ravan was chasing me. he had ten heads and ten faces and ten sets of teeth bared as he sprinted effortlessly, bow and arrow in hand. his skin was swarthy, his eyes bulged, his hair blew wildly in the wind. i could feel my breath getting shorter and shorter, till there was practically no breath left. my feet were tired. my head was hurting. how would i ever come out of this alive? then i remembered something. i stopped running.…
cap pistol (remember those?), rahul dev burman, new clothes, midnight movies, razia sultan, drumbeats, ghugni, exams, flowers in my clasped hands. the one with ten arms comes to my mind on many things. she’s been around for a long long time, quite taken for granted, part of life. to be worshiped, to be gazed at in awe, to be surrounded by noise and joy, to be danced and acted before, to be rejoiced with food and friends, to be prostrated…
actually, there’s no magic involved. both are stories of faith. perhaps the sort of faith that brings miracle. i heard one when i was a child, the other after i got married. as my husband, who is jewish, finished telling me why eight oil lamps are lit on hanukkah, i thought of a tiny pot of yogurt and the tale of madhusudan’s bhar. “bhar” means earthenware pot in bengali, and the sound of “r” at the end is more like…
you charged out and grabbed someone and covered their face, head, neck, whatever you could get hold of, in bright, powdery, bursting out of you fist, flying abeer. the coloured powder was vermilion red or marigold orange or wild mean yellow or deadly green, there was this deep cobaltish blue too. and a deeper purple. how can i forget the chutney pink. the point was to put that colour on someone first before they did the same to you. of…
night descends. the lamps are ready with oil and wick. my heart is in my mouth. it’s bhoot chaturdashi. the ghost fourteenth day, if i translate literally. and tonight, unless we put fourteen diyas or oil lamps, or even candles, in fourteen corners of the house and eat fourteen kinds of leafy greens, watch out, anything might happen. the spooks are out and about. i am laughing as i write this. i used to quake with fear every bhoot chaturdashi…
It is said that taking the name of God before starting anything new is an auspicious beginning. So, I have predictably decided on my first post in Mythology and More to be on a story of God. All day long Narad muni had one name on his lips. “Narayan, Narayan.” With a tranquil tilt of his head, hand raised towards the heavens and a cheerful smile, he would start all sentences, end all meetings and fill all spaces in between…
this is an ancient story and perhaps it never really happened the way it’s told… but that’s all right. because stories are necessary, no matter where they took place; in the real world or in the story teller’s imagination. it’s important we have our stories and never ever lose them, don’t you think? when i was a child my father used to tell me this tale of a fierce bandit, it always touched me, held me in its thrall. my…