indian idol

INDIAN IDOL
Narrating the Story of Kṛṣṇa in Globalising Contexts
Final report of a Research Project
Funded by the POSCO TJ Park Foundation
McComas Taylor
The Australian National University
2010
Table of Contents
PART ONE
1
Introduction
1
Overview of the Saptāh Archetype
3
PART TWO
7
Case Study 1: Vrindavan
7
Case Study 2: Naluna
19
PART THREE
51
Theme 1: Continuities between the Archetype and the Case Studies
51
Theme 2: Divergence between the Archetype and the Case Studies
60
PART FOUR
66
Conclusion: The Impact of Globalisation on the Saptāh Tradition
Bibliography
66
69
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Abstract
This project aims to describe, explore and evaluate the impact of globalisation on an
important Hindu tradition, a week-long story-telling event known as a Bhāgavatasaptāha in Sanskrit or Bhāgvat-saptāh in Hindi. The saptāh focuses on the narratives
of the deity Viṣṇu and in particular, his manifestation as Kṛṣṇa. These stories are
preserved in their most authoritative form in the Sanskrit text of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa.
In the first part of this report I examine the traditional instructions for a saptāh
which are contained in the Bhāgavatapurāṇa itself. These instructions cover the
preparations for the event, the conduct of the seven-day narrative itself, and followup matters, including remuneration. I refer to this as the ―archetype‖.
The second part of the report contains descriptions—―reflexive ethnographies‖—of
two saptāh events. These took place in Vrindavan, Uttarpradesh, and in Naluna,
Uttarakhand, in November 2009. I include references to other saptāhs to provide
contextualisation for these two case studies.
In the third part, I compare the archetype with the case studies, and identify seven
major continuities: the central role of the text, temporal aspects, cost, visual preparation, spatial arrangement, restrictions on the sponsor and social inclusiveness. I also
identify four major areas in which the two case studies diverge from the archetype:
sectarian content, the role of the local village deity (devtā), the role of the firesacrifice (yajña), and the use of the vernacular.
In the final part, I evaluate the impact of globalising processes on both the continuities with the archetype and the divergences from it. Continuities and divergences are
found to take place both in spite of, and because of, globalising processes.
I conclude that as cultural practices become more deeply enmeshed in globalising
practices, the most successful and sustainable communities will be those that are sufficiently empowered to negotiate their own relationships with these processes, and
which are able to maintain or adapt their own identities, belief systems and cultural
practices on their own terms.
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Acknowledgements
This project was supported by a grant from the POSCO TJ Park Foundation. I would
also like to acknowledge the invaluable assistance and support of Yogendra Yadav,
Janet Taylor, Julian Dennis, Patrick McCartney, Valli Rao, Ananth Rao, Pandit Badră
Prasād and all the staff at Naluna.
Images
Cover image: ―Kṛṣṇa and Rādhā shelter from the rain‖: source
Photographs were taken by the author, Janet Taylor and Julian Dennis
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Glossary of Sanskrit and Hindi terms
This document includes many Sanskrit terms and Hindi terms of Sanskrit origin.
Rather than attempt to standardise all these terms in one language or the other, I
have retained them in the language in which they were usually encountered. For example, I use the Hindi forms devtā (rather than the Sanskrit devatā) and kīrtan (rather
than kīrtana), as these were the forms used in everyday speech. Hindi words such
which are naturalised in English and Indian placenames appear without diacritics.
Añjali
A gesture in which the palms of the hands are pressed together
as if in prayer
Ārtă
An offering to a deity of a burning lamp or wick on a tray
Bhajan
A song of praise
Bhakta
A devotee of a particular deity
Dakṣinā
The sacrificial fee payable to a brahmin
Dalit
A member of an ―untouchable‖ community
Darśan
The ―viewing‖ of a sacred entity as a religious act
Devă
A female deity
Devtā
A deity
Dhvaj
A banner or flag
Ḍolă
The palanquin through which the devtā communicates
Dupatta
A scarf worn over both shoulders and draped across the chest
Gopi
A cow-herding girl, lover of Kṛṣṇa
Havan
An oblation or sacred offering into a fire
Kalaśasthāpana
A ceremony in which pitchers are installed as sacred objects
Kalash
A pot, a gourd, a roof ornament
Kathā
A story, the narration of a story, especially the
Bhāgavatapurāṇa
Kărtan
A song of praise
Kurta
A long cotton shirt
v
Maṇḍala
A mystical design or pattern, usually circular or square
Maṇḍapa
A temporary hut or shelter
Maṇḍapācārya
The priest in charge of the fire-ceremony
Mokṣa
Liberation from cyclical existence
Mṛdaṅga
A two-faced cylindrical drum
Paṇḍit
A traditionally educated man
Păṭh
The ceremonial throne
Prasād
Blessed food
Pūjā
A religious ceremony
Pujari
A brahmin priest
Sādhu
A holy man who has renounced domestic life
Saptāh
A seven-day cycle of narration of stories from the
Bhāgavatapurāṇa
Śāstră
The holder of the equivalent of a Masters Degree in Sanskrit;
the exponent of a saptāh
Śuddh
Pure
Śūdra
In the Sanskritic tradition, a member of the lowest of the four
social divisions or varṇas.
Thālă
A metal tray
Tilak
A mark with religious significance made on the forehead with
coloured paste
Varṇa
One of the four traditional divisions of society in Sanskrit texts
Yajmān
The chief sponsor of a saptāh
Yajña
A ritual in which various materials are offered to deities by
adding them to a fire.
Yajñaśālā
The pavilion in which a yajña is performed.
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PART ONE
Introduction
Much has been written on the religious, philosophical and literary aspects of the important Sanskrit text, the Bhāgavatapurāṇa, but little or nothing appears to have
been written on the Bhāgavata-saptāha, a traditional seven-day narration of stories
drawn from this text. These narratives focus on the various manifestations of Viṣṇu,
and in particular, the highly popular deity, Kṛṣṇa.
I will begin by introducing the purāṇic tradition in general and the Bhāgavatapurāṇa
in particular. I will then summarise the traditional instructions for the organisation
of a seven-day reading, which I call the ―archetype‖. This is followed by two ―reflexive ethnographies‖ (Sax 2009: 5) of case studies in which I was a participant-observer
(Spradley 1980): one in Vrindavan, Uttarpradesh, and the other at Naluna near
Uttarkashi, Uttarakhand, India. I then consider two themes: 1. continuities between
the archetype and the case studies; and 2. differences between the archetype and the
case studies. In the conclusion, I will reflect on the impact of globalisation, modernity, and in particular, technology on the institution of the saptāh.
The Sanskrit word purāṇa means ―old‖, and in the context of the collections of texts
known as the Purāṇas it can be taken to mean either ―old stories‖ or ―stories of the old
days‖. These texts are vast encyclopaedic repositories of cosmogony, theology and
orthodoxy for the three major Hindu traditions, the Vaiṣṇava, Śaiva and Devă traditions. Purāṇic texts are probably not the products of single authors, but have grown
organically as they were copied and recopied over the centuries. To borrow Wendy
Doniger‖s simile (2009), the purāṇas are like an old Indian Wikipedia, to which successive generations of authors and editors made their own additions.
Traditionally there are said to be eighteen great purāṇas (mahāpurāṇas), and the same
number of secondary purāṇas (upapurāṇas), although the membership of each of
these classes varies from one authority to the next. In addition, there are countless
minor purāṇas in which the stories relating to individual temples, places of pilgrimage and communities are recounted. The mahāpurāṇas, the longest of which runs to
many tens of thousands of verses, are thought to have reached their present form between the fourth and twelfth centuries of the current era.
Of the great or mahāpurāṇas, the best known is the Bhāgavatapurāṇa. Very broadly,
this important text centres on the deity Viṣṇu, and most significantly, his avatar or
1
earthly manifestation as Lord Kṛṣṇa. The Bhāgavatapurāṇa is the major normative
textual source for countless millions of devotees (bhaktas) of Kṛṣṇa throughout India
and among the Indian diaspora worldwide. The tenth and eleventh books of the
Bhāgavatapurāṇa, which together account for almost half its total length, recount the
youthful pastimes (līlā) of Kṛṣṇa among the cow-herding people of the region known
as Vraja in Sanksrit (Vraj or Braj in Hind). Many stories about this most beloved deity appear in their most authoritative form in the Bhāgavatapurāṇa: Kṛṣṇa taking the
curds, overturning the cart, uprooting the two Arjuna trees, destroying demons,
stealing the cow-herd girls‖ clothes, and so on. The love of the cow-herd girls for the
handsome youth has been adopted as a metaphor for the purest and highest form of
love (Hindi: śuddh prem) that an individual may experience.133
1
On the purāṇas in general, see Narayana Rao (2004) and Matchett (2005). The best summaries of the
Bhāgavatapurāṇa are Rocher (1986) and Bryant (2007). Goswami (2005) contains a very accurate version of the complete Sanskrit text of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa with an accurate if quaint English translation. On the pastimes of Kṛṣṇa, see Schweig (2007b) and especially a new translation by Bryant (2004).
2
Overview of the Saptāh Archetype
According to the Bhāgavatapurāṇa‖s own meta-narrative, the entire discourse was
first related in an earthly setting in the course of seven days by the divine sage Śuka.
He told the stories to the king Parăkṣit as the latter lay waiting for his death as the
result of a curse. Having heard this sublime narrative about Viṣṇu and especially
about Kṛṣṇa, the king achieved liberation (mokṣa) from the endless cycle of existence
(saṃsāra) at the very moment of his death, the ultimate goal of most orthodox Hindu
traditions. Accordingly, reading the entire Bhāgavatapurāṇa or retelling the stories
which it contains over a seven-day period has attained a special significance. This
practice is known in Sanskrit as a Bhāgavata-saptāha (―Bhāgavata-week‖), or simply in
Hindi as a saptāh. Traditionally, a saptāh is said to confer liberation on the chief
sponsor and/or the audience. In its contemporary form, the reasons given for holding a saptāh include seeking liberation for deceased relatives and forebears, or as one
informant expressed it, a saptāh is for the ―salvation and homage‖ of his ancestors.
How is a saptāh to be carried out? A comprehensive set of instructions for a weeklong reading is given in the sixth chapter of a section of the Uttarakhaṇḍa of the
Padmapurāṇa called the Śrīmad-bhāgavata-māhātmya (―The greatness of the glorious
Bhāgavata[purāṇa]‖). This chapter, which runs to 103 verses, is also included in
modern editions of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa (Goswami 2005: 1.1.37-48, BhP 0.1.6). In the
following section, I will summarise these instructions. This will provide a useful
benchmark against which to compare and contrast the two contemporary case studies described in Part 2.
