FEstival Season in IndiaIt is festival season here in India, and I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I already knew India boasted rich cultural tradition and festivities, but to be here during festival season is a treasure. The past month has been all the more colorful and full of excitement. Dassehra, the 10 day festival that celebrates the victory of good over evil is celebrated differently in every region. I had the opportunity to experience the Dassara celebrations in two different locales: Ahmedabad, Gujarat and Mysore, Karnataka. And I celebrated Diwali in Bangalore. Up in the North, the festival of Navatri/ Dassara is celebrated through a beautiful Indian folk dance called garba that originated in the state of Gujarat. I traveled up to Ahmedadbad, Gujarart to partake in the festivities and see a fellow Fulbrighter at the National Institute of Design. On Saturday morning we walked along the stalls lining the edge of Law Garden, and were awed by the colorful blouses and flowing skirts embroidered with tons of tiny circular mirrors that sparkled in the morning sunlight. We made our way through the market, two American-Indians, Shalaka and Aditi, and two blond foreigners, Eli and I. I quickly picked a pink blouse decorated with blue and green embroidery and went to find Eli, figuring he had gone to find a snack. I walked towards the end of the market where I remembered there was a man making fresh dosas. Unsurprisingly, I found Eli surrounded by a hoard of locals. “Try the spicy sauce!” they exclaimed. Figuring I’d join in on the fun, I plopped down on the ground next to Eli. I tore off a piece of dosa and scooped up some of the red muck and chomped down. Two men in flannel shirts sitting across from me opened their eyes widely. I swallowed and smiled. “Don’t worry,” I laughed. “My Grandpa Jim used to grow jalapeños, so I’m used to spicy food.” They exhaled deeply and laughed. The folks sitting around us were clearly impressed by Eli and I’s spice tolerance. After a few more laughs, we went to find the gals searching for langas. Soon, we all had our colorful outfits and were ready to dance through the night. We showed up to the National Institute of Design’s Garba celebration around 9:30 pm, proudly dressed in our langas. Around 10 pm the band began playing music at a slow pace. Slowly, the circular field began to fill with bodies, dressed in every color of the rainbow. Skirts swooshed in the stagnant evening air and feet grinded into the brown dirt below. I began to learn the dances quickly, following the person in front of me as we danced in large concentric circles. As we moved we passed beaming faces and clapping hands, cheering us on as we continued the tradition. As the night wore on the music got faster and faster, and so did the movements. Finally, the last dance was shared and shouts reverberated throughout the crowd before the closing pooja (prayer) began. With glistening faces, sore bodies, and blistered feet we all gathered in the center of the field for the pooja, with twinkling lights above our heads and the songs of prayer seeping into the first rays of dawn. I’ve always been keen on the idea that dancing is the most authentic way to connect with other humans and to immerse yourself in another culture. Dancing garba into the wee hours of the morning only added to this theory. And may I just say that this is a 10-day festival, so locals repeat this Garba 9 nights in a ROW. It’s an incredibly impressive show of stamina and an absolutely vibrant cultural tradition. I feel lucky to have been a part of it all. Mysore celebrates Dassara for 10 full days, but on the 10th day, Vijayadashami, the celebrations reverberate throughout the town in the form of a colorful parade. I traveled to Mysore on the 10th day with a friend from Brazil I met at a social impact conference. We waltzed up to the palace and were informed the tickets were 2500 rupees to enter the grounds. We turned to walk away, unwilling to pay such a hefty price, and suddenly I heard someone shouting “Ma'm!” I turned around and a security officer was motioning furiously for us to come back. Unsure of his intention, we inched forward, and as soon as we reached the officer he signaled for us to enter. “Please,” he said loudly, “Enter the palace. You are our guest,” and a beaming smile spread across his face, turning his thick mustache upwards. So, Veronica and I pushed past the crowds and made our way into the palace grounds to watch the Dassara procession, noting the immense privilege we had just been given to witness this cultural event. We watched with wonder as 70 different floats, along with dancers and musical groups, processed through the palace grounds and continued throughout the town. The last in the lineup was the goddess idol which sits in a structure made of 2000 lbs of gold on the top of a colorfully painted elephant. The crowd went nuts for this. Later in the evening the Mysore palace lit up with thousands of lights. Amidst the crowds, Veronica and I became temporarily adopted by two locals, Arjun and Roopa. This lovely couple took us on a motorcycle joy-ride up a mountain to see the lights from up above. As we rode through the streets of Mysore, the whole town was ablaze with multi-colored lights. Every intersection was sparkling. Soon we reached the top of a nearby mountain to get a birds-eye view of all the festivities below. Looking down before me, at the town of Mysore, now seeming so small but alight with color, I felt wrapped up in all kinds of light and warmth. Lastly, this past weekend was the festival of Diwali, or the festival of lights. My friend Nicola and I were kindly invited to a family friend’s house for a typical South Indian lunch and temple hopping. The matriarch of the family, an 84-year old woman dressed in a vibrant yellow sari encouraged us to eat well. “Be free,” she whispered hoarsely, with brilliantly kind eyes. With full stomachs, we learned that their family would not celebrate Diwali this year because they had just lost a family member- a father and a husband. We also learned that Diwali is about external cleaning such as cleaning the home, as well as internal cleaning. Cleaning out the soul and the mind, and filling it with love and light. With gratitude, we thanked our hosts and headed to a women’s house whom I’d met on my first flight to Bangalore, Dr. Iffat. We shared a meal and watched from her tenth-floor balcony as the city became ablaze with every color of the rainbow. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The fireworks started at 6 pm and spread across the horizon, with crackers big and small, bursting into the night. It was only when the rains began late that night, that the fireworks began to cease. But the rains were no match to the burgeoning warmth in the hearts of locals.
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Sammi Bennett I am a dancer, singer, creative non-fiction writer, yoga teacher, outdoor lover, and book-binder. Archives
August 2022
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