Seasons of Splendour

by Madhur Jaffrey

  The following year, on the day of Karvachauth, the first of the Earth Mothers appeared before the sister, dressed in pink and silver and wearing a big pearl nose-ring. Her face gleamed with beauty like the moon. As she approached the weeping girl, she said,

  ‘O sister of seven brothers,

  You couldn’t stay hungry

  And you couldn’t stay thirsty.

  Come give me your Karva pot.’

  The weeping girl looked up at this radiant apparition and cried, ‘Please don’t say that. Instead, give life to my husband and say what you are supposed to say, which is – O happily married woman, take my Karva pot and give me yours.’ But the first goddess only shook her head, saying, ‘I cannot do as you ask. But my sister will be passing through soon. Speak to her.’

  The girl waited and soon the second goddess came. She was dressed in green and gold and wore an emerald nose-ring. She was not as beautiful as the first goddess, as her eyes looked like those of a fox. She said,

  ‘O sister of seven brothers,

  You couldn’t stay hungry

  And you couldn’t stay thirsty.

  Come give me your Karva pot.’

  The girl wailed, ‘Please don’t say that. Instead, say what you are supposed to say, which is – O happily married woman, take my Karva pot and give me yours.’ The second goddess shook her head, saying, ‘I cannot do as you ask. But my sister will be passing through soon. Speak to her.’

  Soon, the third goddess came. She wore yellow and had the face of a rat. Her words were the same as her sisters’. The fourth goddess wore purple and had the face of a toad; the fifth goddess wore red and had the face of a bat; the sixth goddess wore blue and had the face of a lizard; the seventh goddess wore grey and had the face of a scorpion; the eighth goddess wore black and had the face of a snake. Each goddess refused to help the poor girl and referred her to her next sister.

  The girl was moaning desperately now. She heard a jingling of bells in the forest and was sure the last Earth Mother was at hand. Suddenly, from behind her, a most hideous apparition leaped out. It looked like nothing she had seen even in her worst nightmares. The creature had one eye placed haphazardly on a triangular face. The rest of the face consisted of puffy green cheeks and nine sharp, curved fangs. The body, looking more like a misshapen lump, was balanced on two webbed feet which were engaged in some gruesome dance round and round the poor girl who still sat with her husband’s body in her lap. This horrible creature laughed and screeched and began the familiar chant,

  ‘O sister of seven brothers,

  You couldn’t stay hungry

  And you couldn’t …’

  But the girl did not let her finish. She clung to those ugly feet, wailing, ‘I won’t let you go until you give life to my husband and say what you are supposed to say, which is – O happily married woman, take my Karva pot and give me yours.’

  The ninth goddess tried to pull her feet away, but the girl held on, sobbing and beating her head against the ground. Finally, the goddess, touched by the girl’s determination, relented and said, ‘Let it be as you ask.’

  There was a flash of lightning. The ugly creature had vanished and in its place stood the dazzling first goddess in pink and silver. She restored the girl’s husband back to life, saying, ‘Come, exchange Karva pots with me.’

  The two women sat opposite each other and as one said, ‘O happily married woman, take my Karva pot,’ the other answered with, ‘O happily married woman, give me your Karva pot.’ They said this again and again, nine times over.

  Then the goddess got up to leave. As she left, she warned, ‘If you want your husband to stay alive, then every year, on the day of Karvachauth, you must fast from sunrise until the moon appears – and remember to pray to the nine Earth Mothers.’ So saying, she disappeared into the darkness of the forest …

  Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and good fortune, lives with the stars in the sky but she loves to look down and see lights twinkling on earth as well. So, to please her, once a year on Divali day – which fell on a dark New Moon day in November – we were in the habit of decorating the outside of our home with tiny oil lamps.

