattanaik that when Ganesha receives the elephant head from Shiva, he becomes the means by which Shiva the ascetic, the inward-looking hermit, enters samsara and participates in it as a householder. With his lower part created by Parvati or Shakti and the upper part created by Shiva, this very likable deity brings together in his form the contrary forces and worlds that Shakti and Shiva represent.
I have also learnt that the Puranas give different accounts of Ganesha’s origin. According to one account, Ganesha is said to have been created by Siva alone, on the appeal of the gods and the sages. After hearing this prayer of the immortals, Siva looked at Parvati and when he was contemplating how he could fulfill the wishes of the gods, a youth of extraordinary beauty came into existence from the radiance of Siva’s own countenance. On seeing his beauty, Parvati was jealous and in a moment of anger pronounced a curse on the captivating youth. She said that his beauties would be soon gone and he would have an elephant’s head and a large belly. Siva then called the youth his son and named him Ganesha, the chief of the ganas (hosts). Each part of this elephant-headed, ample-bellied god is rich in metaphorical significance.
Ganesha is a very accessible god, easy to please and venerate. I remember that when I was doing the ‘Art of Living’ course a few years ago and, on one occasion, after the Sudarshan kriya, when we were asked to meditate, the image that leapt before my inner eye and stayed there, was that of Ganesha. A young and playful Ganesha kicks a ball all over a meadow. He does it with grace and style and the delight on his face is writ large. That evening his pleasure was so palpable to me that I smiled openly. Each time after that, when I tried to meditate, this image followed me or, perhaps, I was reluctant to let go of something so delectably amusing.
Since childhood, I have known the Hindi expression ‘Sree Ganesh karna,’ meaning to start something new auspiciously with the appropriate puja and prayers. However, I had never seen Vinayaka sthapana or the installation of the Vinayaka image in a home before any ceremonious event like a wedding or an upanayanam, the sacred thread ceremony. I finally got to see Vinayaka sthapana being done in the month of May, in the house of a relative, several weeks before her daughter’s wedding. It was essentially a women’s event and a minimum of five married women were required to participate in it. All of us rose very early as the muhurtham was at 6:53. My relative did her usual daily puja and then chanted the 108 names of Vinayaka.
Some preparation preceded the Vinayaka sthapana. We placed a small stone grinder, that is, a grain mill, on a clean piece of cloth. The grinder was adorned with kumkum and turmeric. Nine threads coated with turmeric paste were tied around the stationary bottom grinding wheel. “Why nine?” I asked. No one had a clear answer. Then someone said it might have something to do with the navagrahas. Whole black chana was placed in a large steel thali or kancham next to the grinder. A mortar and pestle with whole turmeric was also placed next to the grinder. On a soft new handloom towel, a kilo of rice, whole turmeric with sprinklings of kumkum and a few coins were placed. At the time of the muhurtham all of us took turns to grind the black chana which had to be put in the circular channel in the centre three times. The grain mill did not have a wooden stem that we could hold to turn the upper stone so we used our hands to rotate it. Two women had to do it together. We enjoyed ourselves immensely as it was more like playtime for us. Our mini exercise brought back memories of earlier times when there were no mechanized grain mills. The chana that had split into uneven halves was then gathered and tied along with the rice into a neat bundle. These would be used sometime before the wedding to make undralu or rice rava (semolina) and Bengal gram balls. Eaten with hot ghee and maaghai, the sliced mango pickle, these are divine.
After this procedure, one of the women made a Vinayaka from rice flour and thick turmeric paste. This little idol was placed on betel leaves and delicately adorned with kumkum. Although clumsily shaped and too tiny to have any distinguishing features of Vinayaka, devotion and love for this deity, made all the women believe that they had created Vinayaka and ceremoniously given him a place in that home. After this Vinayaka was placed on a clean plastic sheet and around him were placed little mounds of vadiyalu made from washed black gram dal batter, spiced with cumin, asafetida and red chilli powder.
The preparations for the wedding could now be initiated. This ceremony was a miniature version of all the preparations for the festive cooking that would take place around the time of the wedding and during that occasion. Vinayaka was successfully and lovingly installed and, from that moment, he would overlook and facilitate all the wedding preparations and arrangements.
