In India the main ingredients seem to be people (adults, children and babies), music, (many) rugs and (much) food. No alcohol, no wine – but lots of fresh water. If there is a street in front of the house, traffic will be blocked and a sunroof will be mounted to assure that at least the main actors are sitting in the shade.
Rickshaw driver Shambu, who is around 25 yrs old and whose sister, Jyoti, will marry on Saturday took me to his cousin’s village this morning.
I was led into a relatively small room where approximately 40 women were sitting on the floor, close together on the cemented floor. I declined the sofa and sat as best I could with them on a beautiful rug. They can sit for hours in a kind of lotus position, which I can take for only a very short time. After having tried the mermaid position and all other bent-leg position I eventually end up with my way too long legs almost around my ears. Everybody except me seems to find this very funny.
We are exchanging smiles and “Namasté’s” and “what’s your name” and more smiles. Smiles that mounts up into the eyes which, eventually, are hidden by a pan of a sari - with a timid movement of a shoulder.
An older women is lighting the candles at a small alter and is burning the incense accompanied by what I suppose is ritual movements. Another woman, who is sitting at the wall close to the altar, is crying hard. She talks to me and I don’t understand what she says but her tears make me sad. I don’t understand that she can be so saddened by the marriage of her child. Only later am I to learn that the celebration is not that of a marriage but in honor of her passed away husband, who 11 days ago died.
I am assisting at the traditional 12th day celebration of a dead person.
The women are silent but not exactly expressing sadness. They are just sitting there together talking in little groups. How long ? Probably a couple of hours. I spent 45’ with them and it didn’t seem long at all.
By that time a small boy says to me that Shambu asks me to come outside where a preparation is taking place. Rugs are being laid out, two small footstools are placed in the middle, under the sunroof. The drummer is seated in the middle but outside the rugs.
Slowly everybody is taking seat, on the rugs – no chairs needed, not even for me who is staying at the women’s’ side. The widow’s two grown-up sons are seated at the footstools and the highest notable of the village is proceeding with apposing “tika’s”. Dark red powder which is being apposed on the forehead. Long shaped for the men, a dot for the women. I don’t have to ask for mine – and it means good luck.
This all happens quietly and in silence. No singing, no music – just being together. After this peaceful moment the men go to the temple at the end of the road. I’m invited to come but I prefer to stay with the women and the baby.
When the men are back comes the presents. Everybody brings cloths and/or money. Small amounts, I think and the cloths seem to short for a sari. At the end I figure out that it will serve as turbans for the fatherless boys. All the gifts are accounted for, in writing, in front of the sons. Some gifts are given outside, part of the women are carrying theirs inside where probably the widow has stayed – maybe at the altar.
The drummer beats a bit on his drum and the women are humming. All the gifts are then shown to the audience and that seems to be the end of the ceremony.
On the first floor there is a huge room which today serves as kitchen. One cook and two women assisting. We are to have dall, chipati, byriana rice (with fresh grapes, green peas and cumin), papad and rice pudding (sweet).
I am invited to go accompany Shambu and the notable to the Temple with Shambu with the offerings.
The food from huge pots on the roof where rugs have been laid out along the low walls giving space enough for the some 60 women to sit. We are served first, by the men who afterwards will take their meal, in the kitchen.
The plates are made of big leaves held together with small branches. The dall is served in small pots also made of leaves and the rest is placed directly on the leaf. And starts the acrobatic exercise for me. Sitting as best I can, in a half lotus position, it is well possible to catch the rice with the fingers and since it’s sticky rice, all is fine. But to get it to your mouth without spilling half … and to dip the chipati in the dall and to eat it without soiling your dress, that’s another question. Happily I am myself the sole photographer today.
Fresh water – in abundance marks the end of the celebration and everybody leaves chatting quietly.
I am taken home, by rickshaw, well in time for a much needed siesta.
