Jahnavi Gogoi
Satyanarayan puja; It’s my birthday once again. I grumble at the fact that ma will cook Khichdi today. The raw Jackfruit has made its way into the kitchen already. The house help has started peeling its prickly skin and sticky insides. She has oil on her hands. I pinch my nose shut with two fingers as the pungent odour of mustard oil hits my nostrils. I am excited because I am twelve and have received some cash in an envelope from Deuta. He had woken me up at 5:30 to wish me many happy returns of the day. Ma has forbidden me from buying any more books with the money. I need new clothes. True. Even I have grown tired of wearing that same multicolored pinafore style outfit which I alternate with my blue cotton frock from time to time. Last time Juri bou, one of my sisters in law (cousin’s wife) had given my outfit a pitying glance. Today, I borrow an old salwar suit from my older sister. I am already taller than her but skinny. A few quick alterations on the old Singer sewing machine and I fit into her coral suit. The dupatta is itchy and there is a weird smell of moth balls emanating from me.
Our landline rings just as I am admiring my reflection in the dressing room mirror. It is my pehi from Bamunimaidam. Her affection for us has made our life so much easier in the big city. After the mandatory small talk, I slink away to read the Sunday newspaper. I am eagerly waiting for one of my poems to be published. Do I hear raised voices? Are the next-door neighbours quarrelling again? A few weeks ago, there had been a huge commotion at midnight, an exchange of cutlery between husband and wife. A plate smashed against the dining room wall. I was sent back to bed quickly by ma. No, this time it is my mother’s voice, but it quickly subsides. What did Pehi say? I wonder.
At around four in the evening our pandit ji arrives and gets everything ready. I take another shower, wash my hair and everything. Even my father looks resplendent in a starched white dhoti and neatly pressed kurta. His grey hair has been freshly trimmed. The guests start trickling in as soon as the sun goes down. The women in sober mekhela sadors and sheer Georgette sarees, the children in their best going out clothes. The menfolk will come later when the bhog is being served. I am thrilled to get presents. It’s only good manners which is stopping me from ripping the paper and grabbing what’s inside. The doorbell rings loudly. I open the door hastily to find my pehi standing there with a little boy from her neighbourhood. It’s Sajjad.
Every summer my nieces (who are closer in age to me) and I pick fights with the neighbourhood boys in my aunt’s neighbourhood. “Thank goodness, it’s not Aravind,” I mutter to myself. I don’t understand why my mother’s face looks slightly pale. I greet him loudly with a grin. Juri bou looks a little shocked as I announce his name. “Only his skull cap is missing,” she sniggers. A frown appears on my father’s face as he hears this comment. Immediately I understand why my friend Aabidah does not like to come on my birthday but always visits the next day with my favorite nan khatai lovingly baked by Rahman aunty.
Yet, every Eid, we often visited and enjoyed platefuls of Biryani and Seviyan cooked to perfection at the homes of various friends. Later in life I would learn from ma about so called upper caste visitors at her ancestral home when my grandfather was alive. She did not mince words at the fact that they would not eat or drink anything even though they often came to meet my grandfather, an important man. Perhaps they played chess. I have a vision of the portico where they must have met on certain days of the week. My grandfather smoking his famous hookah, the conversations inevitably moving towards politics, my mother grudgingly serving tea and later clearing away the untouched cups. An elaborate show of hospitality which is politely declined time and again. Nobody says anything. They continue to play this game. It reminds me of the Bihu snacks untouched by guests but the host offering them anyway just because it is the festive season. We Assamese cannot serve “Khali saah” as it is an insult to the visitors.
Many years later I also hear stories of lovers eloping because parents disapprove. In that Assam of yore, many are accepted by their families as soon as a child is born. Some never return. Children are warned not to fall in love outside of their caste and religion. A couple of my friends do not heed this advice. The heart does not follow rules. Years later they reconcile with their parents. Yet, at the same time I hear stories about gas cylinders being washed because a kitchen is defiled by cooking for someone from another religion. Many official forms ask us to disclose our faith. What is my faith? I have a feeling it determines my fate. At one point in my childhood, I declare that I am an atheist. I do not believe in god. Everyone is horrified. I am supposed to light a few incense sticks in the Puja Ghar at least once a day. I refuse point blank.
It is very interesting that there are a roomful of people now listening to Satyanarayan Katha which has been organized for a non-believer. As I grow older, I will become more accepting, occasionally appeasing the gods when I need something. But right now, I am seething. I am not able to put pen to paper because I do not have the requisite vocabulary. I still mispronounce words like “digestion” after all.
However, I grab Sajjad’s hand. He looks a little startled. Last May the boys had teased us with the songs from the latest Bollywood hit. It was something to do with a kiss. Unfortunately, one of my nieces had the same name as the heroine. There was a lot of back and forth on this topic between the boys and the girls. We were sworn enemies and quite forthcoming about our displeasure. We did not play together.
But today, this eight-year-old boy looks unsure. “It is so hot, no? Do you want Orange squash?” Before he answers I am surrounded by a crowd of young children. I fill glasses with the syrupy liquid, chilled water and loads of ice. Juri bou’s son sits right next to Sajjad as we watch Sunday cartoons on television. Pandit ji has started the rituals, I can hear everything as I try my best to entertain my young friends. Sajjad helps me look after the smaller ones who keep trying to disrupt the proceedings.
I take Sajjad with me to the living room. A hush descends and I can hear my heartbeat. It is quite loud. My knees also tremble a little as we sit on the Sitalpati mat. An astrologer has probably advised my parents to schedule this event for my birthday. I probably have committed a lot of sins in my past life. Reincarnation is fascinating. They tell me I used to mumble strange names and talk about unknown people as a four-year-old. In this life I will probably get a chance to right my wrongs. I sit here with that intention with my foe turned friend now, to pay obeisance to a god who is present in everybody. In me, in Sajjad. In absolute silence we pray for forgiveness… for the ones who do not know.
Glossary:
Satyanarayan Puja: An occasion where Hindus in India pay obeisance to an avatar of Lord Vishnu
Bou: Sister-in-law in Assamese
Pehi: Father’s sister; aunt in the Assamese language
Deuta: Father in the Assamese language
Bamunimaidam: An area in Gauhati city
Pandit: A priest
Sador: A part of traditional Assamese wear known as mekhela sador
Bhog: The food offering made during a puja and distributed among all the attendees
Nan khatai: A kind of sugar cookie which melts in the mouth
Seviyan: Sweet vermicelli dessert
Khali saah: Tea without snacks
Orange squash: A kind of drink usually diluted with water for drinking
Bihu: An Assamese festival
Sitalpati: A kind of cane mat. It is believed to have cooling properties
Jahnavi Gogoi’s poetry has been published in Poetry Pea, Indian Review, Coffee and Conversations, RIC journal, Presence, Five Fleas, Haiku Girl Summer, Tsuri-doro, Zen, Enchanted Garden Haiku journal, Zen Peacemakers, Fresh Out: An Arts and Poetry Collective, The Daily Verse by The Wise Owl, Haiku Corner by The Japan Society, Shadow Pond Journal, The Leaf Journal, haikuNetra, and Scarlet Dragonfly Journal. She is a former educationist who writes fiction and the occasional essay.
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Featured photo by Ramnayak Nayak (Pexels)
