Published in First City, April 2012

The word ‘puja’ probably comes from the word ‘pu’ meaning flowers in Tamil. The generally accepted hypothesis is that the cattle herding nomads who dominated North India around 1500 BCE (formerly BC), who called themselves the Aryas, preferred invoking divinity through the ritual of yagna where ghee was poured into fire, accompanied by the chanting of hymns, to invoke God. The settled agricultural communities of the Indian subcontinent, conventionally identified as Dravidians, preferred making offerings of flowers and fruit and incense to gods and goddesses. What was older, what was preferred, is not known. But by 500 CE (formerly AD), the yagna practices had died out, mainly because of Buddhist influence, and the puja became the cornerstone of Hindu ritual practices, elaborated greatly in temple texts known as Agamas.

It is said that after the Buddha died, his relics were buried in mounds. These became stupas. The common man worshipped Buddha just as they worshipped Yakshas and Gandharvas, water and plant spirits, with flowers, food, incense and lamps. They offered the stupa umbrella, cloth and waved chamars, to show their respect for him. Gradually, around the stupa halls or chaitya were built, around which were built viharas or residence of monks. Eventually these practices and structures gave rise to rituals and architecture associated with temples. So unlike yagna, which came from the elite, priests, the puja had its roots in earth-bound rituals of the masses.

The puja-ghar in the house, or the Mandir outside the house, may be a religious structure like a Catholic church, a Jewish synagogue or a Muslim mosque, but its purpose is very different. It is seen not as a prayer room or a meditation room or a gathering room for the faithful; it is seen as the residence of God. God can take residence temporarily in clay images, or permanently in stone images. This emerges from a careful analysis of the ritual called puja. In North India, the temple is often called durbar, the royal court. In the South, it is referred to as the deity’s house.

The puja is essentially a choreographed protocol of hospitality to welcome a guest and make him comfortable until it is time to depart. Similar rituals are seen during marriage, where the groom serves as the divine guest. The number of steps varies from six to sixty four, with the average being sixteen, being fewer at home, elaborate in temples, and most elaborate during festival time.

The first step is Avahana, invocation, which involves inviting the deity to arrive and reside in the image of metal or stone in the puja-ghar. During Durga-puja in Bengal or Ganesh-puja in Maharashtra, this is the literal arrival of the clay image into the shrine. This ritual sometimes involves painting the eyes, or uncovering the eyes, of the deity, thereby making the otherwise inanimate form of the deity into an animate form of God.

The guest is then offered a seat. The seat is usually designed like a throne for the guest and it has to be made special. An umbrella may be placed over the head to shade the guest from the sun and also to indicate his high status. Yak-tail fly-whisks or chamars are waved on either side to keep away the flies and to help the guest feel cool and comfortable.

The third step involves washing: the feet, the arms and the legs, maybe a complete bath, the Abhishekha, with milk and water, and oils. Water is given to rinse the mouth and drink. Thus the guest is refreshed fully, been cleansed of the dust that may have covered his body and hair after the long travel.

The guest is then given clothes and ornaments, usually made of silk or cotton. There are ornaments given to adorn the toes, the feet, the ankles, the fingers, the hands, the arms, the neck, the waist, the chest, the ears, the nose, the forehead and finally a crown for the head. The sacred thread is given either to be worn around the neck or across the chest. The body is anointed with sandal paste and other fragrant unguents. A garland of flower is placed around the neck, sometimes hanging just over the shoulder, its two ends free.

Incense is lit. Then the guest is presented food or naivedya, which may include fruits, butter, sugar, honey, cooked rice. The last to be offered in the betel leaf with the areca nut, which is to aid digestion. This is not offered to Shiva as he is a hermit.

Finally it is time for the arti, the waving of lamps. This is when the deity’s face is highlighted. And everyone bows to the deity. Bhajans are sung praising the appearance and deeds of the guest. Bells are rung, drums beaten, for the sound is said to ensure that the deity’s attention is aroused and ensured.

This is followed by offerings, almost like petitions being offered to a king along with gifts of flowers and fruits and incense. Devotion is expressed through offerings, particular to particular devotees. For example, Shiva is offered raw milk, bilva leaves, dhatura and bhang. Vishnu is offered butter, honey, jaggery and tulsi leaves. The Goddess is offered neem, lemon and tamarind. A portion is given to the deity and the rest is given back to the devotee.