The instructions for running a saptāh can usefully be considered in three parts: first,
the preparations; second, the actual event and the conduct of participants; and third,
the follow-up activities such as gift giving. Starting with the preparations, according
to the instructions, an astrologer should be invited respectfully and asked to nominate an auspicious day for the commencement of the saptāh. The Indian months of
Bhādrapada, Aśvina, Kārtika, Mārgaśirṣa, Āṣāḍha and Śrāvaṇa (corresponding
roughly to the period from August to November, and June-July) are considered most
suitable. The prospective sponsor is advised to set aside as much money for a saptāh
as he would spend on a wedding. Organising an event like this is a very significant
undertaking, demanding both time and resources. For this reason, ―others too who
are industrious should be enlisted as one‖s associates in this undertaking‖.
Once the time and date for the saptāh have been determined, messages should be
sent far and wide inviting people to attend, along with their families. The instructions specifically mention promoting the event among ―people who stand remote
from the stories of Śră Hari [Viṣṇu] and the chanting of Viṣṇu‖s praises‖, including
3
―women, śūdras, etc‖. This distinguishes the reading of Bhāgavatapurāṇa from other
―master narratives‖ of the Sanskritic archive, which are explicitly the province of
high-caste males only. Letters should to addressed to everyone, inviting them to this
―exceedingly rare congregation of the pious‖. All are invited to ―drink the nectar of
the glorious Bhāgavata[purāṇa]‖. Busy people who are unable to attend for the full
week are urged to come for at least one day. Places to stay should be arranged for
attendees who presumably would be unable to return to their own homes each evening.
There are explicit instructions for how the site of the saptāh is to be prepared. If the
event is to be held in a private residence, all distracting household effects should be
cleared away. The ground should be cleaned, swept and plastered with cow-dung
(regarded as an auspicious, purifying substance even today). Its surface should be
decorated with designs made from mineral paints. Five days before the saptāh begins, floor coverings are to be brought in for people to sit on. A lofty ceremonial hall
or maṇḍapa is to be constructed and covered with an awning. It should be decorated
with banana palms, fruit, flowers, leaves, flags and other adornments. On the question of seating, higher places should be set up in the front for brahmins and others
who ―are free from worldly attachment‖, and an especially excellent seat is to be arranged for the chief exponent—the main expositor/narrator of the text.
Great care is to be taken in the selection of a suitable exponent. He should be a
brahmin and a devotee of Viṣṇu who is free from worldly attachment. He should be
capable of expounding on the Vedas and other authoritative texts (śāstras). He
should be skilled in giving explanations, reliable, and completely free from desires.
Certain types of people are to be avoided: those who are attracted by other traditions, those who are excessively interested in women and those who are heretics,
even if they are well educated. The exponent should be provided with a seconder to
help him ―dispel doubts and enlighten the public‖.
The evening before the saptāh begins, the exponent should shave, and in the morning, relieve himself and bathe. He should then undertake his early-morning prayers,
and worship the deity Gaṇeśa to ensure that all obstacles are removed from the
course of the saptāh. He should worship Viṣṇu, Kṛṣṇa and the text of the
Bhāgavatapurāṇa itself, by offering it incense and lights. The chief listener (the sponsor) should then take a vow in the presence of the exponent for his own welfare and
this vow should be upheld for the whole week. Five brahmins should be engaged to
chant continuously the twelve syllable mantra of Viṣṇu (oṃ namo bhagavate
vasudevāya) to ensure the smooth progress of the saptāh. Having bowed to the brahmins and other devotees of Viṣṇu, the sponsor may take his seat. The instructions
advise that ―One who concentrates on the narrative with a pure mind, having set
4
aside thoughts of worldly affairs, possessions, money, home and children will obtain
the ultimate reward‖. This is liberation, the final escape from cyclical existence.
The exponent should begin his exposition at sunrise and should speak in a ―suitably
moderated tone‖ for three-and-a-half watches (prahara), the equivalent of 10–11
hours. There should be a one-hour break at midday, during which devotees should
sing songs in praise of Viṣṇu. It is recommended that only one small meal be eaten
each day so that the exposition need not be interrupted by toilet breaks. The instructions suggest that people should fast for the full week, or take a diet of milk and
ghee, or fruit and vegetables with just a single type of grain. Sensibly, however, they
say that fasting should not stand in the way of listening to the exposition. If fasting is
going to detract from one‖s ability to listen attentively for a week, then it is not to be
pursued.
Those who want to listen to the saptāh should undergo Viṣṇudikṣā, that is, they
should be consecrated specifically for this purpose. It is not clear from the instructions, however, exactly what this might entail. One who has taken a vow to listen to
the saptāh must remain celibate for the week, should sleep on the floor, and eat off a
platter made from leaves. He should avoid pulses, honey, oil, heavy foods and leftovers. He should abstain from negative emotions such as desire, anger, intoxication,
etc. He should not say anything negative about the Vedas, Vaiṣṇavas, brahmins, etc,
nor should he speak to a woman who is menstruating, a member of a ―low‖ caste,
non-Indians (mlecchas), or non-Hindus. If one adheres to these rules, listening to the
narration leads to an ―imperishable reward‖, which is said to be the equivalent of ten
million old-style Vedic sacrifices.
At the end of the seven days, the audience should worship the expositor ―with great
devotion‖. Blessed food (prasāda), leaves of the sacred basil (tulasī) and garlands of
flowers should be distributed to the audience. Praises of Viṣṇu and Kṛṣṇa should be
sung to the accompaniment of drums and cymbals. There should be cries of ―jaya!‖
and ―namaḥ!‖ (―Victory!‖, ―Homage!‖), and a conch-shell should be sounded. Money
and food should then be distributed to the officiating brahmins and mendicants. Oblations should be offered into the fire to compensate for any shortcomings in the
event.
Finally, at the completion of his vow of listening to the Bhāgavatapurāṇa for seven
days, the chief sponsor should give the brahmins sweet rice pudding, a gift of gold
and a cow. If it is within his means, he should also present a golden book-stand in
the shape of a lion, and he should place on it a new copy of the text ―written in beautiful letters‖. This should all be given to the expositor along with gifts of money,
clothes, jewellery, sandal-paste, etc. By doing all this, the instructions assure us, lis5
tening to the Bhāgavatapurāṇa leads to the accomplishment of the spiritual, sensual,
material and liberational goals of life: ―of this there is no doubt‖.
This concludes the description of how a saptāh is to be organised according to the
instructions in the Bhāgavatapurāṇa itself. These instructions provide the ―archetype‖
or the original model for a seven-day narration. We will now turn to the two contemporary case studies, after which we will compare them with the archetype.
6
PART TWO
Case Study 1: Vrindavan
Contacts had advised me that I would have no trouble in locating a saptāh in Vrindavan, a small town four hours from Delhi in the hot, dry, dusty state of Uttarpradesh. Vrindavan lies at the heart of the district known as Vraja in Sanskrit (Vraj
or Braj in Hindi), where the deity Kṛṣṇa is said to have been born and raised, and
where the famous events of his youth are supposed to have taken place. For this reason, Vrindavan is the centre of Kṛṣṇa devotion and appears to be an important centre of saptāh practice in India.
―Just look out for the big coloured posters. You‖ll see them everywhere‖. I was sceptical—things in India are seldom that simple—but I could have not been more mistaken. As soon as I stepped out of the three-wheeled taxi from Mathurā, I began to
see advertisements for saptāhs everywhere. Some were simple printed posters stuck
on the walls of buildings; some were full-colour laser-printed canvas hoardings
strung up on power-poles along the town‖s famous circumambulation route; others
were full-size billboards, 5m long and 3m high, which competed successfully with
real-estate hoardings advertising new apartments and subdivisions.
After a day spent reconnoitring and getting my bearings, I identified about twenty
different past and future saptāhs, and one that was actually in progress at that time.
It was to run from 2–7pm, 30 October to 5 November 2009, at the Śră Rādhā Sneh Bihāră Ashram, Bihāră-purā, Vrindavan. The expositor was the Honourable Mridul
Krishna Śāstră-jă Mahārāj.2 I was in time to catch the last two days of this event.
The first rickshaw driver I hailed knew the location and took me down narrow,
crooked alleys deep into the old quarter of the town. The ashram was a handsome,
white four-storey building of indeterminate age, topped with two ornamental umbrella-like pavilions. It was crowded in among shops, ramshackle two- and threestorey buildings, wayside shrines under spreading banyan trees, and vacant blocks
where pigs, dogs and crows browsed and squabbled in the garbage.
2
For consistency, I will refer to him as the śāstră in the following account.
7
A poster advertising the Vrindvan saptāh. The words on the black fabric read ‘Rādhe Rādhe’
A ceremonial arch of cloth stretched over a timber frame had been erected over the
alley beside the ashram, and the street was filled with the amplified thump-thumpthump of contemporary devotional music. The alleys around the ashram were spotlessly clean—something of a rarity in an Indian city—and were roofed in with white
cotton awnings. Green synthetic carpet had been rolled out on the floor of the alleys
on two sides of the building, and comfortable modern folding chairs lined both
sides. Gathered around the entrance of the ashram were mobile stalls selling garlands of red roses and yellow marigolds on sewn leaf platters, and another cart displaying bank after bank of cheap glistening bangles. A few people were loitering
about the entrance. With some trepidation, I left my sandals at the foot of the steps
leading into the ashram, rather fearing that I would never see them again. It was a
little before 2pm.
8
The approach to the Śrī Rādhā Sneh Bihārī Ashram, Bihārī-purā, Vrindavan
Stepping into the ashram was like entering another realm: a brilliantly lit dream cavern, part Bollywood fantasy, part disco ballroom, part Hindu temple. Festooned with
fairy-lights, it was lit by six vast glittering chandeliers, and another 20 carbon arc
floodlights. Music was being pumped into the hall through four 80cm high speaker
boxes. The hall was two storeys high and about 20–25m square. I had entered from
the main door which was in the centre of the back wall. On either side of the hall
were balconies, where in the half-gloom, I could see musicians in white and orange
kurtas moving about and tuning up, as well as some sound, light and video technicians in regular street clothes. The balconies‖ balustrades were festooned with
bunches of sparkling orange cloth, and with calendar pictures of the young cowherd Kṛṣṇa and his lover Rādhā, about whom I was to hear much more over the next
two days. Wreaths of plastic flowers adorned the pillars and arches supporting the
balcony. The space below the balconies formed long galleries, at the front of which
were 1m-wide flat-screen TVs where the people on each side could watch images of
the central stage from two video cameras in front of the stage. The high ceiling of the
hall was decorated with elaborate plaster mouldings in the form of lotuses and acanthus leaves.
The focal point was the stage at the front of the hall, 8m wide and 4m high, and
standing 1.5m above the hall floor. It was a shimmering golden fantasy of painted
canvas flats depicting a luxurious temple scene, with arches and domes in bold pri9
mary colours, draped in garlands of orange and yellow marigolds. Integrated into
the canvas flats in the centre of the stage was an actual double-panelled silver door,
which at this point was firmly closed. Two stylised peacocks in gold, and studded
with ―jewels‖ arched over the central door. On either side were life-size painted images of shaven-headed ascetics in saffron robes, not unlike the ―Hare Krishna‖ devotees one often sees in Vrindavan. One held a book, the other a vănā, a stringed instrument somewhat like a sitar. I never found out who these two figures were, but I
guessed they might be founders of this particular tradition of Kṛṣṇa worship, possibly Nimbārka (13th C), Caitanya or Vallabha (both 16th C). Two life-size figures of
female attendants appeared to be waiting for the silver doors to swing open. The
artwork was in a naive but attractive style, with the various flat canvas surfaces set
at different depths giving the whole backdrop a three-dimensional appearance. The
right-hand half of the stage was filled with a vacant peacock throne. On its left was a
tulasă plant in a pot, a variety of basil sacred to Viṣṇu.
