Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Nishta J. Mehra
the fire where I was to sit, the only patch of ground which hadn’t been
covered by offerings for the puja. Whole coconuts in brown husks,
ripe, fleshy mangoes, little dishes of almonds and crystals of rock
candy, silver platters piled high with grapes, bananas, oranges. Trays of
flowers, too, from family gardens—orange marigolds, pink cornflowers,
the first, sharp-smelling chrysanthemums of autumn. The blooms had
been separated from their stems and some of the more delicate petals
had come apart and were scattered through the mixture like confetti.
Hinduism is a sensory feast, sometimes assaultingly so.
I sat face-to-face with the fire, the whole crowd of believers
perpendicular to me, on my left-hand side. I was glad not to have to
look into their faces and watch them watching me. I watched instead the
fire, focused on it, following the leap and tangle of colors and light. Its
smell was heavy and dark; comforting, mixed with the smoky trails of
incense and sharp scent of lit camphor, both of which burned from brass
holders among the offerings. After another jagged, trumpet-like blast
from the conch, the chanting began in Sanskrit, with Dr. Dirghangi
stopping periodically to explain the meaning of each previous passage
in English. The verses told the story of Durga’s conception and victory,
glorifying and praising her heroics. Chanting echoed around me for the
good part of an hour. I followed the jumbles of Sanskrit, even though I
did not understand, just to trace the dips and rises of each line, to catch
the drawn-out vowels, make them reverberate in my own mouth under
my breath. I tried to keep my mind still—I had practiced meditation
before, at home, but I wasn’t very skilled at keeping my thoughts from
wandering. My head ached from the smoke and the camphor; sweat
trickled down the small of my back but I didn’t move. I was busy doing
my best to be good, to do the duty which was expected of me, which
would fulfill some kind of need for the grownups in the room.
In the background I could hear the sound of crinkling foil and
paper bags. There would be food after the ceremony, of course—no
gathering in our community would be complete without a potluck
offering of rice, yogurt, vegetables, and lentils. And as an extension
of the religious ceremony, a fruit salad would come last, made from
the fruits which were spread out before me as offerings. Once peeled,
seeded, chopped, and combined, they constituted a requirement. You
cannot refuse any food which has been blessed by the goddess.
“Now you will all please stand, we will be performing the aarti,”
said Dr. Dirghangi, which I knew signaled the beginning of the end.
The crowd began its song, the combined voices so loud and rich in
Crab Orchard Review ◆ 213