The pandals, which may be erected on sidewalks or street-corners, in public parks or cul-de-sacs, may be more or less elaborate; some are simply tarpaulin lean-tos, others (where subscriptions or donations add up to large sums) can be extraordinarily ornate, skilfully built to resemble a large temple, perhaps, or the Parliament House in New Delhi, or a small fort, or even the Taj Mahal, depending on the fancy of the committee in charge (after all, there is no place on earth where the power of the Goddess is not present!). Often intricate patterns of flashing and coloured lights line the access to the pandal and/or silhouette it. Its interior can also be exquisitely decorated.
Great care is taken to ensure that each tableau of images is distinctively styled and apparelled, and intense rivalry between various groups can develop in respect of the design and decoration of their pandals and tableaux. Soon after the major festivities have begun (by the sixth day), well-publicized and commercially sponsored prizes for the most creative images and pandals, judged by leading public figures, are awarded to the four or five most artistically impressive creations. These imaginative displays encourage huge crowds of people to visit as many outstanding pandals as is practicable. Because interaction between Kolkata and rural areas is increasing, there is a growing tendency for village pūjā-celebrations to ape those of the capital city. The pandals are, in fact, ‘sets’ used not only to house the images, but also to stage the cultural programmes (recitation of poetry, skits, dance) that often follow the religious part of the festival.
The images of the tableaux are traditionally made of unbaked clay, as are the images for the annual festivals of other deities in Bengal, e.g. Lakṣmī, whose feast is celebrated on the full-moon day of the month of Asvina; Kali, whose feast is on the new-moon night of Kārttika (to coincide with Dīwālī);and Sarasvatī, who is feted in the bright fortnight of Māgha, viz. January–February. This practice has continued for about 300 years, though there is little doubt that it has an even longer history. In recent times, however, faddists have used more unconventional substances from which to construct the images on occasion, such as the white pith (śola) of the water reed aeschynomere aspera, papier-mache, foil, wicker etc. But the overwhelming majority of images are made from unbaked clay: they must be disposed of at the end of the pūjā, and for this clay is suitable – it dissolves eventually in the river-waters in which the images are invariably immersed.
Inside the pandal, the tableau of images is placed on a raised platform before which the votaries of the Goddess worship. In the city's major pandals, the central image can be huge, sometimes reaching a height of 15 ft or more when placed on its pedestal. Durgā, light-complexioned and wearing a gorgeous sari, is, as indicated earlier, eight-armed and mounted on a snarling lion. Her vāhana portrays her fierce, warrior-status, not she. She is invariably depicted as having a smiling, serene countenance, as if the slaying of the buffalo-demon is no trouble at all! This is an old tradition: in a large and impressive carving of stone in a cave-like shelter in Mamallapuram (ca. seventh century), there is a depiction of Durgā Mahiṣāsuramardinī in which the Goddess wears the same sublime expression.
The Durgā of the pūjā-tableaux is shown dispatching the buffalo-demon with a lance or trident held in one right hand; Mahiṣa is usually depicted as a dark, muscular, moustachioed man in a loin-cloth, emerging from or standing next to a gory buffalo in its death throes. In other hands the Goddess carries a spoked disc, a bell, a scimitar, bow, arrow, mace, shell, etc. (these objects, each with a particular significance, may vary slightly from image to image and hand to hand). Sarasvatī and Lakṣmī are recognizable by their distinctive attributes – their vāhanas (the swan and here the owl, respectively), Sarasvatī’s lute etc. – as are Gaṇeśa and Kārttikeya (the latter accompanied by his peacock).
