Monday, September 25, 2006
About Visarjan, in detailed parts
Ganesh Visarjan cannot be described by just one post, unfortunately it cannot be experienced in just one day. I have spent two days, that is one last year and one this year, trailing Lalbaug cha raja and both were spectacularly different experiences. Last year I started much earlier and got myself a rather squashed spot outside the entrance toran of the street leading to the ganpati. As the ganpati came closer and closer to the pink and gold toran the crowd swelled up and before we knew it I was at the periphery of the swelling far from where I had had considered myself firmly entrenched. What is centric to this entire experience is that of ‘seeing’ the idol. What one would call ‘darshan’. I had not seen the idol before that point so the forst glimpse was anticipated but as soon as that was done I could not remember why I was here in the first place! Surely it was not to ‘see’ the idol. I am neither devout nor religious, I am not even sure if I believe in God, yet somehow that everyone around you is just waiting to see the idol, it makes you feel very shallow if you happen to be there to observe anything else. The most ideal position of course, I enviously thought, seems to be up on the flyover, where one can look down onto the whole procession. Last year was completely different. After the idol left the lane we found ourselves bang in the middle of the procession, well at the periphery of the middle of it atleast. There were young men with ropes guarding the women dancing and smashing and squishing the people outside of the two ropes. When they saw me there was a sudden change in their tone, I heard them scream, “ladies hain, ladies”, and before I even knew they were talking about me, hey presto I was inside the ropes all safe and sound with a foot of space on all sides. That’s when Ninad mentioned back from the crowded side of the border, “if you don’t dance, they will throw you out”
And dance I did. The women were thrilled to have some strangely dressed person with rather odd dancing steps in between them, I was the entertainment of the moment. Most of the younger women stood around me and wondered whether to giggle at me was rude, some tried to tell me that my back showed everytime I lifted my arms, and the others tried to tell them that that kind of thing is allowed in their culture. But it was an old and rather round woman who finally broke the ice. With a stern and rather vicious look she walked up to me and got onto her tip toes to dump a fistful of gulal on my head. Then, rather pleased with herself and my shocked face, she took my arms and proceeded to lead me in a tango. Around ten minutes of this dancing was incredibly tiring but somehow thye managed to do it in rounds, I still marvel at the idea that these women would dance all the way from Lalbaug to chowpatty, all across kumbharwada and do tanki, all day and all night long, to all sorts of different songs and dances that people chose to play for them, I still marvel at the possibility of that.
The flyover was meant for one thing only. To stand and watch and photograph. Or of course, to control the remote controlled helicopters that would fly overhead sprinkling rose water onto the ‘ganesh bhakts’.
This year we reached the procession too late to be afforded that luxury. Instead we wove ourselves through the crowds a good half an hour or forty five minutes before the arrival of the idol at the Shroff building pushpa varsha where we stood within the crowd, feeling it swell up around us at the anticipated moment of the rain of flowers arrived. I cannot begin to describe to you how incredibly difficult those moments were, when the idol arrived. There was a man in front of us with his two women and two young boys. Before the action began, the two boys practiced their routine. The man would squat and these boys would climb on to his shoulders from where they could see above the crowds. When finally the idol arrived, they all got into position but soon after the crowd decided to move in a swaying manner. Although I am not sure what happened to that family, another tiny middle aged woman needed some help to be dragged out of the flour mill. Chakki. That is the best word possible for this situation. Your body is doing these strange rotations while your feet are in the same place, and you never know which of those rotations will be strong enough to knock you off your feet in between the two stones. I found myself yelling at the people around me. “Stop, stop moving, people could die, are you crazy, have you any idea of what you are doing?”, Ninad on the other hand found a volunteer and used a far far more effective line on him, he told him angrily in marathi that it looked to him like the only reason he was wearing the volunteers cap was to get a better view of the procession. Apparently, insulting one about the misuse of their authority works very well to get things done.
So yes, both years had incredibly different experiences. Both experiences are so overwhelming that just describing them tires me. I feel I need a break before I can describe the crowds at opera house, the policemen at do tanki, the songs at chowpatty and the flying moduk. Yes, I will end this post with the promise of yet another account of the flying moduk.
And dance I did. The women were thrilled to have some strangely dressed person with rather odd dancing steps in between them, I was the entertainment of the moment. Most of the younger women stood around me and wondered whether to giggle at me was rude, some tried to tell me that my back showed everytime I lifted my arms, and the others tried to tell them that that kind of thing is allowed in their culture. But it was an old and rather round woman who finally broke the ice. With a stern and rather vicious look she walked up to me and got onto her tip toes to dump a fistful of gulal on my head. Then, rather pleased with herself and my shocked face, she took my arms and proceeded to lead me in a tango. Around ten minutes of this dancing was incredibly tiring but somehow thye managed to do it in rounds, I still marvel at the idea that these women would dance all the way from Lalbaug to chowpatty, all across kumbharwada and do tanki, all day and all night long, to all sorts of different songs and dances that people chose to play for them, I still marvel at the possibility of that.
The flyover was meant for one thing only. To stand and watch and photograph. Or of course, to control the remote controlled helicopters that would fly overhead sprinkling rose water onto the ‘ganesh bhakts’.
This year we reached the procession too late to be afforded that luxury. Instead we wove ourselves through the crowds a good half an hour or forty five minutes before the arrival of the idol at the Shroff building pushpa varsha where we stood within the crowd, feeling it swell up around us at the anticipated moment of the rain of flowers arrived. I cannot begin to describe to you how incredibly difficult those moments were, when the idol arrived. There was a man in front of us with his two women and two young boys. Before the action began, the two boys practiced their routine. The man would squat and these boys would climb on to his shoulders from where they could see above the crowds. When finally the idol arrived, they all got into position but soon after the crowd decided to move in a swaying manner. Although I am not sure what happened to that family, another tiny middle aged woman needed some help to be dragged out of the flour mill. Chakki. That is the best word possible for this situation. Your body is doing these strange rotations while your feet are in the same place, and you never know which of those rotations will be strong enough to knock you off your feet in between the two stones. I found myself yelling at the people around me. “Stop, stop moving, people could die, are you crazy, have you any idea of what you are doing?”, Ninad on the other hand found a volunteer and used a far far more effective line on him, he told him angrily in marathi that it looked to him like the only reason he was wearing the volunteers cap was to get a better view of the procession. Apparently, insulting one about the misuse of their authority works very well to get things done.
So yes, both years had incredibly different experiences. Both experiences are so overwhelming that just describing them tires me. I feel I need a break before I can describe the crowds at opera house, the policemen at do tanki, the songs at chowpatty and the flying moduk. Yes, I will end this post with the promise of yet another account of the flying moduk.
# posted by ateya @ 7:42 PM 
