Mahadev

by Renuka Narayan

  ‘Shastri was born to very poor rural priest and came up by his own hard work. He became a silver-tongued Independence activist, administrator and educator. He was born the same year as Gandhi, in 1869, and died in 1946. He was totally against the idea of Partition. I have a copy of his book, Lectures on the Ramayana. It contains the thirty public lectures that he gave in 1944 in Madras. He boldly pointed out that “to err is human” and since Rama was in human avatar, he made “a great mistake” putting his royal duty as he saw it above justice to his innocent wife.’

  ‘There is only one small consolation to be found here, and even that takes a bit of detective work. You can find it in the discourses by young, modern religious speakers. Such a speaker would point out first of all that Valmiki’s ashram in the woods was one of the places visited by Rama, Sita and Lakshmana during their exile, so he was known to them.’

  ‘Valmiki, whose original name was Harit, had meditated for so long that an “anthill”, a termite mound, really, called “vaalmeek” in Sanskrit, grew to enclose him. So when Harit emerged one day from the mound, he was called “Valmiki”, “of the mound”. It was a like a new birth for him. The Vedas say that such termite mounds are “the ears of Mother Earth”. So since Valmiki was “reborn” from the “ear” of Mother Earth, he was figuratively her son. That is the next point.’

  ‘Now we know that Sita, too, was found on the ground by Janaka, she was a daughter of Mother Earth, which is why she has names like Bhumija, Kshitija and Avanija, all meaning “Earth’s Daughter”. It’s the custom, even today, for a woman to go to her mother’s house, or brother’s, to have her babies. Since Valmiki and Sita were both children of Mother Earth, they were technically siblings. So Rama ordered Lakshman to leave Sita near Valmiki’s hermitage and Valmiki took her home, exactly as set up. Valmiki was about sixty-two then and Sita, thirty-five. He was a very fatherly brother to her.’

  ‘We have to cull these points and join the dots to console ourselves that Rama, a very correctly behaved person, was being proper in this as well. He didn’t abandon her just anywhere out in the wild, nor did Valmiki find her just by chance, as popular TV serials may depict. She was sent where he would find her.’

  ‘There’s something there, I suppose,’ said the mother, wiping away her tears for Sita.

  ‘It’s almost too ironic. “Videha” means “bodiless”. Yet Sita Vaidehi was judged physically for being kidnapped,’ said the guru.

  ‘But what about Ganapati’s tusk?’ said the child, not wanting to lose her story in this grown-up talk.

  ‘I’m about to tell you,’ smiled the guru.

  ‘The story goes that Sage Vyasa wanted to dictate an epic poem, the Mahabharata. He needed someone to write it down as it flowed from his mind. Nobody capable was found to exist on earth, so he approached Ganapati or Ganesha, meaning “leader of Shiva’s troops, the ganas”. Ganapati was also known as Gajanan, meaning “elephant head” and Vighna Vinayaka, the remover of obstacles. Vyasa requested him to help out.’

  ‘Take dictation?’ said Ganapati.

  ‘If you please,’ said Vyasa.

  ‘Very well, I shall,’ said Ganapati, but added the condition, ‘You must not stop at any point or I shall stop writing and go away.’

  ‘We’re taught that the gods love to twist the odds for men just to see how we will react, since Creation is their divine play or lila. Since Vyasa was clever—he had to be, to compose a long and complicated epic like the Mahabharata—he made a counter-condition that Ganapati had to understand every word before he wrote it down. Ganapati was pleased to agree, secretly delighted by this clever move of Vyasa’s. He broke off his own tusk to write with, as proof of goodwill, and they began the task.’

  ‘Every now and then, Vyasa would compose a number of verses in extremely layered and dense language. Ganapati would have to pause to think them through before putting them down on the palm-leaf pages. This allowed Vyasa to draw breath and compose more verses in his head, to stay ahead.’

  ‘We had a workshop at office in which this story came up,’ said the father to the guru. ‘Vyasa’s response to Ganapati’s proviso was pointed out as an example of an organic solution to a problem. Vyasa came up with this pragmatic strategy because he was goal-oriented and intent on fulfilling his mission. They said that this legend was a popular teaching story to inspire focus and concentration, and that its iconic reminder in daily life is the broken tusk on all Ganapati idols.’