The front third of the hall was divided off from the rest by a fence made of demountable white wooden hurdles and was reserved for invited guests whom I will
call VIPs. At this stage, about thirty VIPs were seated on the floor in front of the barrier, about 90 per cent of whom were women. The older and middle-aged women
were bulging out of their gorgeous saris and were dripping with gold jewellery.
Younger women and girls wore salwar-kamiz or Western clothes.
The back half of the hall was open to the public. Here, the audience was growing
slowly as people came in and sat down without ceremony on the thin cotton-covered
mattresses spread on the floor. Old folks sat on folding chairs around the perimeter
of the hall. In the public section men sat on the right and women on the left, in about
equal numbers.
Incongruously, a hatchet-faced female security officer in a khaki kurta-pyjama and
matching dupatta patrolled the crowd, along with a pot-bellied middle-aged military man with regulation moustache, also in a khaki uniform.
Live musicians took over from the recorded music. The hall was filled with the
thumping of drums, the ching-ching of cymbals, as well as flute, harmonium, violin
and vocals. The devotional music was swaying, rhythmic and hypnotic. Among the
audience, heads and bodies swayed, some clapped quietly along with the booming
sound while others followed the words in booklets that they had produced from
their pockets. Half a dozen ceiling fans were already spinning at full speed. It was
warm in the hall—little did I realise how much hotter it was going to become.
―Rām Rām Rām Sītā Rām Rām‖: the music built and accelerated to a throbbing climax,
then fell suddenly into total silence. A middle-aged man in a white kurta leapt to his
10
feet and cried ―Jay Jay Śrī Rām—Victory to Rām!‖, with his hands in the air. We cut to
prerecorded music: ―Śrī Kṛṣṇa Hari Murāre‖, and the crowd began to sway gently
again to the music, tapping their fingers in time.
By 3:10pm, the hall was nearly full. I had assumed by now that the advertised starting time of 2:00pm was ―Indian time‖. There were about 400 people in the back area
and 100 VIPs. In the public section, the men were mostly well dressed in creams,
whites and pastels, and were predominantly lower middle-class. They looked like
shop-keepers, owner-drivers, office clerks or school teachers. With the exception of a
single young man who was dressed like a rickshaw-walla in a grubby white kurta,
dhoti and coloured scarf, I could not see anyone who looked like a manual labourer
or a farmer. There was a scattering of shaven-headed devotees in gold or saffron
robes. Half the men sported the single long lock of hair (śikhara) of Kṛṣṇa devotees,
and there were several wild looking sādhus in white robes.
VIPs continued to drift in through a door on the right, young and old, mainly
women and girls, all very well-dressed and prosperous looking. Four men, who appeared to be pujaris or ceremonial assistants, in spotless white kurtas and dhotis,
each with a red scarf, bustled about on the stage. The music dropped and one of the
pujaris, a middle-aged man who acted as master of ceremonies, made an announcement. We all stood and the śāstră entered the stage from the right.
The śāstră Mridul Krishna appeared to be about 50 and wore a gleaming creamcoloured cloak over a dhoti. A handsome man, he was immaculately groomed,
slightly heavy, with Bollywood good-looks, a full, round, almost baby-face, black
moustache and slicked-back glossy black hair. He wore glasses and a heavy gold
watch. He bowed to a red bundle sitting on the front of the throne which I later realised was the Sanskrit text of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa, half hidden beneath garlands of
red roses and crowned with a coconut. He then bowed before the silver doors in the
centre of the stage, apparently directed or assisted in all his actions by the four pujaris.3
The yajmān (chief sponsor) of the saptāh, Mr Ăśvar Prasād Goyal, was a tall, thick-set
man of 65 or 70 with a powerful, prosperous air. My neighbours in the hall could not
tell me anything about him, other than that he was a rich merchant from Vrindavan.
He entered the stage from the left, accompanied by his wife, a large woman in an orange and gold sari, four middle-aged men, whom I took to be their sons, and three
women who looked like the sons‖ wives. One ―son‖ was accompanied by a teenage
daughter in place of his wife. All bowed to the śāstră, and in pairs performed ārtī (the
offering of lights on a metal tray) to him. The śāstră led off with a roll-call of names
3
For more information on Mridul Krishna see http://mridulvrindaban.com/
11
of various deities, to which the audience responded with a cry of ―Victory!‖ while
throwing their hands in the air. The MC then offered a rapid prayer in Sanskrit and
another round of ―Victory‖ cries.
Śāstrī Mridul Krishna as he appears in a DVD of a Saptāh in Mumbai, Jan 2009. The text of
the Bhāgavatapurāṇa sits wreathed in marigolds and crowned with a coconut as in Vrindavan.
The śāstră momentarily sat in meditation, then slowly and deliberately began a song
of praise to the guru in Sanskrit to the accompaniment of a violin:, ―Guru brahmā,
guru viṣṇu...‖. He continued to sing in Hindi and sometimes in Sanskrit, accompanied
by violin, flute or harmonium. At times, especially when he sang in Sanskrit, the
musical backing took on a misty, mystical character with the tinkling of hundreds of
tiny bells. I was struck by the high degree of professionalism—it was a flawless and
highly polished performance. (By this point I had been noticed, people looked
around and looked away again—some smiled). The yajmān and his family now descended from the stage and sat down in the middle of the VIP area.
The śāstră led in singing, ―Beloved Rādhā, Glorious Rādhā‖, and as the music swelled,
he added ‖Beloved Syāma, Syāma, Syāma‖ in reference to the ―dark‖ image of Kṛṣṇa,
the youthful cow-herd. The backing vocalists and the whole audience of around 500
responded. A slight, bird-like village women with a sun-darkened face and a red
and gold sari, her head veiled, stood and gyrated to the music, her eyes closed, smil12
ing inwardly. She clapped her hands above her head in time with the song, ―Rādhe
Rādhe ho!‖ As the beat accelerated, the atmosphere grew electric, and more and more
people in the hall were infected by the rhythm. Three or four other members of the
crowd began to dance and sing along, hands held aloft, including a fat, beaming
businessman in a blue checked shirt and grey slacks, his expression joyous. Six,
eight, now ten women were on their feet and danced facing the stage, hands in the
air, swinging from side to side in time with the irresistible drum beats. The rhythm
was now so profound and insistent that I could feel it reverberating in my chest. All
the time, above all the other instruments, the flute, the favourite instrument of Kṛṣṇa
the cowherd, could be heard. The dancing was sensuous and abandoned, yet the
women seem to be dancing in their own world—as if in the forests of Vraj—and
were ignored by the men in the audience.
The rhythm accelerated again, and now most of the crowd were on their feet. Two
girls in the VIP section in aqua and rose kurta-pyjamas danced while holding hands,
spinning one another in circles. The music sped to a climax, and the atmosphere become ecstatic. Too fast to clap, too fast to sing along now, the śāstră maintained his
call of ―Jay! Rādhe Rādhe Rādhe!‖ The musicians really cut loose. The melody moved
upscale in semitones. The tempo hit 120 beats per minute. Then—total silence. A
slow release followed, as the tension drained away. The audience placed their hands
in añjali as if in prayer. I could not help thinking of James Brown in the evangelical
church scene in the 1970s film, ―The Blues Brothers‖.
Calm returned and everyone returned to their seats on the floor. It was now 4pm
and the śāstră began the story of Girirāj—how Kṛṣṇa lifted a mountain with just one
hand to provide shelter for the people of Vraj from a terrible storm sent by the
vengeful Vedic god, Indra. Speaking in Hindi with just the occasional line of Sanskrit, he was accompanied by a violin. In the quiet hall, there was some shuffling
and chattering at the back, but most of the audience listened attentively. Outside in
the lane I could hear the chug of a generator. The śāstră told a parable about a king
and his minister. The afternoon wore on. Whenever the śāstră sensed the audience
drifting, he punctuated his discourse with cries of ―Bhagavān kī...’, to which the audience would respond ―Jay!‖ (―Victory to the Lord!‖), throwing their hands in the air.
This had a great energising effect and brought the audience back into his thrall.
The śāstră spoke in clear, pure, highly Sanskritic śuddh Hindi. In the sixteen or so
hours over the two days, I heard not a single Persian or Arabic word, and only a
handful of English words, for example, when he told a little story about the ―address‖
of an ―office‖.
To the accompaniment of a flute, the śāstră spoke of the love of the cow-herd girls—
the gopis—for Kṛṣṇa in Vrindavan. Whenever he made a little joke, the audience
13
murmured politely. Sometimes he spoke with rising passion to make a point, and
the audience would clap a little. He asked, ―What can give us peace?‖ and told a story
about how fish cannot live without water. Little children wove through the crowd in
their best clothes. The śāstră seemed to be extemporising—he certainly never referred
to the Sanskrit text on the front of the throne, which remained firmly wrapped in its
crimson and gold cover, but he may have referred to a set of notes which he took
from a red shoulder bag when he first sat down, and which might now have been
lying in his lap.
At 4:30, the silver doors in the centre of the stage swung inward without fanfare, revealing a life-size glassy black image of Kṛṣṇa ―Bihāră‖, the ―sportive one‖, clad in glittering pink robes. The naive image with wide white eyes was garlanded with golden
marigolds and was playing a flute, while his lover Rādhā clung to his arm.
The śāstră spoke on. His eyes were now closed, but from time to time he raised one
hand for emphasis, or occasionally two. The music began to swell again—flute, bells,
harmonium played while the drums thumped incessantly. The audience began to
clap. Ten women in the central area leapt up to dance, swaying from side to side
while singing along. The security staff tried to hustle us forward to make room for
more people at the back. We made a token effort to shuffle forward, but to little effect. Twenty people were dancing, everyone was clapping. The hall was packed and
the temperature was rising. Two youths with 20-litre agricultural backpack sprayers
wove their way around the hall spraying the crowd with rose-scented water. Forty
were dancing. The bird-like village woman danced coquettishly with eyes closed,
smiling to herself. The śāstră led a call of ―Śrī Rādhe!‖, and the audience roared back.
Young girls were bopping in the ―mosh pit‖ of the VIP area. Older women swayed
their broad hips and clapped, arms aloft, palms forward as if for ―darśan‖. The music
built to a colossal climax and suddenly dropped dead. All sat. Girls picked their way
through the crowd out into the fresh air.
It was by now 5pm, and suddenly the generator cut out. The lights went down and
the audio died. The vocalists immediately launched into a chant of ―Govinda Govinda‖
and the audience in the darkened hall joined in with gusto. This was a clever and
well-rehearsed filler that tided us over until the power come up again. The lights
flicked on and the band burst back to life at full volume a minute or so later.
