My tryst with tradition She always woke up at an hour when no one would be awake and so wouldn’t notice. I never saw her climb out of bed. I only came to know that 4:00 a.m. was her scheduled waking hour – a time known among her peers as the auspicious Brahma Muhurtham (the timing of the Creator Brahma). I do recall once or twice seeing her at the well, drawing water into a thick aluminium bucket and upturning it over her head. Her soft cotton sari, still on her frail body, would cling to her skin. In winters she would shiver a little, but carry on as usual. Nothing could come in the way of her rituals! She would then fill a brass pot with water; pick it up slowly and let it nestle on her hip, like carrying a toddler. How she carried that pot a full 50 yards to the kitchen was something no one understood, and no one questioned. The issue was not a matter of choice, capability or even persuasion. At sixty her back was beginning to bend, though she kept it as straight as she could so people wouldn’t notice. In physical terms, she looked closer to 70. In terms of sheer will power, she could have matched the unflinching determination of a General on the front. Whether she was fit to undertake her daily chores was not a question that entered her mind, and whether she could shirk from her duties was one that was debarred to her psyche. The kitchen was her ivory tower; indeed, her life! And her family, her purpose. Every activity revolved around what was required of her as her dharma. And we learnt our first lessons of the sacrosanct, not from worshipping the Gods and visiting the temples, but through the behavior required of us in the kitchen. Every day after her bath she would, donning her wet sari, take a long pole and remove the dry sari hanging on a wooden hanger from the high ceiling in the kitchen. She would change, making sure that a freshly washed sari is placed back on the pole for drying to be used the next day. (The hanger was kept at that height to ensure no one touched the pious garments thus making them impure.) From that moment on, Ammamma (maternal grandmother) was ‘pavitra’ (sacred). We were not allowed to touch her, not even brush against her by accident, till she gave us the clearance after lunch. Had we made such a mistake, chides galore would come in from all and sundry, and Ammamma would repeat her bath and change into a new sari and redo the entire ritual. . We would retreat like shooed puppies, ashamed about putting a revered person in such a situation. As the sole custodian of this central department she exercised absolute authority over the household. For a long time, I wanted to be like her. A self composed, self-willed, awe inspiring high-priestess of tradition. She had no doubts in her mind as to what her role in life was…what her Dharma was. And in following the rules with the precision of one who had learnt her lessons thoroughly, she became to all around her, an icon of spirituality to be emulated unquestioningly. For any festival, puja or religious occasion, her agenda would be executed meticulously…the mango leaves and marigold garlands adorning the doorways, the washed and colourfully decorated verandahs and pathways, the turmeric, sandalwood, coconuts, clarified butter, rice, firewood, camphor, betel leaves, betel nuts, fruits, flowers, incense, clothes and food to be given to the priests, the servants and the beggars…nothing would fall short. She took charge with clockwork precision and delivered with an unswerving commitment to her cause. It was only later that I realized I could never be her. Hinduism is a religion without any central religious authority or institution. Its books, scriptures and Gods are numerous, like its followers. With a secular curriculum followed in schools, much of what a Hindu learns is through household and societal practices. As I had spent my childhood abroad, my understanding of my religion was influenced more by reading…a little too much reading of philosophy. In contrast for her, it was her life. If she read anything about the dharma, it was only to strengthen her already existing beliefs. She refused to question the practices. That was already done, according to her, by the Rishis (Saints) and scholars of the past. Any further analysis was equivalent to reinventing the wheel. To me, any following of tradition ended up like a soulless performance. I could never live the role. Initially I rebelled. How could one be such an unquestioning follower? Years later I came to the conclusion that while I had every right to reject practices I did not believe in, she had the same right to practice what she believed in with her mind, heart and soul. I could only change myself, but to demand that she change was akin to denying her rights. And then it occurred to me that no two of us on this planet follow the same religion; that she and I belonged to the same category of religious definition, but we were as far apart as an atheist and theist. My tryst with tradition has been one of unrequited love. When at a concert in Indian classical music, I witnessed two budding artists perform and then move forward to touch the feet of their legendary musician father as he appeared on stage, in whats a well known Hindu tradition, I watched stunned. For, the legend was born a Muslim and his sons were half Hindu. And it made me realize how a tradition performed with devotion could ascend into the sublime and break all barriers to trust. Could this sense of the sublime be what drives us to continue pursuing the past in its purity? Tradition carries with it huge traces of nostalgia, and its historical presence came to haunt me when I found myself in the role of a parent. Initially I had no clue about what I was supposed to do or teach. Slowly I relearned the art of picking and choosing traditions, a la carte, from the vast array of rituals of which there is no shortage in a country such as India. I took those that I could still handle with my hectic lifestyle, trying to ensure that I did not bite off more than I could chew. I imitated, I struggled, I taught and I guided. I fumbled, I succeeded. I learnt to hang on to those that gave me a sense of authenticity. And as I matured, I developed a peace of mind that finally allowed me to let go – all those memorable gestures that could no more be a part of my universe!
Posted on: Wed, 18 Sep 2013 12:13:13 +0000
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