Flowers and food that has been touched by the deity is considered to contain the power of the deity; this is called contagious magic. The power of the deity is passed on through everything that the deity touches. Sometimes devotees seek the ash and sandal paste of the deity. This is a physical manifestation of the deity’s divine grace.

Offerings given to the deity must not be mixed up. What I give, I must receive. What I receive contains grace that is meant for me. What another person receives contains grace meant for him. That is why, when people visit temples, and make offerings, they ensure they pay from their own pocket. If someone else pays, he is promptly repaid. The idea is to keep one’s debts to oneself and not make other people one’s debtors or creditors.

Often the priest who brings the aarti or the offering back to the devotee is paid a small fee, thereby the middleman is paid off and the transaction of offering in exchange for grace remains between deity and devotee.

In Puri, food cooked in temple kitchens passes through the sanctum sanctorum. By simply being in the presence of the deity, by simply being graced by the deity’s glance, the food transforms into bhog, the leftover food of God containing divine grace. This is made available in Anand Bazaar, the temple market, to devotees, who seek divine grace.

Besides looking at the deity (darshan) and making offerings (bhog, naivedya), devotees often go around the shrine of the deity and thus receive his grace. The practice of sitting in the temple is common. This is to reaffirm that one is not in a hurry but genuinely seeks a connection with the deity.

In Shiva temples, there are usually no doors and the deity is available all the time. In Vishnu temples, there are very clear rules of when the deity is accessible and when he is not. This is in keeping with the hermit nature of Shiva and the royal nature of Vishnu. Of course as grand temples were built and more priests appointed, the rituals became elaborate and even Shiva became inaccessible to the devotees.

The deity gets exhausted by the blessings it has to give and so temple doors are repeatedly shut, giving the deity time to rest and replenish his energy. When the deity wakes up, once again he is bathed, dressed, fed and adored, before it is time for him to be seen, receive offerings and grant grace.

The last ritual of puja involves bidding farewell to the deity known as udvasana . Either the deity is put to sleep, and the doors of the temple shut, or in case of clay images, dissolved in water, an act known as visarjan, or immersion, a reminder that nothing lasts forever. Everyone has to end. And all that ends comes back the next day, or next year, with a new invocation.

Published in Devlok, Sunday Midday, Feb. 26, 2012

While frogs and toads are closely associated with rain and fertility and part of Chinese Feng Shui artifacts (images of frogs on a pile of coins are said to attract good fortune), they do not play a prominent role in Indian mythology. I found two rare references to frogs. In both cases they were about frog-queens, who like the frog-prince of fairytales, became human following a matter of the heart.

The story goes that Shiva once asked the demon-king, Ravan what he wanted. Ravan replied, “I want to marry your wife.” Shiva, the guileless ascetic, gave his assent. Shiva’s consort, Shakti, did not blame her husband – she realized Ravan had taken advantage of his innocence. She had to remedy the situation herself. So she took a frog and turned her into a nymph. Ravan saw the nymph and assumed that she had to be Parvati. Which other damsel would live on the icy slopes of Mount Kailas with Shiva ? He took her to Lanka and made her his queen. She was called Mandodari after manduka, the frog. And he wondered why she always sought his attention at the start of the rainy season when the bull frogs croaked in the palace pond.

In the other story, Parikshit, the grandson of Arjuna, the great archer, had a very peculiar wife whose name was Sushobhna. “Make sure,” she had told him before she agreed to marry him, “that I never look upon a body of water.”  Parikshit assumed his wife was afraid of water and so to make her comfortable, he ensured she never came near a well or a pond or a lake. Parikshit was obsessed with his wife. He even neglected his royal duties so that he could be with her, much to the irritation of his courtiers and ministers.

One day, in a spirit of merriment, he took her to a garden and in the centre of the garden there was a lake. As soon as Sushobhna saw the lake, she jumped in and did not rise again. Parikshit feared the worst. Had she been drowned? He ordered the lake be pumped dry. When the lake had been dried, he found inside no sign of his wife, only frogs. Maybe the frogs killed his wife, and ate her, he thought.

