Shivaratri

Upper left: staff and villagers cutting veggies.
Above right: the man I call "Juanga's Smallest Man" who is around at every function and helps constantly, enthusiastically. Real name is Kusani.
Left: Macu, a boy, now10, I cared for my first time here, and me outside the tree on Shivaratri.

Our hospital sponsors a huge function each year on Shivaratri, a national Hindu festival celebrating Lord Shiva. We invite over 25 musical groups from the area, and feed our village of 500 people and those from surrounding enclaves. This year’s was on last Friday, February 16th.

From 8:00am on, many of our staff crouch under the big banyan tree next to the hospital and set to slicing pound upon pound of vegetables – squash, tomatoes, potatoes, onions, garlic, ginger, figs. Huge pots the size of children’s swimming pools are set over fire and the cooking begins, all overseen by two major figures: Natol, a hospital employee who is not only an excellent chef but also a Brahman priest (something he was born into, as it’s part of the caste system. Brahmins are the highest caste, and perform all of the worship rituals. There are always several at a festival like this, so Natol could focus on cooking), and Babaji, the village “caterer” who provides the giant cook wear and stays all day and night, stirring, mixing, advising on ingredient levels, shouting orders. I am entertained by Babaji, partially because he is ever present at all our village functions and has a constant, cunning smile on his face, and partially because never does one see someone so scantily clad close to so much hot, boiling food in America. He stands there with a five-foot giant spoon, his loincloth tightly wrapped to allow free movement as he mixes, and really, never stops smiling unless someone isn’t cutting the potatoes properly and he has to scold them.

All this takes place while three young men are setting up the “sound system,” four ancient microphones of questionable quality hung from branches of the tree, and three giant speakers set to blast the latest Oriyan pop music until the chanting begins.

Inside the small temple under our tree, several priests fastidiously perform an array of pujas, with sandalwood, marigolds, incense, and ghee, clarified butter. Soon they have their own microphone, the pop music is shut off, and they chant prayer after prayer after prayer, invoking the names of many Hindu deities.

It’s easy to not take their activity seriously; I don’t understand what they’re saying, and all the waving around of incense starts to look comical. But two years ago, these same priests spent all day and all night praying for my college roommate, Betsy, who was deathly ill at the time. I woke up periodically in the night and was astonished to find them in continued prayer.

The priests did have trouble with her name, as it is completely unfamiliar to their tongue. Sometimes it came at as “Bresty,” and other times “Besty,” and my personal favorite was “Busty.” But they prayed over 36 hours for someone they did not know, and I remain grateful for their sincere intention. Betsy made a full and miraculous recovery.

From noon on, the musical groups arrive. We feed them fried bread and a lentil stew, and then the hours and hours of drumming and singing begin, all of them seated in a big circle with the singer pacing back and forth on the inside, underneath those four microphones hanging from the tree. This year we had a rain delay in the middle of the day, so because we had no patients convalescing, we moved into the hospital and played away until it cleared.

In the end, we all eat again. By this time it’s late, sometime after 10pm, and we roll out mats on which to sit. Someone hands out banana leaves. Next comes a bit of water to “wash” the leaves. Then comes a dab of salt. Then a big basket of rice, and piles of it pushed onto each leaf. The diners make a volcano shape of their rice, just in time for the arrival of the piping hot dhalma, another kind of lentil stew with potatoes and squash and the proverbial kitchen sink. Next cotta, a tomato-fig chutney. All dive in, mixing everything up, mashing the potatoes with their fingers, discarding the skins, and shoving mouthful after mouthful in. Many of my drumming compatriots make fun of me because I don’t eat as much as they do, and because I take a couple minutes to let my food cool before I eat it. My Oriya is minimal, so I just laugh with them instead of saying something like, “I’m sorry, but I like my taste buds.”

The best is dessert - a big bucket of rice pudding called kiri, hot, steaming, with cardamom pods, raisins, cinnamon, and cashews. If you’re like my mother and don’t like raisins as an ingredient, it’s no problem to remove them and toss them off of your leave like the previous potato skins. This course in the meal brings about the real symphonic slurping, all stirring the mixture in an “S” motion on their leaves for optimal scoopage and delivery to the mouth.

Once finished, we take our leaves and discard them in the field, the dogs waiting anxiously for their turn. Hands are washed, drums are gathered, and soon all visitors are on their bicycles or on foot and heading toward home.

But the priests remain, praying through the night.

And so does Babaji, continuing to shout orders until the wee hours as the final meals are doled out and clean up begins.

I only assume he kept smiling, because I went to bed.