Our Beliefs! Our Life!

                                      Our beliefs! Our Life!

The calm serene vibrations that were enveloping him, were jarringly shattered! The screams of  a young girl, “Bachao!” (Save me!) “Keyo aamaye bachao!” (Someone please save me). Slowly he opened his eyes and let the events sink in.

He had come to this secluded forest, to meditate as was his habit. The peace of the towering green trees, overladen with leaves jostling with one another, creating a haven for birds and animals, as well as a cocoon of peace far from human encroachment, was perfect.

Yet, here was a heart-rending cry for help, that too from a small girl. Alert and nimbly on his feet, he crept forward stealthily to assess the situation and how could he help the poor soul. The grandfather Banyan tree had the perfect girth and a curtain of aerial roots to sneak behind. Peeking silently, he could see the palanquin of the Zamindar, resting on the ground, near one of the hundreds of ponds, in the countryside. A few, potbellied, dark men dressed only in dirty dhotis with a gamcha (cotton towel) tied around their heads, sweat glistening on their bare bodies sat catching their breath. Another authoritative, well dressed man was roughly holding a small girl of 10 or 11 dressed in a white saree, a symbol of widowhood. She was crying for help… but why?

“Owwww! Kamriye dilo!” (She bit me!) screamed the man in pain as he sat down to nurse his hand. The tired, palanquin bearers could only move their necks to watch the goings on. Nimbly the girl ran into the forest dodging efficiently between the trees.

The Sadhu was as confused as the motley group. After a few moments he stepped forward, and the men fell at his feet, bowing in reverence to take his blessings. He was Shekhar Maharaj! Much respected and adored in the villages and towns around Srirampur.

“Joi Guru!”

“What’s happening boys?” he asked.

“Nothing! We just brought Bouma (Daughter-in-law) for a breath of fresh air!” blurted one.

“What happened to your hand? And where is Bouma? I can’t see her!”

In a medley of ‘Oh…’, ‘Actually…’, ‘Can’t you keep quiet!’ Shekhar Maharaj tried to gather what was going on.

“It’s getting late, you all better be going home.” After conferring for a while, the men left. And Maharaj turned to leave the other way. When the last of the panting was engulfed by the peaceful silence of the forest once more, the twittering of the birds coming to roost resounded. “Ma! Esho, bhoy nai!” (Mother come, there is nothing to fear!) He waited a few moments, then walked in the opposite direction towards Chandonnagar.

Soon, he felt the presence of a white saree walking behind him, at a respectable distance. The spotless white, gave it an ethereal effect, a widow at such a young age, robbed of all rights to enjoy life. The belief that she was inauspicious, that she had no right to any joy or celebration, that she ought to only observe fasts for the moksha of her ancestors. Any faltering on her part…, the ancestors would rot in hell. How could the men on earth, pining to lord it in Heaven, allow that?

As he slowed down, so did his little white shadow. Just as they emerged from the now deep dark forest, preparing for its nightly slumber, he sat down at the temple steps, adjacent to a still, green pond. “Ma! Tell me what happened? You know I want to help you!” said he in his calm, deep, soothing voice. No one had spoken to her with such love and compassion in months.

The tears just trickled down, and soon the little drops became a rivulet, as the dam of her emotions were breached and a flood of her emotions washed down the poor, frail soul, witnessed by the Universe, cloaked in its black garb which only tiny embers in the sky were daring enough to pierce. Every ember has the potential to be a raging flame and a fierce fire. Shekhar Maharaj let her weep, let her grieve!

Ever since her husband, the sick elder boy of the Zamindar babu died, even her parents did not want to see her. They could not afford to feed another mouth and wanted nothing to do with an ‘Abhaga’ (Ill fated). They may be poor to their bones, but they had their respect too. Who ever heard of married daughters going home to their parents? They had two more daughters to marry off.

In hushed tones she let him know how she was tortured and taunted by all and given little to eat. None of the loochis and aloor dom, none of the payesh or macher jhol. Widows can’t have non vegetarian food you see or challenge their palates lest they are driven into the arms of the material world, far away from their austere practices. She was given rice and dal and the leftovers, after everyone had finished burping. At night she was banished to a rundown room, at the back of the house where all night she couldn’t sleep fearing wild creatures, some were garbed as men too.

This evening the men had brought her to the forest to kill her, as an offering to Ma Chandi! The Pandit Moshoi had advised her father-in-law, if he wanted to recover from the strange malaise that afflicted him, he had to appease the Divine Mother. It could only happen through human sacrifice, someone from his family.

“You are no less than Ma Durga! If you believe in yourself, we will move on. From today you will be called- Durga”. Baptizing her under the night sky, with the twinkling stars promising to stay by her always, the duo moved on!

He knew from that day it would be his endeavour to share the ancient philosophy among the people. It was high time to stop blind superstitions.

naṣṭe mṛte pravrajite klībe ca patite patau | pañcasvāpatsu nārīṇāṃ patir-anyo vidhīyate ||

Having disappeared, Dead, having gone forth to a mendicant life, having become impotent, having fallen from social status, in all these five cases remarriage is ordained for women. (Paraśara Smṛti 4:30)

Picture courtesy the Internet for representation purpose only.