“Kill the frogs,” he ordered. So Parikshit’s soldiers went about killing the frogs until the frog-king, Ayu, begged Parikshit to stop and revealed the secret that had been hidden from Parikshit. “Your wife is my daughter, a frog princess. And this is how she seduces men and breaks their heart. I beg you to stop the killing of frogs. If you do, I will order my daughter to return to you and serve you as a wife should and not play her cruel games of love.”

Parikshit agreed and the frog-king forced his daughter to take human form again and serve her husband dutifully. Sushobhna followed Parikshit back to his palace but somehow the love between them was not as it was before.

Stories such as these perhaps humanized frogs and helped children grow up to more nature-loving adults. Or they were simply fun stories with no deep meaning, other than the insatiable desire for that complex emotion called love.

Published in Speaking Tree, March 04, 2012

In Bengal, when people fell ill, women of the family prayed to the twins, Jvara-Jvari, a brother and sister who caused fevers. Not much is known about these fever-causing deities or the ritual.

But according to one story in the Puranas, when Daksha conducted a yagna, he invited all the gods except Shiva. This angered many sages who complained to Shiva. But Shiva was indifferent to Daksha’s ritual and so did not attach any significance to being kept out. When the sages insisted, a drop of sweat fell from his forehead. From this sweat was born Jvara (maybe along with Jvari, but that is not stated). Jvara went to the sacrificial hall and spread disease. Bodies became warm, muscles ached, skin started to itch, rashes appeared in unmentionable spots, pockmarks popped up – all in people who sat around the sacred fire. The priests had to stop chanting as they began coughing and sneezing incessantly. Voices turned hoarse, unsuitable for the hymns. “This is the price you pay for keeping Shiva out,” said the sages. So Daksha prayed to Shiva, begged for forgiveness, and Shiva, who is easy to annoy and easy to please, cured all with his grace becoming known as Vaidyanath, the lord of healers.

Across India, there are shrines associated with seven mothers or seven virgins, known as Sapta-matrika, usually simply seven vermilion smeared rocks next to ponds and river banks, near tamarind and neem trees. In Maharashtra they are known as Sati Asara, which is perhaps a corruption of “Sapta Apsara”. They are said to cause pregnant women to miscarry and young babies to develop rash. No one is sure who these goddesses are. Their origin is shrouded in mystery yet they are found in villages across the Indian subcontinent. Some stories link them to the wives of the Seven Sages who make up the Great Bear constellations. One day, they went before the sacred fire, or took a dip in a pond, without wearing any symbols indicating they were married. As a result the heat of the fire, or the wetness of the water, made them pregnant. They were accused of infidelity and thrown out of the house and now they wander the earth, angry and determined to destroy the lives of women who do not acknowledge them as chaste goddesses. They tried to kill Skanda, son of Shiva, but he addressed them as mothers, even suckled on their breasts, and gave them the right to bring the curse of fever upon anyone who did not acknowledge them. They have also been identified with the Krittika or Pleiades constellation.

More popularly, the seven mothers who cause fever are worshipped as one goddess, known variously as Jari-Mari Mata, Jari meaning Jvari or fever, and Mari referring to Maru or dry barren desert heat. Very particularly when she causes pox, she is called Sitala, the cool one, cooled by curds and gifts of bridal attire and cooling ingredients such as neem, chillies, tamarind and lemon. In Sitala Mahatmya, she is described as riding a donkey and carrying a broom and a winnow basket containing pulses (which look like pox pustules) and a pot of healing water. Her companions are Jvara as well as Ghentukarna, who bring itches and skin diseases, and Raktavati who causes blood oozing fevers. In the south, the role of the goddess who brings fever if ignored and takes away fever when acknowledged is taken up by the much feared and revered Mariamman. These temples are popular even today across India.

Not many people today see disease as the wrath of a god or goddess, who demands appeasement, or as the work of a demon who has to be destroyed. But still these stories persist. It reveals our faith in how disease has traditionally been seen: not the presence of something unnatural, but as the imbalance of nature’s forces. In every story mentioned in this article, disease has its roots in pain and suffering: Daksha’s rejection of Shiva, sages doubting and rejecting their wives, women ill-treated for being unmarried or barren. Disease of the flesh was then seen as an outcome of social disease, our inability to be kinder, more welcoming and more compassionate of the world around us. These deities frightened us because we refused to acknowledge some fundamental truths about life and living.

