In praise of Ganapati

Ben Antao

In Margao where I went to school from the mid-forties to early fifties, the Ganesha birthday was a happy holy day and holiday. The Ganesha, the elephant-headed god of the Hindu pantheon, is worshipped as an icon of good luck and wisdom, a remover of obstacles, and a patron of learning. In Hindu mythology he is a son of the divine couple, Shiva and Parvati.

As a pre-teen I looked forward to the Ganesha celebration with a compelling excitement that was special. Other Hindu festivals such as the Holi, an equivalent of the Christian carnaval, or the Divali, a festival of lights that celebrates material success, did not intrude in my developing psyche as much as Ganesha.

The sheer proliferation of images of the Hindu idol with the elephant trunk, in poses and attitudes as wild and varied as the artist's imagination will allow, was a visual feast. And each passing year seemed better than the previous one in the makeup and the creative energies lavished on the idol. And when the sight overwhelmed the eye, it was time to explore the artist's den.

Now near the railway station stood a house where Ganesha images were fashioned from clay. A man in a dhoti with a bare chest and a loose string passed over one shoulder and secured diagonally at his waist worked skillfully with his hands to create idols of infinite variety. One afternoon, a couple of weeks before the Chaturthi (birthday), he was adjusting the angle of a hand on an image, his pliant fingers working expertly around the bend at the elbow. The clay was bluish-gray and so mixed as to be elastic so that the artisan molded it to any desired shape.

Dozens of images ranging in height from a foot to three feet were at different stages of completion--a couple with heads missing, a few without an arm or a tusk, another with just the torso. Arrayed on wooden planks, they would soon be imbued with a spirit of learning and wisdom through the alchemy of the artist's devoted imagination.

In a corner stood two idols painted rose pink. They had similar features--an elephant head, one tusk, a corpulent belly, four hands each holding a water lily, a discus, an axe, and a small ball respectively. Around the belly was a snake and at the base was a rat. The predominant feature of the images, of course, was the long, sloping trunk that compelled attention, if not reverence. Once transported to individual homes, these images took on a festive aspect and became veritable deities to be worshipped.

A stroll through the neighborhood on the evening of the Ganesha Chaturthi was a revelation not only of the deep devotion of the Hindus but also of their warmth and generosity. Just as Catholics who welcomed passers-by during the Christmas season and offered them snacks and liquor, the Hindu households would also welcome curious visitors, especially children from Catholic homes.

A tour of the neighborhood allowed me to see how the deity was displayed and to taste the sweet riceballs. Along the Abade Faria Road where many Hindu families lived, a stroll was a feast for the eyes. In the corner of the living room of one house the Ganesha looked regal and imposing amidst garlands of flowers and petals, basking in the mellow light emitted by two cotton wicks soaked in oil and burning atop two silver trays placed on lamp holders on opposite sides.

Directly in front of the idol rose spirals of smoke from an incense holder, bathing the room in an aura of reverence.

At the next house the idol was smaller and illuminated by a single lamp with three wicks. Here a young girl peeped in from a side door, disappeared, and promptly returned to the front door to offer me a sweet in the shape of a ball.

Off the main road in the Comba area stood a big house raised from the road level by a flight of smooth red steps and a tiled porch. Here in a large side hall sat a huge Ganesha in a horse-drawn golden chariot, surrounded by flowers and enclosed in squared rows of
single lamps on pedestals. Varicolored animal figurines dotted the grassy mat of a green landscape brightened by shaded light bulbs turned towards the white walls.

Seeing nobody around, on impulse I went in to take a closer look at the dazzling sight. "What are you doing there? Come out," called a woman's voice from behind. I turned back.

"Don't you know you can't go in there with your shoes on?" she said.

"I didn't know, I didn't know," I said nervously and immediately bounded down the steps and up the road where it curved into an alley.

I crossed over to another dirt road, then a side road in the vicinity of the jailhouse. Still panting, in the gathering darkness I turned right towards the Abade Faria Road and then into the Bernardo da Costa Road. Here lay Lalita's house where the sweetened riceballs, Ganapati's favorite food, tasted the sweetest of all.

That night I had a dream in which I found myself hounded by a herd of elephants. I ran as fast as I could past trees and brush, tall grasses and stony creeks, but the elephants pursued me with the rush of a stampede. Now exhausted, I looked up and there before my eyes floated a chariot carrying Ganesha whose trunk reached down to lift me out of harm's way.

That's the kind of impact the Ganesha celebration generated. In every Hindu household the sense of Ganesha prevailed, a sense that sustained many a wretched life, a sense that rekindled hope in rebirth to a better life, a sense that kept the bond with the past alive as an act of down payment to the promise of the future. In every household there was a flicker of light, a beam of hope, a hint of peace.

In this the Hindus appeared to be the reflection of the Christians, in whose homes also, be they ever so humble, shone the Christmas star reflecting the star of Bethlehem that attracted the Magi to a life of light, hope, and peace. Both communities lived in peace and goodwill, but during occasions of religious festivals they also discovered the oneness of their humanity.

Happy Ganesha Chaturthi!

c1999 Ben Antao

September 12, 1999