Festivals and More Festivals

On August 15th, three days after my birthday and one day after Krishna’s birthday, it was Independence Day here in India. August is a month of excitement. The month begins with the celebration of Raksha Bandhan, a holiday where girls tie rakhi (colorful bracelets symbolizing the promise of a good relationship) on their brothers. In return, the boys give their sisters small sweets. A really adorable holiday. Then, in honour of Krishna Janamasthami, our school put on a truly excellent celebration, which included couples dancing (dressed as Krishna and Radha) and a group of boys creating a human pyramid in order to break a pot hanging some twenty feet in the air that contained butter. This tradition arose because, as legend has it, when Krishna was a baby he loved to eat butter. His mother would hang it from the ceiling in order to keep it out of the way, but he would still find ways to get to it. Because of Krishna’s strange culinary fetish, one lanky lad at our school had to climb to the top of a perilous human mountain, braving buckets of water that people threw from the top floor in order to dissuade the naughty Krishna.

More than any sports event, I was truly involved in the struggle to get the pot, groaning each time the pyramid would topple, and cheering the boy on. At last he struggled to the top again, bare feet slipping on his friends’ shoulders, and reached up for the pot. Grasping it firmly in his hands, he crashed his forehead against it and blue butter sprayed out from the new hole. As the pyramid toppled underneath him the boy held bravely on (the tradition seems to require that the pot be completely demolished before the task is done) and was left dangling in the air a few seconds before the line of rope gave way and lowered him—pot in hands—to the ground. It was a great spectacle; I wish we had caught it on video.

The following day was the actual festival, so we had a holiday and were able to watch the same event performed by “professionals” within the community.

Then, on Saturday, Independence Day, we got to show up to school a relaxed hour later at 8:00, all clad in white or flag-colored sarees. The English medium teachers were required to wear white, so Pam and I borrowed some sarees from one of our co-teachers. I felt like I was wearing a toga in my pure-white get-up, but at least I wasn’t alone.

The weather, however, was uncooperative. In our pristine white sarees we had to make our way to school in the rain; pitiful little umbrellas doing a poor job of sheltering us. At school, preparations were already underway. Teachers were gathered in the staff-room, putting lipstick and eyeshadow on little girls so they turned into miniature doll figurines ready to dance. We huddled anxiously, groups congregating at one end of the building and then the other, watching the rain and waiting for it to stop so the ceremony could begin.

Finally, we were able to assemble outside, students on one side and teachers on the other, with the proud bust of Gandhi in between. The day began with the singing of the national anthem, as usual, and after some brief opening remarks the teachers took their seats and the dance performances began.

While all the dancers were enthusiastic, it was really two young girls who stole the show. Stationed front and center in each of their respective dances and wearing elaborate traditional clothing, my eyes were glued to them the whole time. I think we have some blossoming professionals in our midst.


After the performances finished, the founder of the school himself, Mr. Khatiwala (if I'm not mistaken), took the floor to give a speech in Gujarati. Though we couldn’t understand the majority of what he said, we both jumped to attention at the words “…American teachers, Pamela Ma’am and Dalena Ma’am. Please stand up.” Smiling sheepishly, we waved at the crowd, and the speech continued in Gujarati.

In a dramatic culmination, the end of the speech coincided with the return of the rain. Just as he was winding to a close, a sprinkle appeared that quickly became a pour. I sat gingerly on the edge of my chair, white saree clinging to skin, and the air of anxiousness increased. As he said, “Thank you,” we were already on our feet, applauding while simultaneously rushing inside. The kids pulled out packages of samosas and munched happily while we waited out the worst of it, and were turned free to enjoy the rest of the day as we would.

Following on the tail of all this excitement, today was yet another holiday: The Parsi New Year. Though there were no festivals that we know of, we had the day off from school. Speaking as a Leo, it comes as no surprise that August here seems like one of the coolest months.

Namaste,
Dalena