Although Vālmīki's Rāmāyaṇa makes no mention of it, later mythological texts record how Rāma successfully importuned Durgā to help him overcome Rāvaṇa in his quest to rescue Sītā. So ṣaṣṭhī, or the sixth day of the festival, represents the moment when the deity was unseasonably awoken from deep sleep (during the period when the created world was in its suspended state) to use her power in the battle against Rāvaṇa – unseasonably’ because it is claimed that the earlier tradition was to worship the Goddess in spring, and Rāma wanted the Goddess’ help in the preceding autumn. New items of clothing are worn on this day. On saptamī, the seventh day, Durgā’s image is consecrated and animated. As described earlier, this rite includes ritually bathing the image (or rather its reflection in a small mirror). This is the time when the ḍākīs or drummers begin their task. Standing in the presence of the image(s), usually in groups of two or three, the ḍākīs beat (with sticks) two-faced elongated drums, suspended from their shoulders, accompanied by other men who strike the kāgsa (a small brass disk) also with a stick. The beaters keep up a thunderous and continuous rhythm during certain parts of the day when prescribed rituals of worship are in progress. The martial sound of these drums reflects the warrior qualities of the Goddess;the beat can vary intricately and reaches a frenzied pitch at its climax.
The daily pattern of worship now unfolds. As in the temple, in the pandal too standard rites such as waking the deities in the morning, taking leave of them at night and so on, are observed by the attendant priests. There is also the rite of flower-offerings (añjali) for the public in the morning. Worshippers, under the direction of the priest, gather in front of the dais, and at intervals thrice throw a flower or two towards the tableau. In the process, they may offer a silent prayer. Towards midday, large quantities of food may be cooked (depending on the size of the site); after this has been ritually offered to the deity at the appropriate time of day, it is distributed as prasāda to those present.
The most impressive period of worship is during the evening ārati. In large pandals, crowds come in droves, taking their turn to stand rapt before the images of the Goddess and her companion deities. They seem to be mesmerised by the roll of the drums as the Brahmin priest, sometimes dancing a slow and dignified jig, his bare torso displaying the sacred thread and gleaming with perspiration in the glare of the lights, solemnly waves an oil-lamp, incense etc. in time-honoured fashion before the Goddess. She smiles benignly as she towers above him, impressive in the display of her power over the hapless demon. The atmosphere is highly charged. One is reminded of Swami Vivekananda's Bengali rhyme about the underlying meaning of image-worship:
Hindus do not worship dolls made from wood and clay.
They see the Spirit in the mud, and their souls clean melt away!2
One can almost feel Durgā’s magnetism absorbing her votaries’ souls. On leaving the Presence, the spell is broken. The flashing illuminations and the joyousness of the occasion take over and the worshipper moves on to visit another pandal, in the hope of renewing the experience.
On aṣṭami, the eighth day, the Goddess’ victory over evil is complete and the daily routine includes a fast till midday by the more pious, and fire-offerings (homa) by the priests in the deity's presence. Daśamī is the tenth and last day of Durgā’s sojourn. In the morning, (usually) married women, after taking a ritual bath, visit the image with small containers of vermilion for a blessing. Traditional-minded Hindu women who are married, generally dab some of the red powder on the tip of the forehead, at the parting of the hair, to signify their marital state. The blessed vermilion will be used for this purpose in the coming year.
The ārati of the day is particularly solemn, for it is a kind of farewell. Late in the evening the tableaux of images are placed in open trucks and other forms of transport (where the images can be seen), and, amid processions noisy with drumming and music, are carried to the bank of the Hooghly river. These (mostly male) processions are occasions for revelry, and it is common to see young men dancing and gyrating in various stages of alcoholic and/or narcotic intoxication. The mood among the general populace is mixed. A good time has been had by all but the Goddess is being seen off once again to her
marital home, and the immersion of the images in the dark waters of the river marks the end of a protracted, exhilarating celebration and a return to the routine and rigours of everyday life – until the following yearl
The Hindu liturgical year comprises a round of religious festivals, more or less localized, during which the votary is encouraged to reflect on such themes as the deity's providential concern for the world, the victory of the human spirit, with divine assistance, over the powers of ignorance and evil, the renewal of life's vital forces through such actions as sowing, harvesting, giving birth, etc., the transition from death to new life, the healing of disease and grief, the blessing of the professional tools needed for the production of various artefacts (nowadays computers and the like are included), etc. Followed throughout the liturgical year, these observances humanize daily life and make it more bearable, not least because they are usually conducted in a spirit of joyful solidarity with members of one's family, caste and wider community. In fact, this (last) feature may well be reckoned as the characteristic mark of the Hindu observance of religious festivals.