Published in the Speaking Tree, April 08, 2012

In mythologies across the world there are many stories of lovelorn widows weeping over their dead husbands, very few of lovelorn widowers who weep for their wives. Here are three stories, one from Japan, another from Greece and one from India. All have a similar theme: of a husband trying to get his dead wife back to life. Only one succeeds, after he makes a sacrifice.

Japanese mythology tells us the story of the primal human couple, Izanagi, the man, and Izanami, the woman. They were responsible for churning out islands from the sea which they populated with their children, the many deities who populate the Japanese countryside. Izanami died while bearing the fire-god and Izanagi was so distraught at her loss that he was determined to bring her back. So he went to Yomi, the shadowy land of death, to fetch his wife. Unfortunately, she had eaten the food of Yomi and so could never return. Izanagi lit a torch, desperate to see his wife. To his horror, he found that her once beautiful body had decayed and was covered with maggots. He ran out of the underworld in fear, chased by Izanami who also missed her husband and wanted him to stay back. Izanagi finally reached earth and covered the entrance of the underworld with a huge boulder. His angry wife yelled, “I will kill a 1000 living creatures each day.” Izanagi yelled back, “Then I will create 1500 new lives each day.” So the story ends in eternal separation and bitterness.

Greek mythology tells us of the musician Orpheus who fell in love with a nymph called Eurydice who died of a snakebite, breaking his heart. Orpheus plucked the strings of his harp and sang of his loss. The song and the music were so mournful that the gods wept and showed him the way to Hades, the land of the dead, to reunite him with his beloved. There his songs moved even the unfeeling heart of Pluto, the ruler of the dead, who allowed Orpheus to take his wife back to earth. “But on one condition: you must walk in front and she will follow behind you and you must not look back until she has reached the land of the living.” Orpheus could not believe his luck and he ran out towards the land of the living secure in the knowledge that Eurydice followed him. As soon as he reached the land of the living, without waiting to give his wife enough time to catch up, an excited Orpheus turned back to look at his wife, only to see her disappearing like the mist, and returning to the land of the dead once again. So the story ends with separation and melancholy.

Hindu mythology tells us the story of Ruru and his wife Priyamvada who were madly in love. But then one day, Priyamvada is bitten by a snake and she dies. Ruru cannot bear the idea of a life without his wife. He invokes Yama, god of death, and begs him to let her go. Yama refuses unless he gets something in exchange. “Take half of the rest of my life and give it to her,” he says. This is the only case in Hindu mythology, maybe even world mythology, of a man sacrificing himself to save his beloved. Yama agrees reluctantly. And so Priyamvada is resurrected; she returns and lives in the land of the living as long as her husband does. Together they enjoy each other’s company until it is time to die.

Published in Devlok, Sunday Midday, March 18, 2012

Over the years as a writer, I have noticed something peculiar about editors. Every time I send an article where the word ‘god’ is written without capitalization, they promptly capitalize it, thinking I have made a mistake, or because they do not want to offend an oversensitive ignorant reader. So god becomes God. And with that one act, they reveal how Western thought has singed itself into our Indian brains.

Western thought is more ideological, than geographical, though its self-proclaimed champions are Europeans, Americans. Before it was what we call scientific, secular and modern thought, it was primarily Judeo-Christian thought. In science and secularism, God does not exist, or God does not matter, with or without capitalization. But in Judeo-Christian thought,God matters. God is singular, absolute, ideally non-gendered, but more often than not expressed in masculine terms. In orthodox Jewish tradition, God is referred to as G** as His name shall not be spoken in vain. And in Malaysia, a legal battle rages over whether the word God can be used synonymously with Allah, making Islam also Western thought.

Most people find it odd when I put Islam in the Western thought bracket, for generally the media portrays Islam at loggerheads with Western thought. First, let us clarify the three arms of Western thought: Judeo-Christian thought, Islamic thought, and Modern/Scientific/Secular thought. All three have one thing in common. They all believe in objective absolute truth that exists outside human beings. Hence, God is referred to as a third person, even atheists. Hence the phrase: the truth is out there. Hence, the use of capitalization to distinguish between word and Word, truth and Truth, him and Him, lord and Lord, god and God. Feminism insisted that Goddess be included. Scientists seek Truth using evidence while the faithful find Truth using faith. The method is different.