  It was not just the outside that we decorated. Lakshmi demanded that the entire house sparkle with cleanliness and beauty. This kind of demand suited my father just perfectly. He enjoyed everything to do with improving the house. He used the time just before Divali not only to get the house painted but to add a room here, a courtyard there, and a verandah somewhere else. Divali, which came in late autumn, was, of course, the best time to do this. The monsoons were over and a brisk, sunny winter was about to begin.

  Scores of workmen would descend upon the house and begin to scrape doors, window frames and walls. Meanwhile, we would all pore over shade charts, picking out different colours for different rooms. I remember one year, when I was about five, we picked the newest shade on the shade chart, mauve, for the children’s study, with mouldings to be painted in gold.

  I had never heard of the colour mauve before. I went around saying, ‘mauve, mauve,’ to the parrots that flew over our garden and to my friends who raced tricycles with me. The word was so new and exciting. When the study was finished, we were sure it would win Lakshmi’s approval.

  Divali day was a holiday for the whole country. While I tied a fresh ribbon in my hair, thousands of tiny oil lamps were lined along the parapet of our roof and on every windowsill, doorway and ledge. Nothing was lit until after evening prayers – and after my mother had told us the Divali story. By this time it would be quite dark. We would run outside and begin lighting the lamps, one by one.

  Soon the whole house would be glittering, as would our neighbour’s house and the house next to that. The whole country was probably glittering, just like our neighbourhood. Then it was time for the fireworks. My father would aim a fiery rocket towards the sky. I would take a long sparkler, stand in the middle of the lawn and then turn round and round and round until I seemed encircled by my very own glow.

  Lakshmi and the Clever Washerwoman

  Once upon a time, a king and queen lived in a beautiful palace. The Queen was rather spoiled and vain. Every Divali, she would ask her husband for the most expensive presents. Each year, the King gave her whatever she asked for, however difficult it was for him to get it.

  One particular year, the Queen had asked for a seven-string necklace of large pearls.

  The King sent a thousand divers to the far corners of the earth searching for those pearls. Just before Divali, the divers returned. They had, at great peril to their own lives, found just the right oysters and, from them, pulled out only those rare pearls that were large and perfect.

  The grateful King thanked the divers profusely and gave them large sums of money for their labours. He sent the pearls to the royal jeweller to be strung and on Divali morning he was able to present his wife with the gift she desired.

  The Queen was jubilant. She put on the necklace and immediately ran to the mirror to admire herself. She turned her head this way and that, convinced that she was, indeed, the most beautiful creature in the whole world.

  It was the Queen’s custom to go to the river every morning to bathe, accompanied by a bevy of handmaidens. On this particular morning when she got to the river bank, she undressed and, just as she was poised to dive into the water, she remembered that she was still wearing her seven-string necklace of pearls.

  So she stopped and took it off, laying it on top of her clothes. ‘Watch my necklace,’ she called as she dived off a rock.

  The handmaidens watched the necklace carefully, but something happened which even they were unprepared for. A crow flew down from a nearby tree, picked up the necklace and flew away with it. The handmaidens screamed and shouted but it was no use. The crow had flown out of their sight.

  When the Queen found out what had happened she cried with frustration and anger. She went back to the palace and, still sobbing, told the King of her misadventure. The King tried to console her, saying
that he would get her a prettier necklace but the Queen pouted and said that she would not be happy until her seven-string necklace was found.

  So the King summoned his drummers and heralds. He ordered them to go to every town and village in the kingdom, telling the people that a reward would be offered to anyone who found the Queen’s necklace.

  Meanwhile, the crow had flown from the manicured palace grounds to one of the lowliest slum areas. Here he dropped the necklace on the doorstep of a poor washerwoman’s hut.

  The washerwoman did not live alone. She shared the hut with her constant companion, an old, toothless crone, called Poverty. The two were not particularly fond of each other but they had been together ever since the washerwoman could remember and had become quite used to each other’s ways.