The paths to spiritual fulfilment
Most Hindus who are educated at least to some extent in their faith are apt to describe these paths as one or other kind of yoga or sādhana – discipline. The more well-known word in the West, yoga, has been derived from the root yuj, which means to bond or yoke. The term has an ancient Sanskrit pedigree. It is found in this sense in RV. 5.81.1, for example: ‘The knowledgeable yoke the mind, they yoke understanding ...’(yuñjate mana utayuñjate dhiyo viprāḥ);in the Upaniṣads, e.g. Bṛhadāraṇyaka Up. 4.3.10: ‘There are no chariots there, no (animals) yoked to chariots (na tatra rathāḥ na rathayogāḥ ... bhavanti). Ian Whicher has shown (1998: Chapter 1) how this meaning develops from signifying the yoking or harnessing of external things like hymns and the devas with the sacrificial ritual (yajña), animals with carts etc., to an internal yoking, e.g. the union between the senses, to a method of integration or union. So there is a broad and a specialized sense of the term;the latter occurs in the ancient system of Patañjali (see Chapter 9) where it refers to a particular theory-cum-practice intended to coordinate mind and body for the attainment of a form of self-mastery over passions, etc. in this life, and ultimate liberation thereafter once the bonds of karma and rebirth have been slipped.
This developed system is called aṣṭāga or ‘eight-limbed’ yoga, also Pātañjala (viz. ‘derived from Patañjali’) and Rāja (‘royal’) yoga. The eight ‘limbs’ are given as follows: (i) yama, i.e. restraining one's thought and behaviour by the practice of certain virtues such as abstaining from injury to living beings, from lying, theft etc.; (ii) niyama, that is, practising such observances as cleanliness, contentment with one's lot, and mindfulness of the Lord (īśvara) as Exemplar of the practice; (iii) asana, or physical posture(s) conducive to concentration; (iv) prāṇāyāma, i.e. ‘breath-control’ to focus concentration;(v) pratyāhāra or sense withdrawal, both physically (so that the senses are not excited by their usual stimuli), and mentally (to the point of being detached from sense gratification); (vi) dhāraṇa or holding the concentration steady; (vii) dhyāna or mentally targeting the object of concentration in unwavering fashion; and (viii) samādhi, focusing on the object of concentration to the point of perfect mind control, and subordinating the mind to the purposes of spirit or puruṣa within. Once the aspirant has mastered these limbs, he becomes a perfect yogī, in full self-control, and empowered to radiate the energy of puruṣa as a beneficent influence to all and sundry. As one progresses in this discipline, the various ‘limbs’ function together, so much so that in the end the adept is perfectly co-ordinated (yukta) in mind and body. At death, he is then able to attain the Goal of Pātañjala Yoga, viz. a purely spiritual state of self-awareness and bliss.
But in the non-Patanjala sense, one might speak of many forms of yoga: haṭhayoga (the perfecting of various physical postures and techniques – to some extent the Yoga of the TV screen and manuals in the shops, not to mention modern Yoga schools3), kuṇḍalinī yoga (the discipline of a number of Tantric and other schools), jñāna yoga (the using of knowledge or focused contemplation to attain one's goal), bhakti yoga (the path of devotion to a deity), karma yoga (the discipline of selfless or dedicated action), even Christian yoga (the path a Christian may follow to attain his/her final goal by incorporating aspects of one or other of the yogas mentioned above), and so on (see Feuerstein 1975 for further details about some of these forms of yoga). Sometimes in books on Hinduism it is said that three kinds of yoga in particular – jñāna yoga, karma yoga and bhakti yoga – are relevant for the attainment of all Hindu religious goals: this may happen by the three combining more or less equally or by one dominating or superseding the others. This is an overly ambitious claim, of course, and has only limited value with regard to the gamut of religious objectives present in Hinduism. It may apply, perhaps, to understanding Vedantic goals, but it does not necessarily apply to Tantra.