Indian thought or rather philosophies and mythologies of Indian origin (please note, I have not called it Eastern thought as I have not included Oriental thought here), believe objective truth does not matter, only subjective truth does. There is no truth out there, there is truth inside humans. Hence the Upanishadic phrase, “Aham Brahmasmi,” which means, I am god/God. Notice, my struggle to use capitalization. For divinity is seen as a spectrum: everything and everyone is divine, but with differing level of awareness. In Indian languages, there were different words therefore to indicate the divine: devata, bhagavan, ishwar, paramatma, parmeshwar. Translators of the Bible have struggled with which word to choose for God. Ironically, both Hindu reformists and fundamentalists have preferred the Western notion of God.

The notion of capitalization does not exist in Indian scripts. It comes from the West, where there is yearning for the absolute, and disdain for the rest. Even the scientific mind assumes this to be the more desirable truth. So God is holy and true, while gods represent the unholy and false pagan traditions of non-believers in Western traditions.

In Vedanta, Tantra, or Bhakti everything and everyone is god (partially aware), on the journey to realize God (fully aware). And to realize God they have to understand nature, prakriti, who is Goddess. Goddess in India is not the female version of God, as cavalier Western feminists proclaim for all of womankind. Goddess in Hinduism especially is a very specific idea, distinct from God, and God means something very different from G**.  That is why the word Bhagavan has very different meaning in Hindu and Jain tradition, representing God in one and the most worthy sage in the other. Similar ideas have been found in Buddhist tradition, which has rejected theistic vocabulary: which means they refer to god or Devatas but not God.

This is the politics of language that affects understanding of different cultures, and in the desire to be global, in the pursuit of the Word, we crush different ways of looking at life and religion by rejecting their words, and their grammar.

Published in Corporate Dossier, ET, Jan. 06, 2012

Lakshmi, goddess of wealth, has three fathers. There is Varuna, god of the sea, that gives the world salt, fish and all the water it needs. This is why Lakshmi is called Sagara-putri. Then there is Puloman, the Asura-king, who rules from the subterranean realm of Patala, where the primary form of all wealth is located. This is why Lakshmi is called Paulomi and Patala-nivasini, or resident of Patala. Finally there is Bhrigu, the sage who can see the future and so bring fortune. This is why Lakshmi is called Bhargavi.

Varuna gives Lakshmi away freely without resentment; and so is blessed with abundance. Puloman resists giving away Lakshmi and keeps fighting with the Devas, who want to make Lakshmi their queen, Sachi. Bhrigu rarely shares his secret and very selectively parts with his daughter. That is why for most humans Varuna is a generous god, worthy of worship, while Puloman is demon and Bhrigu, the guru of demons.

Wealth was visualized as a daughter that we create. She sits in our wallet. But she brings value only when she is given away. This is kanya-daan, giving away of the bride. To not part with wealth, to hoard, was considered the gravest of crimes. Yakshas, who hoard wealth, are therefore visualized as demons, who are often attacked and tortured by their half-brothers, Rakshasas, just as Devas are perennially at war with the Asuras.

Through these stories value was placed on wealth distribution, allowing wealth to flow so that it brought in more value. It also revealed the mindset that was considered beneficial to society at large, and ultimately, to the individual involved in wealth generation.

Jamshed owns six bakeries across the city. Each bakery has a turnover of over two lakh rupees each day. But Jamshed does not care so much about the turnover, “ The more bakeries I build, the more boys and girls get jobs, more people get to taste my bread and my cake. There is so much joy in that.”

Firoz is also in the baking business. He has two. But he does not want to build more bakeries. He says, “It is so much headache. The vendors do not give enough credit and the employees threaten to form unions. And the taxes are so high. Customers prefer Jamshed’s breads to mine. He is too stiff a competition. I barely make profit.”

Samsher also has a bakery that makes the most exquisite scones in the city. There is always a crowd in front of his store. He does not share this recipe and makes the batter for the scones himself. He cannot expand the business, as he might have to share his trade secret. He is happy being exclusive and highly profitable.

Jamshed is like Varuna, who uses his money to take care of his employees and lavish his customers, who return the favor. Firoz is like Puloman so careful about his money that both employees and customers feel the pinch. Samsher is like Bhrigu whose customer-friendly secrets ensure his success.

