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

214 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Nishta J. Mehra
contrast to the solo we had been hearing. Aarti refers to two things—
the devotional song itself, and the devotional act of lighting a lamp or
lamps fueled with ghee, clarified butter. One by one, the women came
forward to lift the sterling-silver lamp and circle it, clockwise, in the
air as they sang. The words, though Sanskrit still, were familiar to me
after years of repetition, though the meaning I only vaguely knew.
Glory to You, O Divine Mother, glory to you who are so rich
in maiden grace!
You attend the gods and men, whose grief you drive away.
You are mother of the universe, its sustainer, reliever of
affliction, and bestower of happiness and prosperity.
I was the only one still seated in the room during the song, and the
women passing around the aarti lamp stood only about a foot away.
Everything was so close; the bodies standing over me, the hot breath of
the havan, the clashing pinks, yellows, and greens of the women’s saris,
their husbands who stood next to them in blue jeans. The noise felt
harsh, chaotic, grating, and I stood there waiting for the whole thing
to be over. Then, very clearly, I heard my mother’s strong voice. She
was standing right in front of me, the edge of her silk sari pulled up to
cover her head in the traditional North Indian style. Her body was bent
down in my direction, and her slender hands moved the lamp slowly,
rhythmically, in keeping with the aarti’s pace. When I met her gaze,
she gave me a look, one I could not recognize offhand. Her face was
calm and insistent, mouth moving in accordance with the song. “You,”
she seemed to be saying. “Pay attention, this is important.”
The aarti was halfway through its second repetition by then—the
song is always continued as long as is necessary for all the women to
have a turn. I closed my eyes for a moment. I was hot and hungry and
uncomfortable and bored, but my mother’s face warned me against
thinking of those things. I opened my eyes instead and looked around
me, into the faces that stood a few dozen inches away. Their eyes, those
that were opened, and voices were directed at me. Every face was
serious, genuine, focused…on me. But it wasn’t about me, I realize,
looking back. There was no need for me, Nishta, to feel self-conscious,
because it was not me, Nishta, whom they saw when they looked. I was
just the vessel, a vehicle for her presence to come into that place. I was
not an individual that day, but a representation of all that is female and
powerful and worthy of worship.