Ouf! These Jagratas

Though now into the sunset phase of my life (and loving it!), with books, Bacchus (temporarily suspended) and better-half as pals for company, there are some existential puzzles that I have still  been unable to unravel: my religiosity for instance. A ‘bhakt’, an agnostic, an atheist- what am I?  Perhaps I am all of these– a shameless, self-serving opportunist. For, I do turn to gods seeking divine intervention when suddenly some serious worldly trouble rattles me to utter desperation. My old parental sanskars suddenly begin to stir and nudge me to fold my hands in prayer before my devout father’s cherished deity begging for urgent relief and rescue. Otherwise, when all is hunky dory, I stop being a bhakt and revert to my original avatar doing my own version of meditation:

A pre-dawn, celestial hour it is. I am out for a walk.  Hushed silence prevails all around. I am soon at my favourite spot by the roadside. Looking east, my gaze rivets on the silhouette of my chosen Dhauladhar peak: a perfect triangle as if chiseled by gods’ hands. A couple of stately, ‘sentinel’ like deodars in the foreground add to the overall grandeur. A lush carpet of tea-garden stretches in front. Several tall trees are swaying and swinging merrily in celebration of the magic spell cast by nature. Sun is still behind the peak readying for its rendezvous with the Earth. I hear the gurgle of a brook, and the chitter-chatter of my dainty little avian friends around; the peak has now a golden aura having been lit up by the ‘bridegroom’-sun! Transfixed, I stand for a few minutes of bliss, eyes closed, letting the spectacle overwhelm me… until some irksome human/vehicular noise breaks the spell.

Call it whatever you like; for me this is my prayer, obeisance and my self-carved (high) way to heavens. 

However, pardon my digression. It is the ‘Jagratas’ – a common summertime ritual – that I wanted to speak about, after – thanks to the one that caught me unawares – I woke up one particular day with a burn in my sleepless eyes and the buzz of nocturnal noise in my ageing head.

 Earlier, in May, when I noticed a JCB’s heavy drone just 500 meters away from our dwelling, I got apprehensive, nudged by a sense of déjà vu. Preparations for the annual Jagrata?  A few years back I had had to call up the police to stop the maddening noise when my requests to the event manager had failed. Though I half-expected, the cops responded with alacrity. The cacophony stopped but a neighborhood grudge against me abides till today. But this time, fearful of ‘bulldozers’, and aware how strong are the winds of bhakti blowing across the country, I changed tactics. I rang up the Jagrata ‘man’.

 “What’s up? Some new construction project, I presume?’

‘No. no. The usual Jagrata.  On a grander scale this time”

Politely, sweetly, mouthing standard reasons including the law I urged him to please let the loudspeakers not be so loud after 10 or so.”

But he was defiant.

“This is just a one-night annual event. The entire mohalla looks forward to it. All should cooperate…”

I dared not argue.

I booked a room for that night in a homestay in a nearby, lovely little village. Sipping my beer in the lobby, cooled by the Dhauladhar breeze, under the sensuous full moon, I reflected: Jagratas are a part of our folk tradition I so value. But this kind of soul-shattering cacophony all through the night is surely not my idea:  of India; and of my religion.

 

The 'getaway' home-stay village where the 'night' was spent

Red-vented bulbul at home-stay: 'welcome' for the guest or a note of protest against intrusion? 

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