With this proviso in mind, we can now look at the way the great Vedāntin, Śaṃkara, considered jñāna yoga or a certain discipline of ‘knowledge’, rather than karma yoga or bhakti yoga, to be the effective route to liberation. Since Śaṃkara was an Advaitin, that is, a proponent of absolute monism as the final state of being, his emphasis on jñāna or ‘knowledge’ as the means to liberation makes good sense. This is because, in the final analysis for Śaṃkara, only one Reality remains – the utterly pure, homogeneous, undifferentiated, ineffable Spirit called brāhman. The world of differentiated being, of which we, as potential devotees (bhaktas), are a part, has only provisional reality for Śaṃkara; once enlightenment is attained, all distinctions vanish – ‘like water poured into water, and oil into oil’ – and any ‘gap’ between object of devotion and devotee ceases to obtain. So devotion (bhakti) cannot be a permanent path to salvation for Advaita. Nor can karma or action.
For Śaṃkara action tends to involve us in a world of distinctions and tensions – the performance of sacrifice and worship, likely as not in the life of a householder with its plethora of concerns for the dharma of right relationships, including those of family and caste. This ultimately unenlightened path leads to renewed karma and rebirth, rather than to the (monistic) state of liberation. Only niṣkāma or selfless action can avoid the build-up of fresh karma, and destroy accrued karma. And this state of renunciation is very difficult to attain. This is where Śaṃkara makes provision for a limited role for bhakti and worldly action, taking his cue from the teaching of the Gītā. Selfless devotion to Kṛṣṇa as the Supreme Person (puruṣottama) can destroy past karma and avoid building up a fresh stock only in so far as it helps us to abandon egoistic action, and a stage must necessarily come on the path to Advaitic enlightenment, either in this life or in a subsequent one, when the aspirant realizes that the discipline of bhakti yoga cannot achieve the ultimate goal, for it invokes the dualistic mentality of affirming a devotee and an object of devotion. Ultimately these distinctions must vanish through contemplation (jñāna) of the truth of actual identity between the supreme brāhman and the core of the individual self (the jīvātman), in fact, of the truth that there is ultimately only one pure, undifferentiated Being.
For monists of all kinds then, whether these be Vedāntins, Tantrics, or otherwise, paths relying on a dualistic mentality, like those of bhakti and karma, have at most a limited value – enhanced perhaps by the fact that they may be psychologically congenial in preliminary stages of the discipline – and they must be superseded eventually by techniques and processes of contemplation/meditation, with appropriate content (jñāna), that have a monistic goal in view; any deliberate actions, ritual or otherwise, that continue at this stage must be performed within the framework of this non-dual, non-egocentric mentality. This is one important, if minority, path to spiritual fulfilment in Hinduism. It is important because, in Hindu tradition, it has been held up as an ideal by members of the intellectual elite; how many people hav
e actually embraced it or practised it successfully is, of course, another question.
At the other end of the spectrum, in Śaṃkara's time, were the pluralistic paths, reliant on one kind of action or other, of the Karma MimaImsakas or Ritualists and the bhaktas or devotionalists. We have met the Ritualists at some length earlier in the book. As their name implies, they emphasized the role of action in attaining human fulfilment. This action par excellence was the performance of the Vedic solemn ritual (yajña) and its constituent, intricate web of physical and mental acts – a very pluralistic frame of reference indeed. Such action in their view – and not some speculative monistic or theistic experience (jñāna, anubhava) – led to well-being in this life and the next. We have mentioned earlier that this view was superseded in time by that of Vedānta (broadly conceived), whilst its underlying emphases on the efficacy of ritual seem to have ramified into the performance of the ritual of pūjā on the one hand, and – possibly – aspects of Tantric practice, on the other. But it must not be thought that Vedic Ritualism itself is defunct today – this is far from being the case. It seems to have resurfaced in various ways (not least in the implementation of the saṃskāras), and even continues as a practice in its own right, as the following example shows:
Hindus: Their Religious Beliefs and Practices (The Library of Religious Beliefs and Practices) Page 60