While all generate wealth, Jamshed’s wealth is shared amongst many people and it gives livelihood to many, reducing unemployment and helping society at large. The wealth of Firoz and Samsher helps only them. They become rich. But when one is rich in a world where there is poverty and unemployment, one lives perpetually in fear, facing the resentment of the rest. This is unhealthy in the long run. We become ‘demons’ for other members of society.

Published in Corproate Dossier, ET, March 02, 2012

Vishnu has two wives, Sri-devi and Bhu-devi. Sri-devi is goddess of intangible wealth and Bhu-devi, the earth-goddess, is goddess of tangible wealth. In some temples, they are Saraswati and Lakshmi, the former being moksha-patni, offering intellectual pleasures, and the latter being bhoga-patni, offering material pleasures. Shiva also has two wives, Gauri and Ganga, one who sits on his lap and the other who sits on his head, one who is patient as the mountains and the other who is restless as a river. Krishna has two wives, Rukmini and Satyabhama, one who is poor (having eloped from her father’s house) and demure and the other who is rich (having come in with her father’s blessing and dowry) and demanding. Murugan has two wives, the celestial Devasena, daughter of the gods, and Valli, the daughter of forest tribals. Ganesha has two wives, Riddhi and Siddhi, one representing wealth and the other representing wisdom. The pattern that emerges is that the two wives represent two opposing ideas balanced by the ‘husband’.  Amusing stories describe how the husband struggles to make both parties happy.

The Goddess has never been shown with two husbands (patriarchy?). But as Subhadra in Puri, Orissa, she is flanked by two brothers, Krishna, the wily cowherd, and Balabhadra, the simple farmer. But in North India, Sheravali, or the tiger-riding goddess,is flanked on one side by Bir Hanuman, who is wise and obedient, and on the other side by Batuk Bhairava, who is volatile and ferocious. In South India, Draupadi Amman, the mother goddess, has two guards, one a Hindu foot soldier and the other (not surprisingly for our most curiously secular state) a Muslim cavalryman. Once again,the pattern is one of opposite forces balanced by the sister or mother.

Balance plays a key role in business too. Marketing team needs to balance sales team. Finance team needs to balance human resource team. Back-ends need to balance Front-ends. Marketing ensures demand generation but its success cannot be quantified as it thinks more abstract and long term. Sales gives immediate results and is tangible, but cannot guarantee or generate future demand. Finance team focuses on processes and returns on investment and audit trails which make the company impersonal. Human Resource team has to compensate by bringing back the human touch. Back end systems can ensure inventory and supply. But it is the front end that has to ensure sales and service with a smile. A leader has to be the husband/sister/mother who balances the opposing wives/brothers/sons.

It is not easy. Jadhav started his career as a sales representative in a consumer goods company. He resented the marketing guys who sat in air-conditioned rooms all pouring over quantitative and qualitative market research data. He resented that they were paid more while it was he who got in the revenue. He carries this resentment till date. Now he is the CEO of a retail chain. He spends all his time with his sales team and the guys in the frontline. He is impatient with his marketing team, tells them repeatedly to go and spend time in shops and with the customers. So the marketing has become tactical, about today’s sales and this quarter’s targets. No one is the company is thinking strategically. The CEO is meeting today’s numbers and is not prepared for tomorrow’s challenges. This does not bode well for the organization, or for his career, because he has no one thinking ahead. This is what happens when one wife/brother/son gets more value than the other opposing-balancing force.

Published in Corporate Dossier, ET, February 03, 2012

Business is a yagna, the ancient fire ritual described in Vedic scriptures. Into the flames, the Yajaman makes offerings exclaiming, “Svaha!” this of me I offer, hoping that the Bhagavan, or deity he has invoked, satisfied with his offerings, emerges from the flames and says, “Tathastu!” as you wish.

Who is the Yajaman? It is the shareholder who invests his resources and expects dividends in return; the employee who invests skills and expects a salary in return; the customer who invests a share of his wallet and expects products, services or ideas in return. Every exchange is a yagna. Anyone who initiates the exchange is the Yajaman; anyone who closes the exchange is the Bhagavan. Svaha is the investment; tathastu is the return on investment. Everyone gives; everyone receives. Depending on the context, everyone is Yajaman or Bhagavan. In an ideal yagna, both Yajaman and Bhagavan should be happy.