The śāstră resumed his discourse without missing a beat. He repeated a famous verse
from the Gătā (―Whenever obstacles to dharma appear...‖) and some of the crowd
joined in. Again he spoke of Kṛṣṇa and the gopis in Vrindavan. By this point, he had
talked and/or sang for two hours without a break, yet remained as fresh, composed
and engaging as ever. There was not a single wasted word or gesture in his magisterial delivery, nor was there anything amateurish about this ―performance‖.
14
By 5:30 we needed another round or two of ―Śrī Rādhe!‖ to reinvigorate us. A young
man in a black turban, obviously a sikh, was led into the VIP area, and was seated
next to the yajmān as an honoured guest. I glanced out the window—it was already
twilight. The śāstră was speaking of love (prem), and gave the example of Hanuman‖s
love of Rām. The audience was still eating out of his hand. A young male devotee in
yellow kurta and white dhoti listened intently, open-mouthed, eyes shining.
Another sudden burst of music rang out at 6pm. Six girls leapt to their feet and
danced in a ring, hands joined as they swung their arms up into the middle of the
circle and out again. The PA blared out ―Śrī Rādhe Rādhe‖. The music grew wild and
infectious, something like an Irish reel. Five, ten, twenty people were dancing to the
soaring violin and flutes. The dancers became a swirl of colours: red, lime, orange,
gold, turquoise, navy, scarlet, crimson, white and lilac. The rose-water boys struggled to work their way around the hall again, spraying as they went. A middle-aged
man in a checked shirt and grey trousers danced without inhibition, his hands flying
through the air. The village woman mouthed the words of the song with her eyes
closed. The beat grew louder and faster. A small man hopped and jumped, his arms
flailing. The entire hall was now on its feet, the music running at three beats to the
second. Then suddenly it stopped. The tension was released. The crowd cheered and
clapped. The śāstră sat in silence, eyes closed, his two hands held aloft as if conducting.
This pattern of quiet discourse, interspersed with call and response, leading up to
more bouts of wild dancing lasting up to 20 minutes was repeated throughout the
afternoon and evening.
At 7:35 a solid young woman in a brown sari with a red dupatta and a tall gold
crown appeared on the stage. This was Rukmiṇă, Kṛṣṇa‖s bride-to-be. She had two
attendants in pink and blue saris. The three danced on the left-hand side of the stage
as the śāstră sang and the audience clapped. The actors looked very much like amateurs—this was the first and only time in the entire ―performance‖ where the level
was less than totally professional. I wondered if they were members of the yajmān‖s
family, perhaps his granddaughters. ―Rukmiṇă‖ had trouble keeping up with the music. Suddenly, an actor playing Kṛṣṇa rushed on to the scene from the right and ―pursued‖ Rukmiṇă round and round the stage, eventually ―capturing‖ her. The drama
was now only a notch or two above pantomime.
The master of ceremonies reappeared and placed garlands about their necks and
chanted some verses in Sanskrit. The pair exchanged garlands as in a wedding ceremony and flowers were thrown over them. At this point the yajmān and his entire
family appeared on stage and presented substantial gifts of clothes and trays of
sweets to ―Kṛṣṇa‖ and ―Rukmiṇă‖ and performed ārtă to them and to the śāstră. Calls
15
and responses of ―Jay ho!‖ filled the hall. The MC led a rendition of the well-known
Sanskrit prayer, ―Tvam eva...‖, while assistants helped the śāstră arrange his possessions. The yajmān‖s family made offerings to the śāstră, while members of the audience performed half- or full-body prostrations facing the stage, then drifted towards
the door. It was now 8:00pm and piped sacred music replaced the live musicians.
The crowd began to thin. The family gave gifts to the śāstră, who blessed them in return by placing his hand on their heads. He rose from his throne, bowed to the bundled-up purāṇa, and approached the image of Kṛṣṇa inside the silver doors. A curtain closed behind him, and he was gone, as if swallowed up in some private communion with the deity.
Meanwhile, ―Kṛṣṇa‖ and ―Rukmiṇă‖, seated on the side of the stage, continued to accept gifts and money from members of the audience, while six pujaris bustled about.
The floodlights were dimmed while prasād (blessed food in the form of sweet deepfried beads of yellow batter) was distributed from the VIP section over the hurdles to
the public. The hall emptied as the piped music blared on. A young boy kicked an
empty plastic bottle across the cotton-covered mattresses. Finally, the sound cut out,
and the lights went down as I left the hall. Outside in the alley, my sandals were still
very close to where I had left them six hours earlier—something of a miracle. People
drifted away from the ashram down the dark alley ways and out into the balmy
night.
The second day that I attended the saptāh at the ashram, which was the last day of
the saptāh, was broadly similar to the day that I have described above. The nature of
the discourse with a scattering of Sanskrit verses, interspersed with calls of ―Victory‖
and praise of Rādhā, the occasional kărtan, and bouts of dancing bordering on the
ecstatic, were all similar to the first day, although I felt that the dancing on the final
day lacked some of the intensity. In the place of a Sikh guest, a man wearing a grey
kufi cap, whom I took to be a Muslim, was led in and given a seat of honour.
On this occasion the śāstră spoke of the benefits of hearing the Bhāgavatapurāṇa, and
the importance of bhakti (devotion): ―Bhakti is the root. We depend on devotion, just
as a tree depends on its roots‖. He told the famous parable about the lion and the
Syamantaka jewel (BhP 10.56), the story of Uṣa‖s wedding with Aniruddha (BhP
10.62), and Kṛṣṇa‖s visit to Indraprastha (BhP 10. 71). In the place of the marriage
skit, there was another amateurish sketch relating the story of Kṛṣṇa‖s devoted
friend Sudāmā, to which he narrated BhP 10.81. In all other respects the two days
were similar.
16
Contextualising the Vrindavan Saptāh
How are we to contextualise the event that I have described above? To what extent
was it typical of the saptāh experience in Vrindavan and elsewhere? The little I saw
of two other saptāhs, both at Govardhan in the days immediately preceding the
Vrindavan event, certainly confirmed some aspects. I caught just the last hours of the
final day of one huge saptāh. It was on a much grander scale: the audience was
clearly in the thousands, not the hundreds. It was held in two vast marquees set up
on the sandy slopes of Mt Govardhan and had all the razzle-dazzle, the gaudy decorations, the amplified sacred music and glitz of the Vrindavan saptāh. When I arrived at about 8pm on the final night, attracted by huge spotlights circling overhead
in the night sky, countless people were still milling around in the semi-darkness, and
the atmosphere was more that of a fairground or fun park, than what I used to expect for a sacred event.
I also saw one hour of each of the final two days of a second saptāh at Govardhan.
This was also held in a marquee, but on a field adjacent to the circumambulation
route around the mountain. On each day, there were fewer than fifty people in attendance. It was altogether a more intimate event than either of the others. In other
respects—the layout and decoration of the stage, the positioning of the text of the
Bhāgavatapurāṇa, the role of the śāstră and the yajmān, the interplay of Sanskrit text
and Hindi discourse, songs of praise, musical accompaniment—it was not unlike the
Vrindavan saptāh, although it lacked its intensity.
The final comparison and piece of evidence for contextualisation comes in the form
of a 16-disk set of DVDs of a saptāh given by Mridul Krishna, the śāstră of the Vrindavan event.4 The DVDs are a record of a saptāh he gave in Mumbai in January 2009.
An overview of that event as captured on the DVDs suggests that the material covered at both was similar. Certainly the mode of presentation, the interweaving of
spoken discourse with songs of praise and the occasional Sanskrit verse are virtually
identical in both cases. The appearance of the throne and of the śāstră himself are
also almost identical. The chief difference lies in the scale of the Mumbai event,
which appeared to have several tens of thousands of people in the audience, 90 per
cent of whom were women. It is difficult to judge the atmosphere on the basis of the
DVDs alone, but the audience in Mumbai seemed more restrained. There is plenty of
dancing among the women, but it is controlled and dignified, with little or no sign of
ecstatic expression.
In conclusion, on the basis of these comparisons, however slight, the Vrindavan saptāh that I documented seems to be generally representative of the art-form in its con-
4
‘Śrīmad Bhāgavat Kathā’. Vipul Music Co., New Delhi.
17
temporary urban, hi-tech manifestation. Interested readers will find numerous similar examples of saptāhs documented on Youtube which will support this conclusion.
The next step is to describe in detail a second saptāh, in a village setting in the foothills of the Himalayas. We will then proceed to compare both case studies with the
archetype.
18
Case Study 2: Naluna
One of the primary goals of this project was to compare a saptāh in an urban setting
(Vrindavan) with one in a village environment. My hypothesis was that the impact
of globalisation would be less apparent in a ―traditional‖ setting. In March 2009 I discussed this Mr Yogendra Yadav, a colleague at the Australian National University,
and part-time resident of India. We agreed to hold a saptāh at his establishment at
Naluna in the foothills of the Himalayas. Yogendra would fill the role of yajmān, or
chief sponsor, and would provide the location and organisation.
The first and indeed the abiding impression of Naluna is the continual rush of the
Gaṅgā River—a rush like the sound of the wind or the distant surf. Day and night,
the sound river is a like a constant companion. Here the Gaṅgā, pale green water
flecked with whitecaps, is less than 80km from its source. The river here has been
likened to a girl: she is still young, unsullied and vivacious. She is also very, very
cold.
Steep, dry mountains spring up 1000m on both sides of the valley, sometimes bare
and rocky, sometimes covered in dark green forests of pines, dotted with villages
and terraced fields. Naluna, a private estate set in two acres of gardens, consists of
half a dozen buildings on a narrow strip of land that slopes steeply from the foot of
the mountain towards the river itself. Lime, lemon, guava, mango, cypress and a
dozen other kinds of trees jostle for position among the masses of marigolds, and
amid the continual chuk-chuk of yellow-vented bulbuls. The barred iron gate at the
bottom of the garden opens on to a flight of concrete steps which lead in turn to the
broad bed of the river itself. Hence the continual sound of the water—the river is
barely 50m away.
Naluna is near Syābā-pul, about 20km upstream from Uttarkashi, a substantial market town and administrative centre in the district of Garhwal, in the state of Uttarakhand. Uttarkashi is about one day‖s drive from the railway station at Haridwar,
which is itself about half a day by train from New Delhi.
There are three villages, Sainj, Syābā and Kumāltă, within a one- to two-hours‖ hard
walk uphill from Naluna. Each is home to 300–400 people, who lead mainly a subsistence farming existence, growing wheat, dhal, sesame and potatoes. Among themselves, the villagers speak Garhwali, but with outsiders they communicate in Hindi.5
5
The best sources on Garhwali culture are Berreman (1962, 1964 and 1972), Sax (1990, 1991, 2002 and
2009) and Alter (2008)
19
Naluna (on the right), Syābā-pul, Uttarkashi
The garden at Naluna, showing the temporary marquee on the left and the thatched yajñaśālā
on the right
20
By November the nights at Naluna are freezing cold, and an icy wind blows down
the river. The sun does not reach the valley floor until it creeps over the mountain
ridge at about 9:30am. By mid-morning it is warm enough for tee-shirts, but as soon
as the sun disappears behind the hills again at about 4pm, the temperature plummets, and polar-fleeces, caps, gloves and wraps are needed again.
