Kanjeevarams, Bhajans and Me!

by Kausalya Mohan Babu @ Sulekha.com

I never thought that I would find more need for my heavy Kanjeevaram saris in a scenic Mid-West town in the US, than I ever did in India. Soon after my marriage, I had packed a couple of those exquisite silks into my US-bound suitcase with a 'just in case' shrug.

A few days later, along with my new hubby and an overloaded suitcase, I landed travel-weary at the immigration terminal of a buzzing US airport.

One of the first things I did after settling down to a life that came with a new prefix (Mrs.) and a different suffix (Mohan Babu) added to my name, was to send my precious saris to the top most shelf of the rack in our ill-lit anteroom. Stay there for a while, I said, getting down from the stool that I had used to accomplish the bittersweet task.

Soon thereafter, I was consumed by a lifestyle that did catch my fancy in small ways initially. The hassle-free shopping at the neighborhood Wal-Mart, a quick 'For Here' or 'To Go' grub grabbed at McDonald's, taking our car for an auto-wash while we rolled up our windows and simply watched, getting accustomed to leaving messages on the voicemail -- were all glimpses of an America that I had not bothered to observe in those Hollywood flicks that I had seen back home in India.

One month of the 'getting-initiated phase' (as I liked to call it) was fun for a while. But gradually, the charm wore off and I was getting tired of living in and out of jeans and T-shirts and continually correcting the way my name was being (mis)pronounced by non-Indians. I had had my fill of supersize fries and veggie pizzas and suddenly, hanging out at the mall no longer figured in my list of top five pastimes.

At last came an evening when I refused to get further 'tormented' by the endless banter of Seinfield and Frasier and plumped on the sofa, crying my guts out for 'an all desi' get-together where I would get to meet my fellow Indians, eat rava dosa with pudina chutney, without having to save my name from getting mutilated. Yes, my homesickness was beginning to display belated symptoms.

Since my other half had all along thrived in self-contained bachelor groups before matrimony, he was hopelessly clueless about the social activities of other Indians in our community. That just wouldn't do, I scowled at him. A couple of phone calls and a string of introductory e-mails exchanged with the long-timers in our town landed us our first invitation to an Indian get-together hosted by a family in their house.

Thus we were inducted into the 'bhajan group' (as it is popularly called), consisting of thirty odd families, that conducts a bhajan session every month -- a different family playing host each time. (The words puja and bhajan are used synonymously in this article.)

These monthly puja get-togethers have added a new dimension to my otherwise mechanical existence in the US. Each puja awakens a part in me that is so completely rooted in Indian culture and tradition that I begin to wonder if I had ever felt so 'wholesomely' Indian in my life back in India? Every puja also throws me in a 'quagmirish' dilemma as to whether I must wear my midnight blue Patola this time or settle for my lotus pink satin churidar that I've not worn in a while!

On a serious note, I feel elated that I don't have to don that mask of pseudo-westernization when I attend the puja at a Rajagopal's or a Patnaik's house, that I can be myself for a few hours without having to tackle curious onlookers' questions as to what the red dot on my forehead signifies or how the arranged marriage system in India operates.

The family hosting the puja this month has taken great care in creating a holy ambience in the puja room. Life-size pictures of Gods and Goddesses form colorful patches on the walls, small granite and silver idols of Ganesha, Lakshmi and Durga are reverently placed on the puja stand, along with tall brass lamps from whose wicks, dew shaped lights flicker and sway, as if in tandem with the swishing of silk saris adorned by the ladies in the room.

Burning agarbattis fill the room with exotic fragrances of sandalwood, khus-khus and jasmine; transporting me on a nostalgic path to the fragrant sanctum sanctorums of the Ganesh mandir in Delhi and the Kapaleeshwar kovil in Chennai. Flowers of every possible hue -- red, pink, yellow, blue, orange, white and saffron are heaped onto wicker baskets and German silver trays that reflect the colors in the flowers like a dazzling rainbow.

All the required puja accessories are neatly placed next to the idols, reminding me of the painstakingly arranged Golu racks in South Indian households during the Navaratri festival. I take in the view in front of me: a karpur stand -- shaped like the number 8, monogrammed stainless steel trays that might have been wedding gifts of the hosts, brass bells carved out like the devoted Nandi and pointed temple domes, shining silver bowls filled with hibiscus red kumkum and golden yellow haldi -- piled high like mounds of ant hills and the sepia colored shloka books written in Sanskrit -- the language of the Gods.

