On a hot summer day, I saw two men, barefoot, with just a mini dhoti around the waist coming into our front yard. They were not sadhus, nor did they look like ordinary mendicants. One of them, dark and stout seemed to be the ‘captain’, let us say. He came forward and throwing up his arms thundered: Kali megha pani de! His thinner companion repeated: pani de… !!!!
I was scared and ran into the house to inform Didima – Kali megha esheche! Didima didn’t look alarmed at the news. Oder jal dite hobe, she said. Sejo mashi, my second aunt, got a bucketful of water, and I followed her out to the garden, where the two men stood clamouring.
As soon as they saw us, they threw them-selves down and started rolling on the ground from left to right, while my aunt splashed them with the contents of her bucket. The dust and the mud stuck in patches on their rolling bare bodies, while the chorus continued loud and resounding: Kali megha…! After the strange ceremony, they received a few paisa and left refreshed and pacified.
It may have been in the middle of June.
It is well-known that our lakes are inhabited by Gods, that our rivers landed directly from heaven, and that the monsoon rains are sent by Indra himself. No wonder that the ancestors look forward to receiving that precious gift of water from the planet offered by their descendants.
After the rains, the swarms of insects under the lamp-posts at night would disappear and the house-lizards would slip away when you tried to pinch them, leaving you with a fat tail between the thumb and the index. The air freshened under a clear sky with the moon decreasing; so the pleasant season could start with pitripaksha. Devi Durga was sharpening her lance, while her family was getting ready for the holiday-trip, and the forefathers rejoiced in expectation.
Our Dadu wasn’t religious in the sense the word religion is commonly understood by most people. His ‘religion’ was in his work, with his patients, in the house and outside. The only ritual I’ve seen him performing was the annual pitritarpan.
You will have guessed, we didn’t have a special place for puja. Didima had prepared the room where we used to have our meals. Abhilakh Maharaj had brought water from the Ganga in a jar. In the morning she had arranged the grains of rice (dhan), the ‘durba’ grass and the copper vessels – kosha-kushi – for the offerings, along with the fruit and other items of dakshina for Manoranjan Purut Thakur.
I think he liked coming to our house. He arrived punctually, his namavali around the shoulders, a little out of breath and smiling. They took seat on their asana on the floor and the ceremony could begin. Manoranjan recited the sloka, beautifully articulated with musical intonations and pauses marking the rhythm, and Dadu repeated the mantra after him, addressing the ancestors by their names – if I remember correctly, there were five generations of them – once or twice, he’d forget a name and look to Didima for help, who immediately gave him the cue. I haven’t retained all those names, except that of his father – Priyonath Gangopadhyay, our Buro Dadu.
After the offerings, Dadu would have breakfast and it was time to go to his dispensary.
To be continued.
Vizualization and Illustration: Surya Ranjan Shandil
