Of elephants and idlis

It was Ganesh Chaturthi yesterday, our first without my mother telling us what and how to do the right things that need to be done to say ‘hi’ to the elephant god. With a few misgivings, many glitches and the sure knowledge that it was all wrong, we managed to bumble through the day and did, eventually, do the rights things, with a lot of digging through memory, some Internet research and the excuse of ‘modernising’ a classic to help us through the substitutions. We also had the excuse of full time jobs, a traditional mourning period and sheer ignorance to carry us through the day. But, all in all, it worked. Ganesha should be fairly pleased with us – A for effort, albeit perhaps not for convention.

It started out with the retrieval of Mum’s favourite little figurine of the god, carved into dark brown coral. It sat, wise and old, on a rupee coin that had been glued to its bottom to keep it from tipping over, as it had a distressing tendency to do. Of course, when I washed off the dust of the last year, the coin came unglued, which meant that there was much colourful language heard when I tried to sit it in its place in the simple puja that we installed. Adding a few beads and baubles and a jungle of jasmine from the bush that grows right outside my parents’ bedroom window made the small altar more familiar. A tray of fruit, coconut and sweetened milk (in lieu of payasam) started the naivedyam, or puja offerings. The silver lamp was made ready for lighting. The sandalwood agarbatti was placed in its ornate silver stand.

Then it went a little crazy. Upset that I had forgotten to get the makings ready for something that could have been our equivalent of idli, traditional fare for the Lord, I said more rude words, then was soothed by my father, who promised to go out and buy the stuff. Which upset me even more, and made me fill a panoply of small dishes that I vaguely remembered were part of the menu for the occasion. There were substitutions galore – rice, ghee and banana chips instead of rice and dal (where the connection is, I am still not sure, but it felt right at the time); sprouted mung beans in lieu of garbanzos with coconut; cashewnut modaks in place of the jaggery-laced coconut in rice flour envelope kozyakattais and more. It was, all in all, a satisfying spread, one that should have satiated the deity and certainly filled us up to our rather smaller noses. And the kitten partook, too, taking a tiny sip of the sweet milk and a small lick of the modak, watching with bug-eyes as the lamp was lit and the agarbatti spiralled smoke into the air.

After lunch came the analysis and the cleaning up. We argued about not making kozhakattais, buying the idlis from a nearby grocery store and not wearing new clothes for the festival. Between burps, we debated the virtues of sprouts versus chickpeas and the lack of the perfect payasam. We also crowed at how the miniature vadais looked just like the kozhakattais we had not made, perfect little pointy noses and all. And, as I washed all those many little glass dishes I had put goodies into, I worried that the Lord would not forgive my goofs and gaffes. But, like I said before, I should do well on the trying, right?