chalchitra

The fat god has arrived. Shivareeing through the roads of Mumbai, millions of people dance their way home, welcoming lord Ganesha. For nights, the architects have molded clay to beautiful shapes, to which people would tuck their heads and murmur their prayers. Days of workmanship have gone into conjuring the contours of the tiniest feature of the idol.

For hours, the followers would queue outside the pandal, chanting pious songs. A bellwether would emerge from the crowd: a kid in his thin voice would lead the chanting of Ganapathy bappa morya, and the rest in the line would closely, unanimously follow the pitch, stressing different syllables each time, making it lyrical. The brown pandal tarpaulin would be raised and the devotees would stagger in and gather around the daan peti. The lights would dim and a short chalchitra would follow.

A story is dramatized using Indian mannequins of gods and humans; the gods painted blue and the humans dark-skinned trolley back and forth, in tune with the voice-over recorded in Marathi. Earthly beings face the atrocities of a devil. A gigantic chimpanzee looking monster, painted black, thump-march the stage, killing whoever comes in the way. He randomly fists his chest to enhance the devil-like appearance. The women in the crowd flinch, a hand planted on the chest. The kids laugh, looking at the shabby devil, that’s anything but scary. There’s a giggle in the crowd when a hand would pop-out from a tree or from behind a hut on the stage to move the devil along the rail.

When tyranny reaches the brim, God-men pray to Gods. But when no God can be of help enough, not even the trio of Brahma-Vishnu-Mahesh can stop the devil, they implore together, Shankar and Parvati, plunge their palms, and the entire universe calls for the elephant-god.

What follows are the series of prayers. There’s a lightning in the sky. Thunder echoes on earth. A light blazes beneath the curtain, behind which the god-of-the-season resides. The curtains slowly lift up. The giggle in the crowd stops. Men, busy ogling women, angle their heads to the stage. The palms are folded into a pranaam. And as the curtains are lifted, there’s a resounding cry of Ganpathy bappa moraya. At that instance, the lid of the halogen flips, and darkness hovering around the idol is consumed by light.

The grandeur deity is standing on one foot. The other leg crossed- bent in air as a pause of a dance. The left hand is holding a Trishul, which flies and beheads the monster. The right hand is raised in a blessing. Godly instruments are grasped in other two hands, which will bring peace on earth. Now the entire stage lits up. The flowers emerge from under the stage. Birds sing in different melodies. The humans begin to frolic in victory. The Heavens descend on to earth and thank Lord Ganesha for his mercy. A carol plays in the background.

But in all this drama, all this theatre, what is seen first is not the protruding stomach or the long trunk that snakes through the body and assumes a skyward curl. What is seen first is not the trishul that’s hurled or the pause of the idol. When the curtains are drawn, when the chorus of the lilting hymn pervades the pandal, when the God is open for darshan, what is beheld first are the tiny radiant eyes of
Ganpathy. The powerful glow in the elephant god’s eyes, one is enthralled, transcended to a saintly state.

Even while their own eyes are shut, they know that they are fine. Their pulsating hearts settle. The hours of fatigue drains into oblivion. They aren’t worried about the pickpockets who would be wading through the crowd in this dark. The elephant-god is watching.

So when they shut their eyes, they see the halo of the elephant God. At the back of their eyelids, a perfect sun-rim has formed. Darting at this godly light, lost in this divine appearance, the family's remembers and there's an utterance for children's health and prosperity.

The lights go dim.
Speactators disperse in knots.
Curtains fall.
Another set of devotees stagger in.