By the time we arrived in Naluna on 9 November, a huge amount of preparation had
already been done. As early as April Yogendra had been in contact with his staff at
Naluna, and they had consulted the local deity or devtā of the village of Sainj. The
devtā had given his permission for the saptāh to proceed and had determined that
the dates would be 19–25 November 2009. As the yajmān said at the time, ―Whatever
happens in the area of Sainj, they have to ask the devtā‖.
The Sainj devtā
The devtā will play an important part in this narrative, so I will introduce him now.
His name is Kaṇḍār. He has a shrine (mandir) in the village of Sainj, but communicates through a ḍolī or palanquin. The ḍolă consists of two parts: a hollow wooden
frame in the shape of a cube about 500mm on each side. This is capped by a pyramidal roof about 300mm high. The whole cube structure is carried on two poles about
4m in length. It has four short legs underneath so this that it can be set down on the
ground. The structure is borne on the shoulders of two men from the village and is
similar to the ḍolă used for carrying brides to their weddings in the Garhwal area. It
is unclear from the literature how widespread this practice is. One devtā‖s ḍolă from
near Simla looks similar to the Sainj ḍolă (see http:/shar.es/aIaaN). Devtās in upper
Garhwal and Kumaon also ride in a ―bridal palanquin‖ (Sax 1990: 491).
The box structure and the carrying poles are covered with bright red fabric drapes
and richly embroidered brocades, with long multi-coloured scarves attached to the
sides of the box. The box is ornamented with a very handsome gleaming silver girdle
about 200mm high. The girdle appears to be of great age and is decorated with warlike anthropomorphic figures bearing a variety of weapons. The pyramidal roof is
crowned with a matching silver disk about 250mm in diameter topped with a silver
spike about 150mm high. The carrying poles are capped with handsome silver
sheaths with lions‖ heads on their bosses. The rear of the box has a white yak-hair
fly-whisk, and at times an iron axe is mounted on the front of the box. The overall
physical impact is very striking: it is a beautiful thing.
The box structure is empty, but the devtā gives the ḍolă prāṇ, meaning ―life‖ or
―breath‖. When it is enlivened by the devtā, the ḍolă rocks from side to side, bounces
up and down, and is capable of plunging right over sideways so that his silver spike
touches the ground. The whole ḍolă may also lurch backwards or forwards, or even
21
sidewise into the crowd. It is usually accompanied by one or two large throbbing
silver drums (ḍhol), and an s-shaped horn or bugle (raṇsiñghā) about 1.2m long (see
Alter 2008: 58 and 69).
The deity or devtā of the village of Sainj communicates through the movement of this palanquin or ḍoli which is carried on the shoulders of two men
The devtā’s musicians, Lakṣmi Lal, Dinesh and Mayadas Minan
22
Detail of the Sainj devtā’s silver belt
Anyone may ask the devtā questions, either verbally, or ―mentally‖: questions need
not be spoken aloud. Replies are given in the form of the movements described
above. The devtā may also bend over and touch various parts of a person‖s body
with his spike—commonly their outstretched hand, forehead, chin or chest. Sometimes he will respond to a question by making a long sweep with his spike from the
person‖s shoulder down his flank or across his chest.
Individuals may interpret the devtā‖s responses themselves, or more commonly,
they may use an intermediary, usually a senior man from the village. For this service
the questioner may pay the intermediary a small sum, usually Rs 10. The devtā also
seems to be able to speak through a medium (see also Berreman 1964: 61). There are
three or four individuals in the village who perform this function.
The devtā is consulted on a very wide range of issues: from day-to-day minutiae of
farming and trading to major life events such as marriages. He is treated with great
respect. At the time of the Naluna saptāh, a man was dying in Sainj, and it was believed that the devtā was causing his death because that individual had failed to attend to repairing the devtā‖s silver belt in Uttarkashi. The devtā had recently refused
to communicate with an important man in the village as that person had been drinking alcohol. As will be discussed below, it was believed that the devtā pushed a man
to the ground during a ―dispute‖.
23
Preparations for the Saptāh
Having given permission and set the dates for the saptāh, the devtā was next consulted on the site of the pavilion to hold the ceremonial fire, known as the yajñaśālā.
A site was chosen in the lower part of the garden at Naluna, but the devtā had decreed that no trees were to be cut down. Unfortunately, there was an old plum tree
in the middle of the chosen location. A compromise was reached, and the tree was
transplanted to a safe site.
The yajñaśālā constructed in the garden at Naluna with the banana palm on the left and Hanuman’s banner behind
The yajñaśālā was built under the supervision of the maṇḍapācārya, Jagatrām Uniyāl, the senior brahmin from Sainj. A short, rugged man in his 60s with a rather dour
disposition, he served as the principle officiating priest in charge of the fireceremony (yajña) and all matters relating to it. The yajñaśāla was a handsome open
pavilion about 6m square. Four ochre-coloured pillars 2m high on each side supported a pitched wicker roof which was covered with thatch. Another four pillars in
the centre of the pavilion surrounded the square fire pit or yajñakuṇḍa. The pavilion
was enclosed by four white waist-high walls of concrete on each side, each wall had
an open entrance in the middle. The floor was sealed with cow-dung plaster. The
24
fire-pit in the centre of the floor was about 1m square and 750mm deep. This is
where the ceremonial fire was kindled and maintained throughout the saptāh. In
each of the four corners were low raised altars, and a large altar in the form of a cube
1m high stood near the south-east corner of the pavilion. An informant who was familiar with fire-ceremonies in other parts of India observed that the decoration of the
yajñaśālā was ―standard for any big fire-ceremony‖.
The marquee in use during a kathā reading
At one stage, the devtā said through a medium ―triya triya triya‖ (―women, women,
women‖), which was interpreted to mean that women were not permitted to enter
the yajñaśālā or circumambulatory path which ran around it.
Apart from the pavilion, the other important structure for the saptāh was the marquee in which the kathā or story-telling would be held. A truck delivered a large
stack of tent poles and canvas tarpaulins, and over the days that followed, a team of
six or eight men erected the flat-roofed marquee on the concrete drive and parking
area at the top of the garden. The rough roofing material was lined with lighter,
white inner fabric with festive pink valances. Half a dozen simple chandeliers were
suspended from the rafters, and lengths of green synthetic carpet were rolled out to
cover the concrete drive.
25
On what had been a raised garden bed at the front of the marquee, a low stage was
set up. In the centre was a raised seat for the śāstră, to the left was a space for the accompanying musicians and honoured guests. On the right was the sound system—a
bank of faulty amplifiers and a tangled mass of wiring. Four huge old speakers were
lashed to the tent poles or set up on ledges behind the audience. Two ancient bullhorn speakers were mounted on the chimney of the main house to ensure that the
sounds of the saptāh would carry as far up and down the valley as possible. The
tent-wallas also built a ceremonial arch of red cloth stretched over wooden poles at
the main entrance.
A crowd gathers around the front gate of Naluna
The piece-de-resistance was undoubtedly the colourful backdrop that was suspended all around the perimeter of the marquee as a make-shift wall. The printed
image of an idealised landscape, about 1m wide and 3m high, was repeated many
times around the length of the backdrop. It consisted of a photo-montage of an orange-roofed Chinese pavilion in the middle of a lake. On the far shore of the lake
was the famous ―Jade Belt Bridge‖ in the Summer Palace in Beijing. Behind that was a
two-storey clapboard house that could be from New Hampshire, while in the far dis-
26
tance were soaring snow-capped peaks. Pairs of swans swam in the lake while peacocks ornamented the shoreline.6
In the days before we arrived, six volunteers had gone out in a vehicle and pasted up
posters advertising the saptāh all along the main road downstream as far as Maneri
(7km), and upstream towards Bhaṭvaḍă (8km). In addition, two large yellow fabric
banners promoting the event were strung up: one near the front gate at Naluna, and
the other above the main road below the village of Sainj.
When we arrived on 9 November preparations were in full swing. There was a constant stream of people coming and going. This was a community event, and the local
community was involved. Neighbours had offered to help with purchasing supplies,
and had made the two-day return trip to Rishikesh for that purpose. Women from
the village had delivered great loads of firewood for the yajña, and for cooking and
heating. Three schoolgirls from Sainj spent a sunny day in the garden threading
marigolds on to strings to make garlands. Teams of helpers made bunting by gluing
triangles of coloured paper on to long strings. Flags, garlands of artificial flowers
and strings of fairy-lights were hung from the eaves of the main buildings and under
the rafters of the yajñaśāla.
For days loads of supplies purchased in the markets at Rishikesh or Uttarkashi were
delivered by jeep or taxi. Stockpiled in a godown were five-gallon tins of ghee, great
sacks of rice, semolina, kidney beans, flour and sugar, bags of potatoes, mounds of
cauliflowers, and thousands of paper plates and disposable cups. Preparations were
made to feed a maximum of 300 people a day and up to 1000 on the final day—the
equivalent of nearly 3000 meals. For reasons that will be mentioned below overall
numbers were much lower than expected. In addition to the main kitchen, four
smaller temporary kitchens had been set up in outbuildings for the occasion.
Twelve brahmins were required for the fire ceremony and the kathā. Extra staff had
been hired to help with the cooking and serving, in addition to the half-dozen workers already on site. The devtā‖s three accompanying musicians and about fifteen
house guests all had to be accommodated. To cope with the additional demand, a
small guesthouse across the road had been booked out, and loads of mattresses and
blankets were brought in from Uttarkashi or were borrowed from a neighbouring
pilgrim rest-house.
At one stage during the day, four men carried a freshly cut pine tree into the garden.
The trunk, about 10m long, had been stripped of all its branches, except for a fresh
top-knot of dark green needles right at the tip. This would become the flagpole for
6
The yajmān was not pleased when he saw the backdrop, and said to the tent-wallas, ―Why did you
bring these Chinese pictures? Do you think I am inviting Chinese people?‖
27
the banner of the monkey-god Hanuman. The trunk was stored in the garden next to
the yajñaśālā.
The Sainj devtā arrives
A major change in pace set in with the arrival of the Sainj devtā on the evening of 16
November. The devtā is always carried on foot, and unlike other devtās is not carried in a jeep. He had set out on the shoulders of two village men with an entourage
of half a dozen others from Sainj just before dusk. His arrival at Naluna was heralded by a flurry of mobile phone calls: ―The devtā is seven minutes away‖, ―We will
be there in five minutes‖ and so on. There was an air of great expectation and anticipation as he approached. It is a considerable honour to receive a visit from the devtā:
not only was this his first visit to Naluna, but the fact that he would be in residence
for a week added to the significance of the occasion. Soon we could hear his two
drums and the wild shriek of his bugle approaching in the darkness. There was a
commotion at the front gate as first the musicians then the devtā burst into the light.