Even as I allow myself to get drowned in the mellifluous rendition of M.S.Subbalakshmi's Bhaja Govindam, which is playing in the background, guests start pouring into the room creating a kaleidoscopic melee of sorts.

While most men appear as if they have just come out from work, clad in their jeans, khakis and T-shirts, the fairer sex has, as usual, taken pains to come attired in traditional Indian wear. Some of the women are draped in their finest silk saris that carry intricate motifs of peacocks and traditional Indian lamps, while the others prefer to sashay into the puja room in their delicately embroidered salwar kameezes -- casually tossing the accompanying chiffon duppattas over their shoulders.

The women resemble hanging appliqued Oriya lamp shades; varyingly clad in unique fabrics -- masala dosa-crisp Kanjeevarams, sheer satins smooth as freshly churned cream, parchment textured tussars and rippled bandhinis.

The bubbling children are an equal match for their mothers' sartorial elegance. They are resplendent in their parrot green pavadais and kurta pyjamas the color of badam milk.

I see the crowd getting seated on the patched quilts and coir mats that have been spread across the length and breadth of the room -- like a shopkeeper would unfurl the rolls of fabric in his textile shop.

The crowd suddenly parts in opposite directions of the room -- like the Asuras and Devas bunched up into different teams during the churning of the ocean. Women and children take their places next to the host family and the men make themselves comfortable in the other side of the room.

A hush descends on us as the female vocal lead in the bhajan group invokes the name of Ganesha -- the remover of obstacles, the God of all auspicious beginnings. The mood has been set and all of us sincerely pore over our cyclostled bhajan books, attempting to recite in unison the sacred verses, that are more ancient than the mountains on which sat the sagacious sages of yore.

Once we are done with the shlokas, the children flock together to render devotional songs in their eager, high-pitched voices that fill the room like a gurgling brook on a clear spring day, while their parents look on with pride and their music teacher (the female vocal lead) encourages them with a nod here and an opening stanza there.

After the youngsters are done with their recitals, comes the turn of the musically talented or inclined adults (whichever the case may be), to exercise their vocal chords, while the rest of us chorus along in multifarious pitches like the ebbing and rising of tumultuous tides.

Finally comes the part that (quite honestly) most of us are awaiting with growling stomachs and sensitive olfactory nerves -- the naivedyam or food offering to God, by the host family. The hostess gingerly lifts the lid from the vessel containing the payasam, whose roasted cashew nut and pure ghee aroma engulfs us like a divine temptress. The karpur is shown to the Gods and flowers are distributed to everyone in the room. Amidst the ringing of the bells, petals of chrysanthemums and roses are showered on the Gods and the puja is officially over.

Once the religious part of the evening is duly dispensed with, I can see that the once separated sexes are mingling again, resembling a chaotic North Indian wedding hall where guests get ready to attack the banquet table as soon as the baraat is heralded. The dinner is potluck where each family has contributed a different dish to the menu.

Sun-kissed grains of lemon rice share space with piping hot sambar that is sprinkled with fresh coriander leaves. Puffed up puris are placed next to slender okras soaked in masala gravy. The eating commences and once again (!) the ladies and men branch off into different directions while the children run amuck, now and then seen emerging from behind the shimmering pallus of their mothers' saris.

The post-bhajan conversation session inevitably begins amidst exclamations from the men's side: "Who would have thought that Cisco's stock would drop so low!" and ooh's and aah's from the women's side:

"Mmm...Sudha, your vadas are absolutely scrumptious!"

Minutes later, the raided dinner table looks like a smudged rangoli design. Soon, the ladies start picking up their casseroles and glass bowls (hint to hubbies that it's time to head homewards) while the men are still not done with talking 'stock'! Nevertheless, they join their families and indicate to the hosts that they are ready to leave.

The hostess is on the alert for departing lady guests and extends to each of them a tray on which is placed the bowls of kumkum and haldi. The ladies smear their foreheads with the sacred colors, streaks of sunrise, and mumble their thanks to the hosts for an enjoyable evening. Somewhere there, I take the cue and slip into my sandals.

The room still bears a festive look as I take leave of the hosts' and step into the balmy spring night and slide back almost effortlessly into my semi-Americanized lifestyle. I drive away, fondly looking forward to the next puja session in which I can already picture myself draped in my favorite eggplant purple Kanjeevaram sari...