  ‘An excellent point,’ said the guru.

  ‘What’s the second story about Ganesha’s tusk, please, Teacher?’ said the child.

  ‘Years ago I saw this story beautifully danced in Thailand in their classical dance style called Khon, and I still relish the memory. The story is from the Brahmanda Purana. It tells of Parshurama or Rama of the Axe who was Lord Vishnu’s sixth avatar. He is believed to have never really gone away but to be meditating even now on earth in a secret cave in the mountains.’

  ‘Lord Shiva had given Parshurama the axe to help him fight the tyrant Kartavirya. When Parshurama’s task was over, he made his way to Mount Kailash where Shiva lived, to return the axe and thank him. But at the mystic mountain, he found his path blocked by Ganapati. Lord Shiva had ordered his son to guard Mount Kailash against all visitors since he was about to go into a long, deep trance and did not want to be disturbed.’

  ‘Parshurama, a devotee of Shiva, was furious at being blocked by Ganapati. “Ho, Devaputr! Move away!” he raged. But Ganapati stood calm and immovable. Losing his temper, Parshurama forgot all propriety and hurled the axe at the Devaputr, the Son of God.’

  ‘Ganapati could have easily deflected the axe. But since it belonged to his father, he did not stop it out of love and respect and let it break his tusk. He couldn’t help crying out in pain though at the force of the blow. Parvati appeared at once, hearing his cry, and roundly ticked off Parshurama for hurting her child. But Shiva was very proud of his staunch, loving son and Ganapati proudly carries his broken tusk ever after because of that.’

  ‘So which story is the right one here—and about the elephant head?’ asked the child.

  ‘You may choose, like I have with the Ramayana,’ said the guru, in all seriousness.

  The family held its breath while the child thought it over.

  ‘Ganapati loved his father very much, didn’t he? So I choose the story about him offering his head himself. That fits with the tusk story that Ganapati let Parshurama break it because he loved his father,’ said the child.

  The family looked quietly at one another, waiting for the guru’s reaction.

  The guru smiled. ‘A good choice,’ he said affectionately. ‘Shiva prema pindam bhaje vakra tundam (Hail the Lord with the broken tusk who is Shiva’s own darling).’ And privately, he thought, ‘Sound emotional logic. How much one learns from children!’ which was the silent opinion of the child’s family as well.

  ‘So Parshurama, like Ashvatthama, never went away from earth,’ noted the mother.

  ‘It’s intriguing how these ancient stories animated so many minds across space and time, and continue to do so,’ said the grandfather.

  ‘And how people still make modaka for Ganapati’s birthday,’ said the grandmother. ‘I can’t imagine why I stopped making them when you went away to college,’ she told her son, who threw up his hands, smiling.

  ‘I wonder if you would like to make a royal umbrella for Ganapati this year on his birthday,’ she said to the child.

  ‘I would! How do I do it?’

  ‘This is a sweet custom for children. When I was a little girl, we had neighbours from many places in India and we happily shared each other’s food and some special customs. So, a month before Ganapati’s birthday, which we call “Ganesh Chaturthi”, I, like the other children in my little group of boys and girls, was told to save and smooth out toffee wrappers in jewel colours for Ganapati’s umbrella for our pujas at home. My mother and I would then go choose a small terracotta idol from the bazaar for
the day that Ganesha “came to live” in our house for ten days on his birthday and it was my duty, as the child of the house, to make his royal umbrella. First, I cut a perfect circle from the cover of an old notebook. Then, a long, thin piece of wood was pierced and glued through its middle for the stem. Then the whole thing had to be covered with crepe paper and toffee wrappers and a nice, neat fringe had to be added. I did my best but did not always get it just right.’