Ganesha doing Shiva linga abhishekam
December 4, 2007
I was anxious about a family member’s health. Whenever I am anxious I either embroider or listen to music. While in India now I either visit a bookstore or a handicrafts emporium. I hate getting caught in traffic so I decided to go only up to Secunderabad’s main shopping area. The choice was between Lepakshi and the Cauvery Arts Emporium. Since I spotted a parking spot right in front of Cauvery I settled for that place. As soon as I walked in, a man in his mid-fifties, I presume, (I later learnt that he was the manager) asked me if I was looking for anything in particular. I told him that I just wanted to look around and had nothing specific in mind. Then I asked him for a panchloha Ardhanareeshwara although I was certain, for no good reason, that they wouldn’t have it. The brass and the bronze idols were arranged on a large table-like place, a little to the left of the main entrance. They caught your eye as soon you entered. I lingered there for a long time unable to decide whether I wanted something in brass or bronze. The bronze pieces were very few but the workmanship was far superior to that of the brass ones. Of course there was a considerable difference in price too. A 20 percent discount on the quoted price made the bronze idols even more attractive. I looked at the two bronze women with a lamp for a long time, wondering if I should pick just one of them. On the display shelf opposite, Rama, Sita, Lakshman and Hanuman looked large and impressive from a distance but a closer look was disappointing. Sita’s form was stolid and her face had no ‘kala’ or charm. The reclining Buddha was satisfactory. The nartana Vinayaka or the dancing Ganesha was well made but too small. The manager stood nearby waiting patiently for me to make up my mind. He remarked a few times, “Madam, this is a very good price. If you order a piece like this, it will cost you more than double. Don’t hesitate to buy it.” I wished that he would stop breathing down my back and give me time and space to make up my mind. I wandered away from the spot and went to the first floor to look at their export section. Downstairs again, I looked long and hard at the brass and bronze figures/ idols, figuring out which appealed to my eye and pocket both. Then I suddenly spotted a piece that had escaped me altogether. It was a seated Ganesha doing abhishekam to the Shiva lingam. I picked it up and was struck by its beauty. I hadn’t seen this form of Ganesha before and, although it may not be unusual, for me it was singular because I had never come across Ganesha doing an abhishekam – a son’s ceremonious offering of devotion to his father. I knew that this was the piece that I wanted. After discount it would cost me a little less than Rs. 3000. It was an extravagance I could ill afford at this time but I didn’t want to let go of the magnificent piece. I had also discovered it at a very propitious time. It is the month of kartik or karthika masam, as my husband says it in Telugu, and, at this time of the year, it is considered good to visit at least one of the well known Shiva temples. I hadn’t been able to accompany my husband on his recent visit to Draksharama, a Shiva kshetra. This bronze idol of Ganesha doing an abhishekam was an auspicious sign, a vicarious unexpected fulfillment of a need to visit a Shiva shrine. I was holding the beautiful shrine in my hand.
While the piece was being polished and packed, the manager stood next to me and barraged me with questions in quick succession. “Where are you from? What is your name?” I hesitated to tell him my name but what choice does one have in the face of a pointed question. I did not know how to shrug him off either politely or rudely. “I am Priti.” “Priti?” he said, surprised. He beamed. “That’s my daughter’s name.” Are you working? If you are not working, what do you do? “I used to teach. Now I write …” I chose not to elaborate. “What is your caste?” I had no desire to answer inquisitive questions of little relevance to an absolute stranger. I moved away from him just a little bit, making my disapproval clear. He gave instructions at this point to his assistant to hurry up with the packing. He spoke Kannada. He’d been very curious about me and I was at a loss to determine why he wished to place me in terms of region, caste and work.
