An orison

He woke up early. The pink Ajanta bedside clock with its faded radium hands indicated it was only 4:30. He could go back to sleep if he wanted to. It would be an easy trick – to think it was only around midnight and return to slumber – there was nothing stirring. Dawn, when he woke up usually, was still a good hour away. Even the drip-drip of the bathroom tap had curiously muted itself, ashamed perhaps to interrupt the exhausted sleep that came from 2 continuous days of preparing for the pujo.

Nandini was asleep, on her back, her right arm folded across her face, her lips slightly parted. Her familiar face was as dear to him now as it was 25 years ago, when he had seen her first, out of the corner of his eyes, young and highly aware. They had built a life together and while she might have not had all her dreams fulfilled, he had tried his best to be a good husband and an honest provider. It wasn’t easy nowadays, but he kept at it. He knew no other way and he had wanted no other way either.

He got up, slightly bemused with himself. If he was going to think, it would be better to think while getting some actual work done. That’s what his father used to say anyway. He missed his baba sometimes, on days like this. He was 51 now, only 5 years younger than baba was when he passed away. And sometimes he still wasn’t done growing up. He quietly left the room with the surefootedness of someone who knew the layout by heart, avoiding the jalchowki in the corner with its earthen pot, taking care not to wake Nandini.

Getting ready for the morning, he ran through the list of things that needed to be done mentally. While the devotees would usually get the sweets for the prasad and the incense for the aarti, he needed to get fresh water from the pond and also the produce from the bazaar for the bhog. Nandini had cleaned up the utensils and various receptacles that went into presentation last night itself. Bijoy had grumblingly scrubbed the gritty brass lamps and scoured the dhunuchi and prepared the coconut husk pieces and the cotton wicks which now ready to be dipped in ghee and lit.

He smiled to himself as he thought of his younger son. Bijoy was good of heart and despite his grumbles, would make a good priest. Joy, the older one was smarter, didn’t he get through the state engineering exams without a single tutor and had then gone to Jalpaiguri Engineering College. In his final year now, he had a good job as well waiting for him, in Infosys. Bangalore seemed a long way away but Joy was happy and Nandini was being a bit of a worry-wart surely. He was coming home this weekend. Bijoy was simpler and kinder, if a little impractical sometimes. He understood the prayers and the people. He understood that being a priest meant answering to a higher and nobler purpose, even these days and perhaps he even believed it and felt it. As a father, he could only hope.

The sun was beginning to brighten the eastern sky when he first stepped out of the house and onto the temple compound. To the left was the bigger Kali mandir while the Shiv mandir was to the right, with a decent-sized courtyard in between. They had cemented it some 5 years ago with donations and it was cool beneath his feet as he took the brass kalash and headed out on the short distance to the pond. He climbed carefully down the muddy slope, shivering as he stepped in the cool water and cleaned the area, careful not to stir up the water and filled the kalash with water, chanting the mantras baba had taught him.

The day became busier after that; there were a couple of trips to the bazaar. He was absent-mindedly debating whether to take another hibiscus garland and some more loose flowers for the pushpanjali when he ran into Mrinal, the newspaper guy. He seemed to have completed with his morning rounds and was carrying a couple of Anandabazar Patrika and contentedly sipping tea from a kulhar.

“So, rounds done?”

“Yes. The train came in a little earlier with the papers. I got done earlier. Best really.”

“News I should know?” He asked, more habit than anything else.

“Nah. The usual politicking over Gorkhaland, Ghisingh was arrested yesterday. But party has called for a bandh and there are some talks of roads, specially NH-34 being closed”

“Hmm. Come to the pujo in the evening.”

“Hmm. Will come before as well. The wife has asked for an offering to be made, board exams for the son and all.”

“Hmm. Visit.”

The day continued normally. Mrinal visited. As did didi from the local bank. Her sons were both grown up and gone away and she visited every Saturday and prayed for them. She handed over the usual box of sweets for the Goddess and then sat in the courtyard and prayed. Nandini and Bijoy took care of the morning puja these days, though he did all the anjalis and the main puja. He tried calling Joy once to check if he had crossed Karandighi, which was about halfway through. It had gone unanswered and he hadn’t called back, which was un-characteristic of him. Mrinal spoke with him before leaving.

“The bandh has turned violent. Some pahari was killed. A couple of buses were burnt, maybe some travelers died. Has Joy called?”

“I didn’t know. With the puja and all. Joy hasn’t been answering his calls.”

“Don’t worry dada. Joy is a smart boy, he’ll be okay.”

Joy simply wasn’t like that. Nandini was distracted. She kept looking at the clock and then at the gate. He had to call for her attention a couple of times when he needed her help with the arrangements.

It was evening now. The puja was about to commence. The devotees had first come in a trickle which had increased to a rush as the puja hour came near. The courtyard was full now with couples and parents and squalling babies. He had already delayed the start enough. The hour was passing.

He started. He prayed. All the hopes and wishes, longing and dreams. Of people sitting silently with their heads bowed. Nandini staring fixedly at Devi. A mother wishing for the one thing she always does.

Om kali kali mahakali kalike papaharini

Dharmartha-moksade devi narayani namah-stute

Devi smiled.

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Not very happy with this. I keep thinking how much more proper the conversations and the sentences would be in Bengali. Something to think about I guess.

Akshay Tritiya today.