The yajmān, his staff and guests, and the maṇḍapācārya were there to greet him
with a tray of offerings, a garland of marigolds and incense. The blare of a conch
shell and the clanging of the house-bell rang out to add to the welcome. The
maṇḍapācārya sprinkled water on the ground and the devtā bowed to receive a garland. After a brief interaction with the maṇḍapācārya and the yajmān, the devtā
suddenly plunged off into the darkness down the hill towards the yajñaśālā.
I caught up with the devtā and his entourage on the lower side of the yajñaśālā. At
this point the power cut out, and the following consultation which lasted about 20
minutes was conducted by torch- and candle-light under a canopy of wonderful
stars. Two men from the village held the devtā‖s poles on their shoulders. Half a
dozen others, including the maṇḍapācārya, stood in a group on one side. The
paṇḍits were in charge of asking questions, but everyone was talking. As they spoke,
the devtā rocked back and forth, and sometimes plunged violently from side to side,
occasionally making very deep bows almost to the ground. The men in the group
interpreted these movements and asked further questions. Sometimes the devtā
would respond by tapping his silver spike into the palm of one man‖s hand, three,
four or five times. On other occasions, he touched a person on the forehead or
tapped him on the shoulder. At one point, the maṇḍapācārya fell to the ground. At
the end of the consultation, the devtā made his way to The yajmān‖s private study in
a detached two-storey building in furthest part of the estate, down near the gate to
the river.
Later that night the yajmān told me what had transpired during the consultation:
28
1. The devtā had indicated that there was something still not right with the yajñaśālā. Our host did not say exactly what the problem was, other than that it was ―big
for me, but small for others‖.
2. The devtā had selected the site for the flagpole for Hanuman‖s banner, which
would indicate the presence of that deity during the saptāh. Again the devtā had
specified that no trees were to be cut down.
3. The devtā had wanted to ―sleep‖ in the yajñaśālā, but the brahmins had advised
against this as it was not yet quite complete. They persuaded the devtā to spend one
night in The yajmān‖s study on the understanding that he could sleep in the śālā as
soon as it was finished.
4. The brahmins also said that the devtā should leave Naluna to attend a wedding in
the neighbourhood the following day, Tuesday 17 November. The devtā evidently
refused to attend because he never travelled on Tuesdays and the date of the wedding had been fixed without consulting him. The brahmins tried to insist, but at this
point the devtā ―pushed‖ the maṇḍapācārya to the ground. A compromise was
reached: the devtā would go to the wedding for the day on Wednesday 18 November.
5. A second śāstră in the district (incidentally the maṇḍapācārya‖s brother) was reportedly ―very unhappy‖ that he had not been selected to conduct the kathā and had
requested that the devtā intervene on his behalf. The devtā indicated that he did not
want to be involved.
6. There was a large rock in the garden that had been unearthed when the septic system was being installed. The devtā required that it be removed.
With the arrival of the devtā it really felt as if after months of planning, preparation
and anticipation that the saptāh was finally underway. The yajmān seemed very
happy and satisfied. I used the word ―joyous‖ to describe him in my field notes. He
said he had never seen a village deity dressed so beautifully. The night was filled
with people moving around in the dark, cooking, eating, drinking tea, chatting and
smoking around the fire. Anil Rana, a young man from Sainj who was employed at
Naluna, and one of the devtā‖s drummers, Mayadas, were wrapping the flagpole in
red cotton, and somewhere off in the dark I could hear a hole being dug. A long,
slow meteor shot across the night sky. Probably one of the Leonids, I thought to myself.
At 9:30pm there were several blasts on the bugle and a tattoo of drumming. I leapt
out of bed and stumbled through the darkened garden saying to myself, ―The participant-observer never sleeps‖. The devtā was being ―put to bed‖ in the lower resi29
dence (although he had objected to the fact that three house-guests would be sleeping in the room above him). He was in the yajmān‖s study in the company of the
maṇḍapācārya and one of the other brahmins. Anil, whom I met on the path, explained that the devtā was always put to bed with the horn and drums, and would
be woken by them again in the morning.
Hanuman’s banner
The following day, 17 November, I had set my alarm for 4:45am, but was awake
much earlier as a tea-kitchen had been established outside my window, and the
cooks were busy there well before 4am. The yajmān seemed very bright and cheerful
as he rang the house-bell at 5am. We all gathered on the veranda outside his study as
the devtā was ―woken up‖ with drums and the horn, just as Anil had indicated.
Emerging from his room, the devtā first made his way in procession through the
freezing pre-dawn gloom out the iron gate at the bottom of the garden and on to the
river flat. Crossing the boulder strewn flats, he bowed deeply to the Gaṅgā and
dipped his silver spike into the icy water. Returning to the yajñaśālā, he settled on
the ground just below the pavilion. There the yajmān and the maṇḍapācārya sat facing a newly dug hole, while the maṇḍapācārya conducted a pūjā of about 20 minutes. Then five to seven men set the flag-pole into the hole with cries of ―Victory to
the Glorious Hanuman!‖ Rocks were dropped down the hole and rammed in tight
with a crow-bar. After the ceremony, the devtā bowed to the banner, then went back
to his room, accompanied by the drums and horn. Prasād—blessed food in the form
of deep-fried sweetened yellow pellets of dough—was distributed. Even by the time
everything was finished it was still pitch black.
In the light of day, the banner made a handsome sight. At the very top a cheerful
plain red triangular flag stuck up above the tuft of pine needles. Below the needles
was a large clump of orange marigold flowers. The top metre of the trunk had been
wrapped in yellow cotton cloth, the rest in red cotton. At about 2, 4 and 6m from the
top were three conspicuous bulges in the cotton where bundles of some substance or
material had been tied into the wrappings. Unfortunately I neglected to ask what
these were. In any case, informants assured me that raising the banner of Hanuman
was a common practice at the beginning of many Hindu rituals and ceremonies,
even though the details may vary from place to place. We were advised that women
were not to approach the banner. The rest of the day passed quietly.
30
The Sainj devtā bows to the newly installed flagpole bearing Hanuman’s banner
At 8am on the morning of 18 November, the devtā, accompanied by his drums and
horn, set off as agreed for the wedding a kilometre or so down the road. This was the
last day before the saptāh began in earnest and was the last opportunity for any final
preparations. Chandeliers were adjusted. The sound system was tested endlessly.
(The roadie‖s phrase ―Testing 1-2‖ is ―Sătā-Rām‖ in Hindi.) More garlands of artificial
flowers and coloured paper streamers were strung up around the yajñaśālā. Fairy
lights were added to the house. The Chinoiserie backdrop was extended out into the
road on either side of the main gate. Bevies of girls in brilliantly coloured kurtapyjamas hovered around the entrance peering in. Naluna looked splendid: set in the
garden, the marquee, the lights and adornings, the yajñaśālā and Hanuman‖s banner. It was a wonderful sight. The devtā returned from the wedding just after nightfall.
The saptāh commences
According to the saptāh program, the yajña was supposed to start at 6am each morning. A 30-second blast on the horn and the thump of drums woke both me and the
devtā at 6:20am. I rushed out expecting to find some action. It was almost light but
the garden was deserted. Down at the lower residence, I peered in the door. The
31
devtā was still covered with a piece of pale yellow gauze, and the brahmins were sitting up in bed. So much for the 6am start.
By 9am, it was clear but still cold. The sunlight was creeping down the hillside, but
was still 30 minutes away. Naluna was a hive of activity. The devtā was seated on a
low table outside the yajñaśālā. A handsome 25-year-old brahmin boy was mixing
dry grains of rice with poster paint powder in disposable plates: red, yellow, green
and purple. There was intense activity over a white cloth on top of the ―devă‖s cube‖
in the yajñaśālā. The cube had been covered with a white cloth on which a 20x20
grid had been drawn in red lines. The maṇḍapācārya placed pinches of coloured rice
in the centre of each cell and gently pushed the rice to fill each square. Eventually I
realised what was going on—they were making a design similar to a Tibetan sand
maṇḍala.
Completed maṇḍala in the yajñaśālā
Outside the śālā, volunteers glued red, yellow and white pennants to thin bamboo
sticks to make flags. Two men carried an entire banana palm complete with a bunch
of fruit up from the river bank and set it in a hole next to the śālā. By 9:30am when
the warm sunshine had finally arrived, one of the Naluna retainers brought in an
armful of mango leaves. These were threaded on to a long string and hung around
32
the perimeter of the yajñaśālā. The garden was full of people bustling here and there,
workers carrying pots of potatoes toward the kitchen, brahmins in orange dhotis,
people chatting around the open fires. A dozen men hovered around the tea-kitchen
waiting for the next batch of hot sweet chai. In spite of the non-arrival of the main
brahmin cook and the tent-wallas, the atmosphere was relaxed. ―Everyone is very
happy‖, someone observed. It felt to me like the morning before a wedding or
Christmas Day: smoke from the cooking fires drifted up and caught the morning
sun; the perpetual rush of the river; the chatter of men working; orders being
shouted; the bang of cooking pots.
The yajmān‖s paternal grandfather had died while serving in the army, and his body
had never been returned. One of the stated goals of the saptāh was ―salvation and
homage‖ of this forebear. To these ends, the yajmān had assembled four items that
had been used by his grandfather: the trousers of his military uniform, a vessel used
for chutney, a wooden bowl for kneading dough and a copper kettle. In addition,
there was a copy of the formal printed invitation to the saptāh addressed to the yajmān‖s ancestors. All these items were carefully placed in the yajñaśālā.
By 10am it was already getting warn. Banana leaves were lashed to the pillars of the
śālā, while an older pundit worked on a smaller maṇḍala on a low stool to be used
in the preliminary rituals later in the day.
The devtā had picked a very auspicious day to begin the saptāh, but everyone else in
the district was busy too. As someone remarked, ―It is śādi, śādi, śādi (wedding, wedding, wedding)‖. The cost of tomatoes had been pushed up from Rs 25 to 80 per kilo.
All transportation was booked out and it was almost impossible to find a taxi.
Twelve musicians were approached before two could be found to accompany the
śāstră. In addition, the light rain that fell a week earlier meant that most families in
the villages were busy with ploughing and sowing the winter wheat crop.
At 11:30am there was a sudden burst of activity. The devtā‖s drums had started up
and word reached us that the śāstră was about to arrive. People streamed towards
the front gate. The devtā seemed to appear out of nowhere as a white jeep pulled up
outside the gate. An older gentleman stood by the side of the road carrying a thick
red oblong bundle on his head—the text of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa. Surrounded by the
drums and horns, the śāstră appeared, dressed in a white jumper, salmon kurta and
cream dhoti with a red scarf over one shoulder. Aged around 40, he was very neatly
groomed, with short back and sides, the top-knot of a Kṛṣṇa bhakta, a moustache,
and a strong, confident, friendly disposition.
The devtā bowed long and deeply to the Bhāgavatapurāṇa, and touched the bundled
text with his spike. He seemed very ―excited‖ and rocked rapidly from side to side.