The Ganesha is an exquisite piece made with splendid attention to detail. It is a work of love and reverence. It is an uplifting prayer in bronze. Adorned with different kinds of jewelry – necklaces, waistband, armbands, bangles, anklets, chains around the ear, tika, intricately designed band for the forehead, an elaborate hairdo, a thick braid reaching down to the hips just like the Kuchipudi and Bharatnatyam dancers have, a sacred thread, an angavastram and a veshti whose fine folds can be seen individually – this is Ganesha. He is seated with the left leg folded under him. The right foot rests firmly on the floor, its heel touching the inner thigh as the leg is bent at the knee. The back arches inwards at the waist and this gives the hips a very attractive filled out curve. The deity has been given a very shapely form and so it is aesthetically pleasing apart from its religious dimension. Thus seated, Ganesha is doing abhishekam to the lingam. With the help of a pot or kalasam held in his right hand he is bathing the lingam in a devout manner. He exhibits the grace of a dancer while doing this. Going by the thickness of the liquid poured, it could be honey. With his left hand he holds the front end of something like a kavadi that rests on his left shoulder. From the rear end of this kavadi is suspended a rope holder or a woven frame that holds a pot of some sort. Ganesha seems to have stopped during the course of his journey or pilgrimage to do this abhishekam. It is a piece resonant with rich meaning and engaging beauty.
It was stolen from my home some time in January. The piece was precious and dear to me for several reasons and now it is gone. It stayed in my home only for three to four weeks after I bought it and I miss it not just as a work of art but as something that enhanced the meaning of my moments each time I looked at it. I still wait for it to reappear on my shelf miraculously.
Sunday, 07 September 2008 at 14:21
Different experiences of Ganesha or Vinayaka
January 7, 2007; Sweta Vinayakar
During our week long travel in the Tanjore region, we went to Patteswaram, a temple that Rama is supposed to have visited for getting rid of his Chaya dosha or the stigma of reflection. From there we went to the Sweta Vinayakar temple in the Sivan Tirukkovil. It has the sweta or white Vinayaka. It was dusk by the time we got there and, as there were just a handful of people around, we got an uninterrupted darshan. Although this was the case, I could not see the image very clearly, no matter how much I bent forward or how intently I peered into the sanctum. At that time, I did not realize that my long distance eyesight had weakened. I was disappointed that I could not see this singular image of Vinayaka. Ganesha or Vinayaka is a much-loved god who inspires the modern artisan or artist in a unique way and lends himself very easily to being depicted in different ways and forms.
My first experience of the contemporization of the Ganesha figure was in Mahabalipuram. In some of the smaller statuettes, he is shown with a keyboard before him. Since he is a scribe and a scholar this comes as no surprise. It is his location in the present day world and thereby his greater accessibility that makes us smile. Two months later, in Mangalore when we walked into an arts and handicrafts emporium I saw an interesting bronze Ganesha. Like the hand-rickshaw pullers of Calcutta, a strapping Ganesha was pulling a handcart in which his vahana, the rat, is sitting very comfortably and regally, the only difference being that the poor rickshaw pullers have an arduous, backbreaking and ill-paying job whereas Ganesha seemed to enjoy his labour. This reversal of roles between Ganesha and his vahana was quirky and funny. The rat stands for all the difficult and unmanageable problems that Ganesha keeps in check by riding him. Here the problems have a joy ride. I think the artisan was not aware of this little twist in interpretation when he conceived this bronze piece.
As we know, Ganesha was created by Parvati using the turmeric paste with which she had anointed herself. I remember reading in the book Myth = Mithya by Dr. Devdutt Pattanaik that when Ganesha receives the elephant head from Shiva, he becomes the means by which Shiva the ascetic, the inward-looking hermit, enters samsara and participates in it as a householder. With his lower part created by Parvati or Shakti and the upper part created by Shiva, this very likable deity brings together in his form the contrary forces and worlds that Shakti and Shiva represent.
I have also learnt that the Puranas give different accounts of Ganesha’s origin. According to one account, Ganesha is said to have been created by Siva alone, on the appeal of the gods and the sages. After hearing this prayer of the immortals, Siva looked at Parvati and when he was contemplating how he could fulfill the wishes of the gods, a youth of extraordinary beauty came into existence from the radiance of Siva’s own countenance. On seeing his beauty, Parvati was jealous and in a moment of anger pronounced a curse on the captivating youth. She said that his beauties would be soon gone and he would have an elephant’s head and a large belly. Siva then called the youth his son and named him Ganesha, the chief of the ganas (hosts). Each part of this elephant-headed, ample-bellied god is rich in metaphorical significance.
