I realize that all the women have already kept the bhog near Ma’s murti (behind the cloth) and nobody seems to care about the two men holding that cloth. I don’t understand how all of it happened so suddenly. I am very bewildered.
I instantly go to the group of aunties and ask them why the two men covering the puja stage don’t bother them. I rapidly tell them to go and stop those two men from doing so as it doesn’t look good at all to cover such an enchanting murti with a boring cloth. As I finish, I notice everyone laughing at me and getting very amused. I simply stare at them and wonder if I am the only one concerned for the puja. My mother says it has to be done after serving the bhog; those men are just helping us. I curiously ask why it is necessary. One of the aunts clarifies it to me that this ritual has its own significance just like any other one does. She tells me that we, the fellow creatures, are not supposed to witness Ma Durga having the bhog. And thus, they conclude, a huge cloth covers Ma’s area for that time, so as to prevent us from seeing. It makes sense to me now. I catch a glimpse of the men, holding the cloth and my face cracks a wide smile as I realize how funny I had been. I see my sister-brothers calling me to dance with them on the sound of dhaki. Without any worries, I hop and mingle among them. Though I feel like a little person lost in the mayhem of big feet, I know I am most comfortable and safe here than anywhere else. People of different size and ages tap their feet together on the floor. They form a circle, an aunt does a step and everyone starts doing the same with an equal pace. Different people initiate different steps and others accept it heartily. I believe you don’t have to dance well on the beats of dhaki. It is the beat that goes straight through your heart and makes you express the love and ecstasy protruding from it. The beats of dhaki along with shankha and the loved ones create an arena that resembles paradise. I notice everyone through my little eyes and can’t find a single person without a smile on the face.
I dance to the core, not feeling shy anymore, as all I am aware of at present is happiness that I see in everybody’s eyes. Everyone dances like crazy; nobody cares why all of a sudden. I find the cloth being removed as Ma reappears. Once again, I am awestruck by her divine beauty.
Suddenly our parents call us, the kids, to have bhog. They call all kids, guests and the old folk to come and sit comfortably for bhog. The best thing about them is that they are totally unpretentious. If they make someone feel at home, they consider that person a part of their home. I insist with some others to serve the food first and then eat. I wait for the elder brother-sisters to bring buckets and bowls containing food as they go to the area where the food is cooked. They do bring them about a minute later. I ask them to hand me over one flashy steel bucket containing khichdi so I can serve too. They tell me that it would be quite heavy for me to carry and give me a steel bowl containing red, mushy tomato chutney instead. I enjoy serving everyone. People talk to me while I pour the chutney on their round thermocol plates. They tell me how tall I’ve turned and how thin I’ve become, etc. I find it cool; it is a different way to have people talking about you and getting attention by people you don’t even remember. It indeed is a bit funny too. After the first round gets over, everyone forces me to sit and have food because I am very young, as they say. I eat the delicious bhog, enjoying every inch of the food on my plate. I crave for such a taste in my everyday meals but find it nowhere. This bhog, on the other hand, has an exceptional taste. I finish after about half an hour. I pick up my empty plate and glass carefully. I walk to the blue coloured drum in which people are supposed to dispose their garbage. I wash my hands from the water, which is being poured down by a tank that is usually found near farms. A few minutes pass by and I start feeling exhausted. My comforting mother comes and holds my arm softly. She pulls me up calmly and asks me to go home with her. We walk home silently as I notice my sister and her friends making ridiculous faces and laughing nonstop. Such a view spreads a faded smile on my face. Tonight I have my group performance and I need rest. I get home with my mother quietly, feeling glad that she took me home.
Suddenly our parents call us, the kids, to have bhog. They call all kids, guests and the old folk to come and sit comfortably for bhog. The best thing about them is that they are totally unpretentious. If they make someone feel at home, they consider that person a part of their home. I insist with some others to serve the food first and then eat. I wait for the elder brother-sisters to bring buckets and bowls containing food as they go to the area where the food is cooked. They do bring them about a minute later. I ask them to hand me over one flashy steel bucket containing khichdi so I can serve too. They tell me that it would be quite heavy for me to carry and give me a steel bowl containing red, mushy tomato chutney instead. I enjoy serving everyone. People talk to me while I pour the chutney on their round thermocol plates. They tell me how tall I’ve turned and how thin I’ve become, etc. I find it cool; it is a different way to have people talking about you and getting attention by people you don’t even remember. It indeed is a bit funny too. After the first round gets over, everyone forces me to sit and have food because I am very young, as they say. I eat the delicious bhog, enjoying every inch of the food on my plate. I crave for such a taste in my everyday meals but find it nowhere. This bhog, on the other hand, has an exceptional taste. I finish after about half an hour. I pick up my empty plate and glass carefully. I walk to the blue coloured drum in which people are supposed to dispose their garbage. I wash my hands from the water, which is being poured down by a tank that is usually found near farms. A few minutes pass by and I start feeling exhausted. My comforting mother comes and holds my arm softly. She pulls me up calmly and asks me to go home with her. We walk home silently as I notice my sister and her friends making ridiculous faces and laughing nonstop. Such a view spreads a faded smile on my face. Tonight I have my group performance and I need rest. I get home with my mother quietly, feeling glad that she took me home.