  ‘However, Ganapati is the special god of children, and so my crooked umbrella was ceremonially presented to him. It was such a nice feeling to see my present to him there in the puja. It stayed over him for all ten days until the day of Visarjan, when we took his mud idol to a lake nearby and gently put it in the water to dissolve back into Nature. My mother made mountains of salt and sweet modaka at home for his birthday. She made an extra batch to give to poor children outside the neighbourhood temple where we went every Monday. These steamed or fried rice-flour dumplings had two versions; one with a salted lentil filling, and the other with a sweet filling of coconut and jaggery,’ said the grandmother.

  ‘It sounds delicious,’ said the mother. ‘I love Ganapati. I need his picture or a little statue of him around me always, to feel established and secure about where I am. I couldn’t really bear it otherwise, could you? Looking out at the world, I mean, with its deliberate cruelties? Ganapati is my best and truest anchor in such a world and I feel I know exactly why our people chose him to be a god. Scholars can theorize all they like that we were afraid in the old days of wild elephants destroying our crops and so we “propitiated” them. I don’t think those scholars come from elephant countries. They didn’t grow up with a culture of elephant-whisperers and perhaps they couldn’t understand our natural attraction. We admired and respected elephants and so it’s not surprising to me today that Ganapati is a noble and good-natured presence in our lives.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had such strong feelings about Ganapati,’ said the father, surprised.

  ‘You know I lived in Mumbai where Ganapati is respected by almost everybody,’ said the mother. ‘So I was devastated on a visit to Chennai when I was about eight, to see a bunch of men, their lungis at half-mast above their knees, actually blocking a roadside shrine to Ganapati. The lungied men stopped people from laying down their offerings at the foot of Ganapati’s granite idol. They were such nice offerings of red hibiscus, coconut and bananas, and Ganapati’s noble head shone lustrously black from the oil of a million worshippers’ lamps. But the men had wounding words ready for him instead.’

  ‘Their leader sang loudly,

  Andha Ganapatikku

  Tondi peruthavidam

  Eppadiyenraal . . .

  And the rest chorused,

  Kolakattey thinnadinaley

  Anney, Anney!’

  ‘It means, “Ganapati’s paunch got so big . . . from eating modaka, brother, brother!”’

  ‘How do you remember that when you don’t speak the language?’ said the guru, deeply interested.

  ‘My local ayah had taken me there. She told me the meaning and taught me the words, I insisted on knowing. I’ve never forgotten it. Their sneering words hurt me so much that I started crying. Surely Ganapati would burst out of his idol, ears flaring and trunk raised, to crush them underfoot? But no, not one flower did he bother to drop from the garland around his neck. Instead, he stared benignly into the middle-distance. My ayah produced a hanky and wiped my face.’

  ‘The men, who were part of the “rationalist” political movement out there grew tired because once they were done jeering, they had nothing more to say. The most memorable thing, though, is how the people who had come to pray to Ganapati stood aside and waited. My ayah told me they were just regular, everyday people who went to work, to pull a rickshaw, unload a ship at the harbour, sit at a desk or stand over a stove.’

  ‘They didn’t shout back. All they did was to move into the cool, pungent shade of a neem tree nearby and stand there without moving, waiting for the men to stop shouting and go away. They drew together, carefully holding their offerings of flowers, fruit and coconut. They were silent, patient and calm—and monumental like an elephant. They became like an elephant in their strength and silence. They waited for nearly half an hour without saying a word and so did my ayah and I, watching the drama.’

  ‘I saw that those who loved him really loved him. People could say anything to Ganapati and he was good about it. He was fond and forgiving. That’s why the regular people were there, to say hello nicely with little offerings; and they did not go away until they were done greeting him. They made a long, well-behaved line to get their turn face-to-face with Ganapati and silently tell him whatever they had come to say.’

  ‘I thought that Ganapati was just like a mother—kind, protective and solving all your problems. Mothers could die—you know mine did when I was thirteen. Suddenly, just like that, she was gone and I never saw her again. But the elephant god didn’t go anywhere. I understood that he never would, that he was deeply rooted in the soil. He couldn’t talk to me like my mother had or brush my hair or hold me and tell me stories or sing me to sleep. But he was always there, and I could talk to him. I knew sweet little songs about him and little prayers to say every morning and evening and at his shrines. I could see him on the road, at the temple, at the zoo. I knew I could see him in the jungle, too, if only someone would take a little girl there. And I could always read stories about elephants.’