Ganesha is a very accessible god, easy to please and venerate. I remember that when I was doing the ‘Art of Living’ course a few years ago and, on one occasion, after the Sudarshan kriya, when we were asked to meditate, the image that leapt before my inner eye and stayed there, was that of Ganesha. A young and playful Ganesha kicks a ball all over a meadow. He does it with grace and style and the delight on his face is writ large. That evening his pleasure was so palpable to me that I smiled openly. Each time after that, when I tried to meditate, this image followed me or, perhaps, I was reluctant to let go of something so delectably amusing.
Since childhood, I have known the Hindi expression ‘Sree Ganesh karna,’ meaning to start something new auspiciously with the appropriate puja and prayers. However, I had never seen Vinayaka sthapana or the installation of the Vinayaka image in a home before any ceremonious event like a wedding or an upanayanam, the sacred thread ceremony. I finally got to see Vinayaka sthapana being done in the month of May, in the house of a relative, several weeks before her daughter’s wedding. It was essentially a women’s event and a minimum of five married women were required to participate in it. All of us rose very early as the muhurtham was at 6:53. My relative did her usual daily puja and then chanted the 108 names of Vinayaka.
Some preparation preceded the Vinayaka sthapana. We placed a small stone grinder, that is, a grain mill, on a clean piece of cloth. The grinder was adorned with kumkum and turmeric. Nine threads coated with turmeric paste were tied around the stationary bottom grinding wheel. “Why nine?” I asked. No one had a clear answer. Then someone said it might have something to do with the navagrahas. Whole black chana was placed in a large steel thali or kancham next to the grinder. A mortar and pestle with whole turmeric was also placed next to the grinder. On a soft new handloom towel, a kilo of rice, whole turmeric with sprinklings of kumkum and a few coins were placed. At the time of the muhurtham all of us took turns to grind the black chana which had to be put in the circular channel in the centre three times. The grain mill did not have a wooden stem that we could hold to turn the upper stone so we used our hands to rotate it. Two women had to do it together. We enjoyed ourselves immensely as it was more like playtime for us. Our mini exercise brought back memories of earlier times when there were no mechanized grain mills. The chana that had split into uneven halves was then gathered and tied along with the rice into a neat bundle. These would be used sometime before the wedding to make undralu or rice rava (semolina) and Bengal gram balls. Eaten with hot ghee and maaghai, the sliced mango pickle, these are divine.
After this procedure, one of the women made a Vinayaka from rice flour and thick turmeric paste. This little idol was placed on betel leaves and delicately adorned with kumkum. Although clumsily shaped and too tiny to have any distinguishing features of Vinayaka, devotion and love for this deity, made all the women believe that they had created Vinayaka and ceremoniously given him a place in that home. After this Vinayaka was placed on a clean plastic sheet and around him were placed little mounds of vadiyalu made from washed black gram dal batter, spiced with cumin, asafetida and red chilli powder.
The preparations for the wedding could now be initiated. This ceremony was a miniature version of all the preparations for the festive cooking that would take place around the time of the wedding and during that occasion. Vinayaka was successfully and lovingly installed and, from that moment, he would overlook and facilitate all the wedding preparations and arrangements.