It’s five in the evening and I must start getting ready for the performance as soon as possible. I clean my face, wash my feet, brush my hair and go sit in front of my mother. I see beside her a white saree with red borders. I consider it to be pretty beautiful. My mother bends over to my feet and dips a brush into a little bottle that contains pure red, semitransparent liquid. She begins to paint my toes with the brush dipped in the liquid. Initially it tickles quite a lot, making me giggle uncontrollably. As she brushes the strokes through the lining of my feet and goes on, I get use to it. She does the same on my hands as well. I look attractive due to it. My mother feels very happy to see me like this, which is very much visible in her eyes. She makes me wear the white saree with red borders that is specially made for me. I run to look myself in the mirror, though I have to hold the cloth a little up from my feet to run without tripping over. I tell my mother that I look weird now, but she asks me to let her complete my makeover. And so she does. She makes up my eyes, applies lipstick and foundation. My favourite part is the flower bracelet and headgear she makes me wear. The bracelet fits in my hands perfectly. The headgears, I fear they would fall during the dance performance even though they look lovely.
My friends and I sit in the green room before the performance. I don’t get nervous before this dance because I know that after practicing, even Michael Jackson’s moonwalk seems easy. I have been practicing for this night since a month and right now, I am more excited than nervous. Our aunt tells us that are lipstick is fading away very quickly as we are licking it off. She has to carry a lipstick with her in the green room because of this. There is just one friend of mine who doesn’t lick her lipstick. She is indeed mature more than us in different ways. After licking my lipstick off for about three times, I realize that it has a horrible taste, maybe worse than that. We hear someone announce that our performance is next. Now is the time when I am getting nervous. I see my mother coming hurriedly to me. She fixes my saree from every angle, applies lipstick on my lips and asks me to try to walk around. I do as she says. She asks me if the length of the saree is troubling me or if I feel like I would fall. I tell her not to worry because everything is fine.
Our names are taken on the stage, I shiver a little, then walk slowly to the stage, keeping my feet on the ground softly. Our song starts and we start to dance. The cameras flash at us from all directions. They distract me but I am successful in ignoring them. I don’t notice the audience at all, instead, I keep peeping from the corner of my eye in the green room where my mother stands, waiting for me. I feel delightful as I move. The whole scenario seems amazing but I accidently turn to the wrong direction to leave and remember that I am leading the line. I look behind immediately hoping that all the girls turned this way….
….To be continued
My friends and I sit in the green room before the performance. I don’t get nervous before this dance because I know that after practicing, even Michael Jackson’s moonwalk seems easy. I have been practicing for this night since a month and right now, I am more excited than nervous. Our aunt tells us that are lipstick is fading away very quickly as we are licking it off. She has to carry a lipstick with her in the green room because of this. There is just one friend of mine who doesn’t lick her lipstick. She is indeed mature more than us in different ways. After licking my lipstick off for about three times, I realize that it has a horrible taste, maybe worse than that. We hear someone announce that our performance is next. Now is the time when I am getting nervous. I see my mother coming hurriedly to me. She fixes my saree from every angle, applies lipstick on my lips and asks me to try to walk around. I do as she says. She asks me if the length of the saree is troubling me or if I feel like I would fall. I tell her not to worry because everything is fine.
Our names are taken on the stage, I shiver a little, then walk slowly to the stage, keeping my feet on the ground softly. Our song starts and we start to dance. The cameras flash at us from all directions. They distract me but I am successful in ignoring them. I don’t notice the audience at all, instead, I keep peeping from the corner of my eye in the green room where my mother stands, waiting for me. I feel delightful as I move. The whole scenario seems amazing but I accidently turn to the wrong direction to leave and remember that I am leading the line. I look behind immediately hoping that all the girls turned this way….
….To be continued
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