33
The śāstră was also greeted, honoured and garlanded. The devtā then led the
Bhāgavatapurāṇa into the marquee. There followed a few moments of chaos—–
drums, horn, ladders, the tent- and sound-wallas, brahmins, family members and
guests all milling around and getting in one another‖s way. The yajmān and his family gathered around and honoured the śāstră. Meanwhile the devtā was in deep consultation with three or four petitioners at one side of the marquee. At the end of the
consultation the devtā received an orange scarf which was tied around his ―neck‖ below his crown, and he was placed on the stage next to the ceremonial throne or pīṭh.
The śāstrī, Badrī Prasād (centre) arrives at Naluna with a helper carrying the text of the
Bhāgavatapurāṇa on his head
Two preliminary rituals
Over the next four hours, two important rituals were completed: the Kalaśasthāpana
(―Setting up the pitchers‖) and the Saṃkalpa (―Statement of intent‖). I will describe
them both briefly. The devtā led a procession of nine girls all neatly dressed in
school uniform down to the Gaṅgā with an entourage of thirty or forty onlookers.
34
Each girl filled a small brass pitcher with water, and in procession led by the devtā
carried it back on her head towards the marquee.
Half way up the drive, the devtā suddenly went into reverse and rushed backwards
down the path again. One of the brahmins, visibly upset, ran up to the devtā and
demanded, ―Kyā huā—what happened?‖ After a brief consultation, it was revealed
that the devtā objected that some people standing along the drive (myself included)
were wearing shoes. Once we had taken off our shoes, the devtā proceeded up the
drive. He bowed deeply to his musicians and to the păṭh and was set down on a low
table in the marquee.
At 1pm, the brahmins, who, because of the rules of commensality, eat before and
apart from other people, broke for lunch. Significantly, the schoolgirls, as a result of
their role in the ceremony, were treated as the brahmins‖ equals and were permitted
to eat in their presence. The ceremony resumed at 2:15pm. Seated in a ring on the
floor of the marquee at the foot of the devtā were the maṇḍapācārya who was to officiate, the śāstră, the yajmān and his family and two or three other brahmins who
helped conduct the ritual. The drummers and bearers of the devtā sat some distance
away. The drum kept up a random tattoo, like an irregular heartbeat.
The Kalaśasthāpana ritual. The yajmān and his father Mr Yadav are in the centre, and the
śāstrī and the maṇḍapācārya are on the right. The brass vessels on the floor are the ‘kalashes’
35
In a long and complex ritual, deities, especially Gaṇeśa, were invoked and propitiated. The pitchers were filled with substances representing all herbs, waters from
sacred rivers, coins representing wealth and mango leaves, and were crowned with
coconuts wrapped in red, yellow or white cloth. The pitchers were transformed into
highly auspicious miniature universes containing all that is good and pure, into
which specific deities were invited for the duration of the saptāh. I was informed by
those experienced with Hindu ritual elsewhere that, with the exception of the presence of the devtā, this kalaśasthāpana was typical of the genre and was commonly
conducted as the first stage in many major Hindu rituals.
The second ritual flowed on seamlessly from the first. The Yadavs are not considered
to be one of the three higher varṇas and therefore not normally able to take part in
the fire-ceremony. The yajmān and his father were given the sacred thread that gave
them temporary ―twice-born‖ status. In addition, they and other participants were
given protective red threads to be worn on the wrist. At this point the yajmān also
took a vow (saṃkalpa) to complete successfully all seven days of the saptāh. Each of
the twelve brahmins was given a new set of clothes: a kurta, a dhoti, a pair of sandals, along with a set of eating utensils.
At the conclusion of the ceremony, a grand procession advanced from the marquee
to the yajñaśālā, led by the devtā‖s drummers, two or three brahmins, the yajmān‖s
elderly father Mr Yadav Senior carrying the Bhāgavatapurāṇa on his head, the śāstră,
the devtā himself, followed by the yajmān, his family and guests carrying the nine
pitchers, all accompanied by blasts on the conch, the ringing of bells, and devotional
music broadcast over the PA. The whole procession then circumambulated the yajñaśālā. Mr Yadav was led by the śāstră into the śālā where he circumambulated the
fire-pit, still carrying the Bhāgavatapurāṇa on his head. Meanwhile the
maṇḍapācārya directed the placement of the pitchers in each of the four corners of
the śālā, at the corners of the fire-pit, and on the devă-mandala that had been made
earlier in the day.
The first kathā session
By 4:30, after months of planning and weeks of preparation, the first kathā session
finally began. The śāstră took his place on the red throne (păṭh) on the raised platform
at the front of the marquee. There was a sparse audience of about twenty, mainly village men. In front of him on a low altar was the Bhāgavatapurāṇa wrapped in red
material. In front of that was a lower second altar on which stood a kalash and an
image of wide-eyed Kṛṣṇa Jagannātha Puri, strangely reminiscent of a South Park
figure. Three young brahmin musicians sat on the left of the păṭh, a sweet voiced vocalist who also played the harmonium, a drummer and a flautist. The devtā rested
on a low bench on the right of the stage. As the musicians sang songs of praise (kī
36
rtans) of Kṛṣṇa ―Nanda-lālā, Gopāla, Muralī Bālā re‖, the śāstră unwrapped the text and
rapidly cast his eyes over the first few pages.
At the conclusion of the kărtan, the devtā was brought before the păṭh and the
maṇḍapācārya led the yajmān and his wife in a brief pūjā in front of the lower altar
and the text of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa. The devtā made a series of deep bows in front
of the păṭh while the śāstră continued with his speed reading. All the while the wild
drumming of the devtā mixed with the Vedic chanting of the maṇḍapācārya. The
yajmān gave the śāstră and the maṇḍapācārya a tilak and garlanded them. The yajmān‖s family honoured the devtā which then bowed many times first to his drummer Mayadas, and then to the păṭh. After a further brief consultation, the devtā left
the marquee in the direction of the yajñaśālā.
The śāstrī delivers a kathā session. A sādhu and two musicians are seated on the left. The text
of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa is immediately in front of the śāstrī under a heap of garlands
To an outsider the juxtaposition could hardly have been more striking: the devtā and
his wild mountain ways and his equally wild drum and bugle on the one hand, and
on the other the sweet, melodic singing of the brahmin boys accompanied by the
harmonium and flute, and the highly sophisticated rhythms of the mṛdaṅga drum.
37
Yet the cultures of the mountains and the plains seemed to come together easily and
blended to form a syncretic whole.
The vocalist led a very half-hearted round of ―Jay—Victory!‖ cheers, followed by a
kărtan, ―Kṛṣṇa Govinda Govinda Gopāla‖. At 5:00 the śāstră was done with his reading,
and to the accompaniment of the flute and the harmonium began a slow song of
praise in Sanskrit, marred by squealing feedback from the PA system. The two audio-wallas wrestled vainly with the mikes, while the śāstră began another kărtan, ―Keśava Mādhave, O Deva Madhusūdena.‖ His first spoken words were ―Victory to Viṣṇu!
Victory to the Glorious Great Bhāgavatapurāṇa! Victory to the glorious deity,
Kaṇḍār!‖, the last mentioned being the Sainj devtā. He then spoke of the power and
significance of listening to the Bhāgavatapurāṇa, or ―stories about God‖, as he called
them.
He spoke clearly, confidently, with conviction and with passion. The pattern of his
discourse with a flute or harmonium improvising softly in the background, the general pitch, the rise and fall of his intonation, and his mannerisms, one hand raised for
emphasis, occasionally two, were all strongly reminiscent of those of Mridul Krishna
Śāstră at the saptāh at Vrindavan. The two śāstrăs are clearly of the one ―school‖ of
Bhāgavata saptāh practice.
By 5:30 it was already cold and gloomy. Most of the villagers in the audience had set
out for home. Few would relish the 1–2 hour trek uphill in the dark: leopards, bears
and bhūts (ghosts) make the path dangerous at night.
The śāstră went on to tell the story of Nārada and the pale young woman called
Bhakti (BhP 0.1), and the parable of Dhundhukāră and Gokarṇa from the
Bhāgavatapurāṇa Māhātmya (BhP 0.4), to which he added words of praise for
―Yadav saheb‖. He had a pleasant personal touch of ending each ―paragraph‖ of his
discourse in a low-voiced chant. He sang one verse in Sanskrit—almost the only
Sanskrit verse in his whole discourse this day—―Bho bhoḥ sādho‖ (BhP 0.1.42), and explained it in Hindi.
By 6:30, the day‖s narrative came to an end with a round of ―Victory‖ calls. The dozen
or so people in the audience, primarily the yajmān‖s family, staff and guests, approached the păṭh and joined in the ārtă led by a young brahmin. The devtā‖s drums
and horn rang out, and again we experienced that strange but beautiful blend of the
mountain and plains culture. After we had all taken blessings from the ārtă flame,
the śāstră wrapped the Bhāgavatapurāṇa first in a light orange cloth, then in a large
red cloth cover fringed with silver tinsel while prasād was distributed. We ended
with a final round of ―Victory‖ calls at 6:45. The śāstră then packed up his effects.
38
The last thing I was aware of that night was a ―lullaby‖ of drums and bugle putting
the devtā to ―sleep‖ in the yajñaśālā at 9:55, by which time I had been on the job for
over 15 hours.
The yajña at Naluna
The second day of the saptāh began for the staff before 4am, when the śāstră was expecting his hot water. In a later conversation, he told me that he would be reading
the entire text of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa to himself during the course of the week.
Seated on his throne in the marquee, he would begin long before dawn each morning and would aim to read one or two skandhas (books) each day. Most days he
would be finished by about 11am.
Now that the yajñaśālā had been completed and consecrated, rituals would be conducted there every morning. These also began well before dawn and finished just
before midday. During the morning, the maṇḍapācārya, assisted at most times by 8–
10 other brahmins, and accompanied by various members of Yogendra‖s family,
would be seated on the floor of the yajñaśālā, facing the sacred fire in the central pit.
The yajña, which consisted primarily of the offering of ritual substances into the fire,
to the accompaniment of continuous chanting in Sanskrit, was conducted for the
benefit of Yogendra‖s forebears and deceased relatives. It also ―purifies the atmosphere‖, as one local informant described it.
The yajña was a solemn, private affair, and with the exception of the Yogendra‖s
family, non-brahmins were not actively encouraged to observe, let alone take part.
My brahmin informants who have considerable experience of similar practices in
other parts of India were able to observe and take part in the ritual. They reported
that the yajña at Naluna was quite familiar to them and was carried out ―very properly‖.
A microphone had been set up in front of the maṇḍapācārya so that the proceedings
of the yajña could be broadcast over the PA. His sonorous intonation of Sanskrit invocations and mantras, along with the rush of the Gaṅgā and the calls of the bulbuls,
became integral parts of the Naluna soundscape.
I have chosen to omit detailed day-to-day descriptions of the yajña for the three reasons. First, as described above, our access to the yajñaśālā was restricted so that any
observations would fragmentary at best. Second, the yajña did not differ radically
from similar rituals elsewhere and descriptions are available in the literature (e.g.