Ganesha doing Shiva linga abhishekam
December 4, 2007
I was anxious about a family member’s health. Whenever I am anxious I either embroider or listen to music. While in India now I either visit a bookstore or a handicrafts emporium. I hate getting caught in traffic so I decided to go only up to Secunderabad’s main shopping area. The choice was between Lepakshi and the Cauvery Arts Emporium. Since I spotted a parking spot right in front of Cauvery I settled for that place. As soon as I walked in, a man in his mid-fifties, I presume, (I later learnt that he was the manager) asked me if I was looking for anything in particular. I told him that I just wanted to look around and had nothing specific in mind. Then I asked him for a panchloha Ardhanareeshwara although I was certain, for no good reason, that they wouldn’t have it. The brass and the bronze idols were arranged on a large table-like place, a little to the left of the main entrance. They caught your eye as soon you entered. I lingered there for a long time unable to decide whether I wanted something in brass or bronze. The bronze pieces were very few but the workmanship was far superior to that of the brass ones. Of course there was a considerable difference in price too. A 20 percent discount on the quoted price made the bronze idols even more attractive. I looked at the two bronze women with a lamp for a long time, wondering if I should pick just one of them. On the display shelf opposite, Rama, Sita, Lakshman and Hanuman looked large and impressive from a distance but a closer look was disappointing. Sita’s form was stolid and her face had no ‘kala’ or charm. The reclining Buddha was satisfactory. The nartana Vinayaka or the dancing Ganesha was well made but too small. The manager stood nearby waiting patiently for me to make up my mind. He remarked a few times, “Madam, this is a very good price. If you order a piece like this, it will cost you more than double. Don’t hesitate to buy it.” I wished that he would stop breathing down my back and give me time and space to make up my mind. I wandered away from the spot and went to the first floor to look at their export section. Downstairs again, I looked long and hard at the brass and bronze figures/ idols, figuring out which appealed to my eye and pocket both. Then I suddenly spotted a piece that had escaped me altogether. It was a seated Ganesha doing abhishekam to the Shiva lingam. I picked it up and was struck by its beauty. I hadn’t seen this form of Ganesha before and, although it may not be unusual, for me it was singular because I had never come across Ganesha doing an abhishekam – a son’s ceremonious offering of devotion to his father. I knew that this was the piece that I wanted. After discount it would cost me a little less than Rs. 3000. It was an extravagance I could ill afford at this time but I didn’t want to let go of the magnificent piece. I had also discovered it at a very propitious time. It is the month of kartik or karthika masam, as my husband says it in Telugu, and, at this time of the year, it is considered good to visit at least one of the well known Shiva temples. I hadn’t been able to accompany my husband on his recent visit to Draksharama, a Shiva kshetra. This bronze idol of Ganesha doing an abhishekam was an auspicious sign, a vicarious unexpected fulfillment of a need to visit a Shiva shrine. I was holding the beautiful shrine in my hand.
While the piece was being polished and packed, the manager stood next to me and barraged me with questions in quick succession. “Where are you from? What is your name?” I hesitated to tell him my name but what choice does one have in the face of a pointed question. I did not know how to shrug him off either politely or rudely. “I am Priti.” “Priti?” he said, surprised. He beamed. “That’s my daughter’s name.” Are you working? If you are not working, what do you do? “I used to teach. Now I write …” I chose not to elaborate. “What is your caste?” I had no desire to answer inquisitive questions of little relevance to an absolute stranger. I moved away from him just a little bit, making my disapproval clear. He gave instructions at this point to his assistant to hurry up with the packing. He spoke Kannada. He’d been very curious about me and I was at a loss to determine why he wished to place me in terms of region, caste and work.
The Ganesha is an exquisite piece made with splendid attention to detail. It is a work of love and reverence. It is an uplifting prayer in bronze. Adorned with different kinds of jewelry – necklaces, waistband, armbands, bangles, anklets, chains around the ear, tika, intricately designed band for the forehead, an elaborate hairdo, a thick braid reaching down to the hips just like the Kuchipudi and Bharatnatyam dancers have, a sacred thread, an angavastram and a veshti whose fine folds can be seen individually – this is Ganesha. He is seated with the left leg folded under him. The right foot rests firmly on the floor, its heel touching the inner thigh as the leg is bent at the knee. The back arches inwards at the waist and this gives the hips a very attractive filled out curve. The deity has been given a very shapely form and so it is aesthetically pleasing apart from its religious dimension. Thus seated, Ganesha is doing abhishekam to the lingam. With the help of a pot or kalasam held in his right hand he is bathing the lingam in a devout manner. He exhibits the grace of a dancer while doing this. Going by the thickness of the liquid poured, it could be honey. With his left hand he holds the front end of something like a kavadi that rests on his left shoulder. From the rear end of this kavadi is suspended a rope holder or a woven frame that holds a pot of some sort. Ganesha seems to have stopped during the course of his journey or pilgrimage to do this abhishekam. It is a piece resonant with rich meaning and engaging beauty.
It was stolen from my home some time in January. The piece was precious and dear to me for several reasons and now it is gone. It stayed in my home only for three to four weeks after I bought it and I miss it not just as a work of art but as something that enhanced the meaning of my moments each time I looked at it. I still wait for it to reappear on my shelf miraculously.
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