  As it happened, the two occupants of the hut were away when the crow flew by. The washerwoman was collecting dirty laundry and Poverty, as usual, was accompanying her. On their way home, they passed the village market where they stopped to hear the King’s drummers and the proclamation about the Queen’s necklace. Poverty began to cackle, ‘Oh, the ways of royalty! What will they lose next? Why do they bother us common people with their antics!’

  But the washerwoman was thinking other thoughts. She had never owned any jewellery and wondered how she would look in a seven-string necklace.

  When they got home and the washerwoman put her bundles down, the first thing she noticed was the pearl necklace lying on her doorstep. She picked it up and was about to put it on when a thought occurred to her. ‘I have an errand to run,’ she told Poverty, ‘I will be back in a minute.’ So saying, she rushed off with the necklace and headed straight for the King’s palace.

  The guards tried to stop her but when she told them what she was carrying, they escorted her directly to the King.

  The King was very happy to get his wife’s necklace back. He praised the washerwoman for her honesty and then, picking up a large purse containing the reward money, he said, ‘Here, take this for your pains. It should keep you well fed and well clothed for the rest of your days.’

  To his surprise, the King found himself being refused. The washerwoman seemed to have something else in mind. She said, ‘I am a poor, humble washerwoman, your majesty. I do not want the money which you are so kindly offering me. There is one favour, however, that I hope you will grant me. Today is Divali. I want you to decree that no one, not even you, will light any oil lamps in his home. Today I want all houses to be dark. All except mine. I want mine to be the only lighted house in the entire kingdom.’

  The King, grateful that he had got off so lightly, agreed. He sent out his drummers and heralds with the decree as he had promised. He ordered his palace servants to take down all the oil lamps and to put them into storage for the following year.

  The washerwoman rushed home, buying as many oil lamps along the way as she could afford. She arranged these carefully outside her hut and waited.

  Night fell. The washerwoman lit all her lamps and looked around. The rest of the kingdom to the north, south, east and west, lay in total darkness.

  Lakshmi had, of course, left the heavens and was ready to perform her yearly duty of going from house to house, blessing with prosperity all those that were well lit. This year, something was wrong. There were no lights to be seen anywhere. Poor Lakshmi stumbled along in the darkness, from one house to another, but nowhere could she see the slightest trace of a welcoming glimmer.

  Suddenly she spotted a glow of bright lights far away in the distance. She began running towards it.

  It was the middle of the night when a very exhausted Lakshmi got to the washerwoman’s hut. She began pounding on the door, crying, ‘Let me in, let me in!’

  This was the moment that the washerwoman had been waiting for. She called out to Lakshmi, saying, ‘I will let you in only on the condition that you stay with me for seven generations.’ Just then, the washerwoman looked behind her and saw Poverty trying to creep out through the back door. She rushed to the door and locked it. Poverty began to shout, ‘Let me out, let me out! You know there isn’t room in this hut for both Lakshmi and me.’

  So the washerwoman said, ‘All right, I will let you go but only on the condition that you do not return for seven generations.’ Poverty said, ‘Yes, yes, I will do as you ask. Just let me out of this place. I cannot stand the sight of Lakshmi.’ At that the washerwoman opened the back door and Poverty rushed out.

  Then she hurried to the front door where Lakshmi was pounding desperately and crying, ‘Let me in, let me in.’

  ‘Only on the condition that you stay with me for seven generations,’ the washerwoman repeated.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Lakshmi, ‘I will do anything you ask, only let me in.’

  And so the poor washerwoman let Lakshmi into her home and it was blessed with wealth and prosperity for seven generations.

  Holi is the Indian Spring Festival, a time when winter crops, such as wheat and mustard seeds, are harvested.

  I cannot tell you how much I looked forward to this festival. In fact, I longed for it a good three hundred and sixty-four days of the year.

  The reason was that our whole family did such unusual things to celebrate Holi.

  First of all, on the day of the full moon around late February or early March, we built a huge bonfire. This was called ‘burning Holi’, because on this day, ages ago, a wicked princess, Holika, was consumed by flames that she had intended for her innocent nephew Prahlad.