  The child drew close and the grandmother leaned across to pat the mother’s hand.

  ‘I feel I was there with you,’ she said softly to her daughter-in-law. ‘Speaking of Shiva has made us share these things.’

  ‘The very first elephant film I remember seeing was Hatari!,’ said the father, to give his wife a moment to compose herself. ‘It came out much before my time but they had a special screening at my school because it was interesting for children’.

  ‘Like you, I saw it at a special screening, sitting between my father and his sister at my father’s club,’ responded the mother, appreciating his cue. ‘My aunt was nice to me but I was a bit afraid of my father, who was very tall and very short-tempered. “Hatari” means danger in Swahili and the film began with a terrifying chase after a rhino by American actors playing wildlife catchers.’

  ‘The hero was John Wayne, and the heroine, Elsa Martinelli, played a photographer. They had an argument when she suddenly turned up to photograph his adventures,’ said the father.

  ‘But it took a long time for the scenes with the baby elephants to appear and I squeaked, “When will the elephants come?”’ said the mother, laughing now. ‘My father sternly told me to shut up, and I was frightened into silence at once. My aunt whispered that I had to wait for the elephants. Soon, three little baby elephants got adopted by the heroine and she led them to the pool for a bath with such a funny, bouncy tune playing that I promptly forgot about being afraid. It was the “Baby Elephant Walk”, and I thought Ganapati would have loved it. There were many Indians in that film, it was shot in Tanganyika, which is now part of Tanzania. The shops and streets looked just like those in India and nobody seemed afraid of those three little elephants running around town.’

  ‘Then, my friend’s mother took me to see the Walt Disney film Dumbo, the story of the flying elephant and I felt very sorry for Dumbo through his troubles. I loved the song “Pink Elephants on Parade”. I was so surprised later when other people told me that they were scared by that hallucinatory song. “But it’s about elephants!” I said, and completely failed to see that it could be disturbing for some.’

  ‘I want to see Hatari! and Dumbo,’ said the child.

  ‘You will. We’ll watch it together,’ said her father. ‘And maybe we’ll eat modaka again.’

  ‘We should revive the custom, Ma,’ said the mother. ‘I’ve always been too busy at school and college and work and getting married and being a mom myself to learn to make modaka. But you described it so well that I’m suddenly
inspired to learn.’

  ‘I would love to show you, it’s quite easy. A no-fuss treat for a no-fuss god who doesn’t need grand temples. He’s perfectly at home anywhere you want him—on your desk or out by the road, under a tree or by a little village pond,’ said the grandmother, eyes twinkling.

  ‘I want to learn, too,’ said her son.

  ‘Me, too! I want to learn to make an umbrella and modaka for Ganapati, both,’ said the child.

  ‘Project Ganesh Chaturthi is announced,’ said the grandfather. ‘How did we let this nice festival to this very nice god lapse from our lives? Will you really make modakas? Our son’s childhood comes back to me, thinking of them. My own childhood comes back.’

  ‘And mine,’ put in the guru with a droll look.

  ‘Done!’ said the mother, laughing, and they got up to wash their hands for dinner.

  5

  Malai Mandir

  The family, which had had much to think about all week and put a project on track for Ganapati’s birthday some months away, waited eagerly for Monday to bring the guru back. The modaka lessons had successfully begun, and the mother had made a fresh batch with sweet filling for the guru’s visit. It was the first batch she had made on her own and she looked forward to giving the guru a rightful share of her experiment.

  But the guru, whom they could normally set their clock by, was unaccountably late.

  The family grew restless, waiting for him.

  ‘Should we watch TV while we wait?’ said the father, fiddling with the remote.

  ‘No, let’s not watch TV, please! It will disturb our minds and spoil our satsang mood,’ protested the

  mother.

  ‘Have you called him?’ the grandmother asked the grandfather.

  ‘I have, but his phone is out of range,’ said the grandfather.

  ‘No message from him? Nothing on WhatsApp?’ asked the grandmother anxiously.

  ‘Not a word, it’s so unlike him,’ worried the grandfather.