Management Science restricts its gaze to svaha and tathastu: what is given and what is taken. These can be measured, hence managed. Everything begins with the outcome in sight, the desired tathastu; the svaha is designed accordingly. Great attention is paid to the offering, to the gestures, to the exclamations. No attention is paid to the Yajaman or the Bhagavan. Their beliefs, feelings, and fears cannot be measured, or managed, hence do not matter. Their presence is critical but their personalities have no impact on the outcome. Both are relevant but replaceable. The yagna exists,independent of the gaze of the Yajaman and Bhagavan.

In a traditional yagna, however, what matters most is the bhaav of the Yajaman, the emotional intent underlying the ritual. This depends on how the Yajaman sees the Bhagavan, which in turn depends on how he sees himself. The quality of the yagna depends on the gaze of the Yajaman; this is shaped by the Yajaman’s beliefs, how he sees the world and himself. Should he be replaced by someone else, the belief will be different, the gaze will be different, hence the bhaav will be different. This will surely impact the outcome. The yagna thus,has no independent existence outside the Yajaman’s subjective truth.

At a fast-food joint, Management Science prevails. Sadhana stands at the counter and speaks with a smile, in broken English, even when the customer does not understand English. Sadhana knows that the customer can speak Marathi, which she is fluent in, but she will continue to speak in English. That is the process designed to create a particular customer experience. Every consumer is treated to the same consumer experience. Every employee is bound by the same rules. Individual prejudices and preferences are not allowed. Surely that is fair in the interests of standardization? But why does she feel dehumanized. Like she does not matter. Like only her obedience matters, not her intelligence. And she cannot complain because she is very well compensated. Why does she feel like a domesticated animal, not a fulfilled human? This is no yagna. She is neither Yajaman, nor a Bhagavan. She is the karya-karta, who does what the karta tells her to do.

Published in Devlok, Sunday Midday, March 04, 2012

Red is the colour associated with the Goddess. Lakshmi wears red. Durga wears red. Red is blood. Red is menstrual fluid. It is the colour of the earth before the rains. It is the colour of life and fertility. Kumkum is the red colour made using saffron or turmeric. Sindoor is the red of the setting sun obtained on earth from cinnabar (lead oxide). These are worn by men as tilak and by women as bindi. These are the colours to smear images of Ganesha and Hanuman. Then there is Abir and Gulal, hurled into the sky, during the festival of Holi.

Today this is toned down. But the hurling of red colour with red water by boys and girls, the consumption of bhang and the bawdy lyrics sung on the streets of North India, and in Bollywood (remember Amitabh Bachchan in Silsila) all point to Holi being an ancient fertility festival. It is not by accident that the festival comes precisely a fortnight after Maha-Shiva-ratri as the new moon gives way to the full moon, when the winter chill gives way to spring. Only now a dirty industrial pink has overshadowed the blood red, and oil paints have replaced organic dyes, and balloons and piston ‘pichkari’ have replaced fistfuls of dry colour powder.

On the eve of Holi, a bonfire is burned. The reason,we are told,is to remind us of Holika, a woman who could withstand fire. She entered a fire carrying Prahalad, a devotee of Vishnu, intent on killing him, but was instead burned to a crisp while Prahalad was saved. The story, though popular, does not align well with the ‘fertility’ roots of Holi, so may have been added to a preexisting fertility festivity.

The name Holi perhaps is a corruption of the word ‘Dol’ as the full moon is called Dol Poornima, referring to the swing which Krishna swings from as he plays with colour and water with friends. For Holi is very much a Krishna festival, a festival of love and mischief, as he flirts and banters with milkmaids. This is most evident in Mathura and Vrindavan, and during the Lat-maar festival when women of the region strike men with sticks.

In the south, Holika Dahan, or the burning of Holika, is referred to as Kama Dahan. This narrative connects the bonfire ritual to the fertility ritual.Shiva sets aflame Kama, god of desire, because he dares to shoot an arrow of lust at him. Kama’s wife, Rati, begs forgiveness on the day Shiva decides to marry Parvati, which is Maha-Shiv-ratri. A less angry Shiva promises that on the full moon of Dol Poornima, he will be reborn in the body of Krishna and Rati will be reborn in the body of Radha. In Krishna’s body, the lust of Kama will be tempered with love. It will not just be about the body; it will also be about the heart.