  Frankly, I cared less for Holika, who was burnt in ancient history, than I did for the stuff we actually threw into our own bonfire. We threw whole sheafs of green wheat, whole bundles of green chickpeas, still on their stalks, pine cones filled with strategically hidden pine nuts, and then watched them as their skins got charred.

  Only the outside skins were allowed to burn. That was the trick. Each one of us then used a stick to pull out whatever we wanted to eat. My favourite was the chickpeas – tiny chickpeas still in their green skins. Of course, the skins would turn brownish-black but the peas themselves would be deliciously roasted. Everything would be hot – we would almost burn our fingers trying to peel the chickpeas and remove the shells from the pine nuts. Their taste would have to last us for the rest of the year as we licked our lips and remembered. By the end of it all, our faces were black and our clothes and hands were sooty, but no one seemed to mind, not even our parents.

  The funny thing about Holi was that we could ‘burn’ it one night and ‘play’ it the next morning. While the ‘burning’ had to do, naturally, with fire, the ‘playing’ had to do with water and colours.

  It was said that Lord Krishna, the blue god, played Holi with the milkmaids, so who were we to do any less?

  As the Spring Festival approached, an army of us young cousins would, in great secrecy and in competing groups, begin its preparation of colours.

  At Holi, all Indians, of all ages, have the licence to rub or throw colours – water-based, oil-based or in powder form – on the victims of their choice. No one is considered worthy of exemption, dignified grandmothers included.

  Holi is a leveller, and there was no one we wanted to level more than those against whom we held grudges. A special ugly colour was prepared for them.

  First, we would go to the garage and call on one of the chauffeurs.

  ‘Masoom Ali? Masoom Ali?’ we would call.

  Masoom Ali would poke his head out from the pit under the gleaming Ford. ‘I am busy. Why are you children always disturbing me? Always coming here to eat my head. Barrister Sa’ab, your grandfather, wants the car at noon and I still have much work to do.’

  ‘Just give us some of the dirtiest grease from under the car.’

  ‘So, Holi is upon us again? Why don’t you children use the normal red, green and yellow colours?’

  ‘If you give us the grease, we won’t spray you with the awful magenta paint we have prepared in the garden watertank. It is a fast colour too.’

  ‘Threateni
ng an old man, are you! All right, all right. Just stop annoying me.’

  The grease would be combined with mud, slime and permanent purple dye. The concoction would be reserved for the lowliest enemies. Elderly relatives got a sampling of the more dignified, store-bought powders, yellow, red and green. For our best friends, we prepared a golden paint, carefully mixing real gilt and oil in a small jar. This expensive colour, would, as I grew older, be saved only for those members of the opposite sex on whom I had the severest crushes – transforming them, with one swift application, into golden gods.

  The Wicked King and his Good Son

  Hiranya Kashyap thought very highly of himself. He was good-looking, rich – and he was the King. What more could anyone want? One day, a wise Sage, who could see into the past and the future, came to him and said, ‘Your majesty, according to what I see in the stars, you cannot be killed by man, beast or weapons, during the day or during the night, on earth or in water, inside a house or, indeed, outside it.’

  That, as far as King Hiranya Kashyap was concerned, made him immortal. If he was arrogant before, he now became unbearable and was very cruel to those subjects who did not flatter him endlessly. If he said, ‘This bread is stale,’ all his palace cooks would have to agree and throw it out, even if they had just cooked it. If he said, ‘The River Ganges flows up from the sea to the Himalaya Mountains,’ all the courtiers would have to nod their heads in agreement even though they knew that the Ganges began as a series of cool, icy trickles from the cracks of the world’s highest mountains and then flowed, slowly and gracefully, down to the sea.

  The sad fact of the matter was that Hiranya Kashyap thought he was God. Not only did he make his subjects kneel and pray to him but he bullied and tortured those who did not.