The Mother Goddess, Marketing, And Me!

The house feels quite empty. The Mother Goddess, who was a resident for the past ten days has left for home, leaving me quite bereft. I have no one to offer the daily jasmine garlands, the chrysanthemum wreaths, and lotuses to. Of course, my maid looks quite bereft for a related reason: she cannot call dibs on the flowers the next day, because the pooja is now a simple affair offered with a few hastily gathered marigolds, hibiscus, and the like. No more intricate weaving and decorating, no more impromptu gifts for the ‘Saubhagyavatis’ and no more Sheera to indulge on the next day.

Shardiya Navratri, which falls in the Hindu month of Ashwin (September-October) is quite a favorite of mine. First off, my family deity is the Goddess Shantadurga (a beneficent form of Goddess Durga), so this festival is the best excuse to pray to the Magna Mater of the clan, and try to inveigle myself into her good books for the rest of the year (not that She falls for it, like any good mother, She has eyes in the back of Her head and always knows exactly what I have been up to). A close second is that it spells the end of the rather gloomy ‘Pitru Paksh’ or ‘Forefather Fortnight,’ a time when the dearly departed ancestors are worshipped, as the time is ripe to commune with the spirit world since this is when it abuts the human world, according to Hindu lore. As I have a healthy respect for spirits, (the ethereal, not the drinking kind), I prefer not to cohabit with them. For me, if the Spirits are in their heaven, all is right with the world. Thirdly, all the fasting, and simple food, most of it without the heavy spices, onion, garlic, and non- vegetarian is a nostalgic trip to childhood and a natural way to detox (the offspring wanders around with a martyred air, but is given short shrift and not indulged, for once). Fourthly, it brings out the devout side of the spouse and keeps him safely out of mischief, and last but not the least, it enables me to witness the self-indulgent, vain side of people who otherwise profess to be paragons of all the virtues.

In addition, Diwali, that undoing of me, is still about three weeks away and as usual, I get to make resolutions to avoid sixty shades of shopping, cleaning, and cooking cock-ups. Every year is my attempt to be the ‘hostess with the mostest,’ which, looking at my abysmal track-record is wishful thinking at best and an exercise in futility at worst. But as usual, I digress. We are here to do justice to Navratri and I will get on with it.

That the festival of the nine nights is fast approaching is first heralded by the temperature which soars Northwards just as the sun begins its pronounced Southward course. ‘October Heat’ they call it. Thane, however is the place which winter seems to have crossed off its itinerary permanently, and there is no need to qualify something as ‘October Heat.’ It is just heat, barring fifteen days in January or February. The next is the offspring demanding different favorite foods every waking hour as compensation for the penance which she will soon be undergoing. But the confirmatory test is when the maid starts to harangue me with questions about the ‘colors’ for the nine days, the trees on my street start to sport random strings of fairy lights around their trunks and swinging from their branches and half of the already crowded streets get cordoned off to host various ‘Garba Pandals.’

While the latter has been a Navratri fixture for quite some time now, thanks to the large Gujrati populace and our general inclination to start dancing anywhere and everywhere, the former, regarding the famous ‘colors’ of Navratri is a very smart marketing gimmick. Up to 2003, there was a festival dedicated solely to colors, and that was Holi of course. Women did dress up in their finery during Navratri, but mostly in heirloom, traditional attire, or in case of Bengalis, new clothes for Durga Pooja, since it is THE most important festival of their calendar. The same went for the Garba of the Gujratis. So far, so genteel.

A Maharashtrian who had no business to meddle with people’s wardrobe came up with a sharp marketing strategy in 2003. Perhaps he was in cahoots with a saree merchant in Surat, perhaps he had been at the receiving end of a tirade from his wife about not buying her enough sarees, or perhaps, he was an artist at heart. Anyway, for reasons best left to conjecture, this gentleman who at the time was editor of the Maharashtra Times came up with a concept which was quite unique. Since the mobile phone with its ‘everyone is a photographer’ mantra was all the rage, he began listing out nine colors to be worn by women, each supposedly related to a particular form and attribute of the Goddess. He then asked the women to click pics and send them to his paper, with creative captions, and voila! a tradition touted to be hundreds of years old was born a mere twenty years ago. Given the abysmal level of knowledge most Hindus have about their own religion, everyone fell for it, hook, line, and sinker and rushed to complete their wardrobes with new or not so new attire in the required colors, all the better to flaunt it with my dear! 

While it is fact that each of the nine forms of the Goddess do have specific colors attributed to them, they remain constant EVERY year, irrespective of the day of the week. And thus, Maa Brahmacharini will wear white, even if the second day of Navratri, when she is worshipped, falls on a Friday, unlike the green which the meddlesome editor will dress her in. The colors will never veer wildly between peacock blue, peacock green, and sky blue, or pink, maroon and red. But then again, if not for this brilliant strategy, how will you get to replenish your wardrobe (already bursting at the seams) with the missing shade, without which the Goddess will haul you over the coals for your singular display of lack of devotion? (trust me, She regards all these shenanigans with the exasperated air of a Mother whose toddler always wants the one extra toy).

If marketing has done its bit, how can media be far behind? And thus, for another year my ritual Diwali cleaning starts with the cleaning of my inbox flooded with ‘mandatory’ clicks of guys and gals in coordinated clothes (you know something is far wrong when the hitherto color blind guys suddenly turn into nit picking dandies, giving the gals a run for their money with their fastidious opinions on shades of purple and maroon which they had lumped under ‘red’ until the day before yesterday), couples twinning or complementing (do they like angles, add up to ninety degrees?), entire departments of respectable professionals striking silly poses or dancing as if their lives depended on it. The less said the better about real looking reels, Gujrati ‘Gotillo’ songs (I initially though it was a Kannada song to match my mood, because Gottilla in Kannada means ‘I don’t know,’ which is my usual answer to the is question ‘What is the color today?’)

All the new- fangled traditions notwithstanding, Navratri will always be special. For a cynical stick- in- the- mud like me, it still means the eternal flame of the Nandadeep, the Pooja room awash in marigolds and chrysanthemums, the brightly burnished copper ‘Kalash’ with is coconut and mango leaves crowned with a fresh chrysanthemum wreath, the waiting in line to make an offering to the Goddess who protects the city at the century old temple at ‘Gaondevi’,  the beautiful ‘Golu’ display at a friend’s house, traditional bhondla songs, and fond memories of Durga Pooja feasts at my best friend’s place, all culminating in Dasara, the eternal triumph of good over evil.

Whether you dress yourself in nine colors or whether you send out selfies is inconsequential because the true power of the Mother Goddess is Her compassion for everyone, sans all the trappings, and it certainly needs no marketing!