Staal 1983). Third, although integral to the saptāh at Naluna, the yajña is ancillary to
our key concern, the story-telling aspects, or kathā.
39
There is one point that should be made in relation to the yajña at Naluna: it was always conducted in the presence of the Sainj devtā who was either squeezed into one
side of the yajñaśālā, or was seated on a low table outside. After he was joined by the
Kumāltă devtā, the two occupied the yajñaśālā together. This now brings us to the
arrival of the second devtā.
The second devtā arrives
At 11:30 on 20 November, the second day of the saptāh, there was a burst of drumming, accompanied by shrill shrieks from the bugle and the incessant clang of the
house-bell. Grabbing my notebook and camera, I hurried uphill towards the front
gate. To my delight and astonishment, not one, but two devtās were now in the
marquee. The second, from the village of Kumāltă, was almost identical to the Sainj
devtā. He had a similar red ḍolă, silver crown and belt, and was carried in an identical manner on two long poles. The Kumāltă devtā still had his ―skirts‖, his long red
drapes, tucked up underneath him for ease of travel. Apart from the fact that he had
no yak-tail chowry, and his brocade was more black than red, it was almost as if I
were looking at the Sainj devtā‖s double. Amid the drumming and bugling, the Kumāltă devtā bowed long and deep to the păṭh, after which the yajmān welcomed him
with a tilak. The two devtās then bowed deeply and circled one another with ―heads‖
down, their identical silver spikes almost touching. The Kumāltă devtā then touched
the Sainj devtā on his crown and on his poles with his spike. Sainj then responded by
tapping Kumāltă on his poles. Both rocked from side to side ―excitedly‖, then drew
apart. Kumāltă bowed long and low to the drummers, before plunging off down the
hill towards the yajñaśālā.
A minute later, amid the thump of drums and incessant bugling, both devtās were
on the upper side of the yajñaśālā surrounded by a jostling crowd. As a brahmin
welcomed the Kumāltă devtā with a tray of offerings both devtās rocked very actively and bowed ―affectionately‖ to one another again, before the Kumāltă devtā
slipped away and was placed on a low table below the yajñaśālā. The Sainj devtā
then began a long series of public consultations.
The arrival of the second devtā sparked many questions. Kumāltă is a village several
kilometres upstream from Naluna, on the other side of the Gaṅgā, roughly opposite
Sainj. In the past, the Sainj devtā ―serviced‖ both communities, but about 25 years
ago, the people of Kumāltă built their own ḍolă, and the Sainj devtā gave it ―prān‖,
(―life‖ or ―breath‖) ―so that it could move‖. As a result, they are considered to be
―brother devtās‖ (bhai devtā). The Kumāltă devtā, unlike Sainj, is not able to speak
through a medium, but communicates through movements alone. Sainj is acknowledged as the most powerful devtā in the immediate neighbourhood. He himself is
the ―younger brother‖ of a devtā who resides in a temple in Uttarkashi. The Kumāltă
40
devtā has his own drums and bugle, but there is no one to play them. Playing instruments for the devtā is an occupation exclusively of the Dalit community.7 It is
possible that there are no suitable persons of that caste in Kumāltă. All three devtās
are actually the one deity, Kaṇḍār.
The Sainj devtā. An iron axe and yak-tail chowry are on the left and right of the central section. His drums and horn are the ground on the right
Besides Sainj and Kumāltă, there is a third devtā in the neighbourhood, at Syābā,
who in spite of an earlier agreement to attend the saptāh decided at the last moment
to attend another event at the nearby village of Sarḍ, instead of coming to the saptāh
at Naluna.
The second kathā session
At 1.30pm when the second kathā session was due to commence, the marquee was
empty, except for the harmonium and mṛdaṅga players who doodled expertly, and
one or two expectant onlookers. The śāstră appeared at 1:40, bowed to the păṭh, and
7
The musicians are of an ―untouchable‖ community called ―Dom‖, but this name is apparently taboo in
the Naluna district and cannot be spoken aloud. They refer to themselves as ―Harijan‖, a term used by
Gandhi, but which has fallen into disuse in other parts of India. On drummers and the question of
caste in Garhwal, see Alter 2008.
41
saluted the Bhāgavatapurāṇa. He began with tributes, sung in Sanskrit, to Vyāsa and
Gaṇeśa, and followed with a round of ―Victory‖ calls, and kărtans in Hindi. People
drifted in from time to time. Village women left offerings of 500g bags of grain at the
front of the stage. By 2:10 the audience had grown to 22, and the śāstră was discoursing on the various names of Kṛṣṇa. A young sādhu arrived from the ashram just up
the river, wearing a brilliant saffron robe.
Over the next three hours, the śāstră told famous stories from Bhāgavatapurāṇa of
the birth of Śukadeva, how he went naked (BhP 1.4) and how he was tested by
Janaka; Nārada‖s past life as the son of a serving girl (BhP 1.6); and the story of the
massacre of the Pāṇḍavas‖ sons by Aśvatthāmā (BhP 1.7). All this was leading up to
the birth of Parăkṣit. At four key points in the narrative, the śāstră uttered verses in
Sanskrit, usually for emphasis or pathos.
Like Mrdul Krishna in Vrindavan, the śāstră spoke in pure, śuddh Hindi, with very
few or no Persian or Arabic loanwords, but he did not shy away from using the occasional English word in his discourse. Apart from one or two kărtans during the afternoon and two rounds of ―Victory‖ calls, there was little opportunity for audience
participation.
By 4:30 we finished off with cries of ―Jay Jay Śrī Rādhe‖. The 35 people in the audience
pressed forward to join in the ārtă amid kărtans and drumming. Each received some
prasād and a spoonful of sweetened milk ―nectar‖ in the palms of their right hands,
as on the previous day.
The middle days
The third, fourth, fifth and sixth days of the saptāh were all conducted in a similar
manner to the second day described above. Every morning the fire ceremony continued in the yajñaśālā, and the kathā took place during the afternoon in the marquee. The kathā session always began with the harmonium and mṛdaṅga players
singing kărtans as the marquee filled. The śāstră arrived a little later, and saluting the
păṭh and the text of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa, he took his seat and began with invocations to Gaṇeśa, Sarasvată, Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa, and salutations to one‖s parents, guru
and tutelary deity. This was followed by kărtans to Kṛṣṇa, and a round of ―Victory‖
calls. Villagers arrived in twos or threes, or sometimes in much larger groups of up
to 25. Village men and women came separately. Only one or two middle-class
neighbours arrived as couples. Most arrivals made an offering at the altar: a bag of
wheat, flowers, fruit or ten-rupee notes. Many would perform a ―circumambulation‖
by turning around 360° on the spot with their hands held in an añjali.
42
The altar in front of the pīṭh with offerings of fruit and flowers
Village women, girls and young children attending the saptāh
43
Over the three hours, the discourse would be punctuated by three or four rounds of
―Victory‖ calls, the occasional kărtan, power outages and sound-system failures. Each
afternoon, I was conscious of the devtā‖s presence down the hill in the yajñaśālā.
Hearing his drum-beat in the distance seemed to indicate that he was ―awake‖. The
occasional toot of a motorbike horn or growl of a truck or bus engine reminded us of
how close to the road we were seated.
The audience grew in numbers, reaching 70–80 in the later days. Women and children presented a rainbow of colours in their mountain-style skirts, blouses, knitted
woollen jumpers and scarves, with just a few younger women and girls wearing
Plains-style salwar-kamiz. The village men, who sat apart from the women, wore
Western clothes or Nehru jackets in every shade of beige, grey and brown. The only
demographic that was missing from the audience were boys in the 6–20 age bracket.
When I asked where they were, the answer was a nonchalant shrug and the words
―here and there‖, probably indicating the two weddings in Sainj and Syābā. Every
day, one or two neighbouring sādhus in saffron attended. The śāstră usually offered
them a seat of honour next to the musicians.
With the larger audiences, the kathā sessions really developed a sense of occasion. I
tried to imagine how it all looked to a villager who lived in a smoky, windowless
stone hut two or three hours‖ trek from the road. The exotic Chinese backdrop, the
white marquee with its pink valances, the chandeliers and booming sound-system
must all have seemed very exotic, wonderful and sophisticated.
Audience participation in the form of clapping and singing along became much
more enthusiastic and spontaneous as the crowd grew. I got the feeling that this is
what they had really come for, and I wondered if they felt a little cheated when the
śāstră gave them so few opportunities to participate. Nevertheless, the audience sat
for hour after hour in rapt attention, without shuffling or wriggling, and very little
coming and going. By 4pm each day, we reached the last round of ―Victory‖ calls.
The devtā‖s drums and horn led the yajmān and his family to the păṭh where they
and members of the audience performed ārtă. Everyone threw petals in the direction
of the păṭh and performed a ―circumambulation‖. After the prasād and ―nectar‖ had
been distributed, the cheerful, chatting villagers drifted towards the gate where little
plates of sweet semolina halva and disposable wooden spatulas were distributed.
The marquee would be empty except for the boom of ―Rādhe Rādhe‖ over the PA, and
the scattered red rose petals and orange marigolds on the green synthetic carpet.
I asked several people why they came. One came to hear the ―stories about God‖; another said ―to get good knowledge‖; a third said that listening to the kathā ―causes
44
you to think about God‖. My informants also mentioned a good outing, a break from
continual manual labour, a chance to escape from their mothers-in-law, as well as
the halva as other possible benefits that attendees might be unwilling to admit themselves. The yajmān added that the saptāh is also an opportunity for local people to
experience and express their faith. He commented that, ―Only people who believe in
it will come; some will walk right past‖.
During these four days, the śāstră progressed through the stories of the
Bhāgavatapurāṇa, sometimes lingering in great detail over a single episode, at others, skipping over vast stretches of narrative terrain in a sentence or two. All the
while the śāstră maintained the oratorical ―Vrindavan‖ style described above. The following broad topics from the Bhāgavatapurāṇa were covered on each day:
Day 3. Aśvatthāmā, Abhimanyu and the birth of Parăkṣit; the curse of King Parăkṣit
(Book 1)
Day 4. Uddhava and Vidura; Hiraṇyākṣa and Hiraṇyakaśipu; the Boar avatar;
Devahūti; Kapila; Manu‖s daughters; Śiva and Dakṣa; Dhruva (Books 3-4)
Day 5. Bharat and the deer; Hiraṇyakaśipu and Prahrāda; Gajendra and the crocodile; the Churning of the Ocean; Mohină; Aditi asks for a boon; Bali performs
yajña; Viṣṇu as Vāmana. (Books 5, 7 and 8)
Day 6. Kṛṣṇa‖s childhood and youth; his struggles with Kaṃsa; Kṛṣṇa overturns the
cart, eats mud, steals butter, etc.; Brahmā takes the cattle; Govardhan (Book
10)
Each session included only three or four verses of Sanskrit, some of which were from
sources other than the Bhāgavatapurāṇa, such as the Bhagavadgătā. Some of the śāstră‖s sub-stories were also from other sources. For example, he included the apocryphal tale of Vidura‖s wife Sulabhā. She was so filled with devotion for Kṛṣṇa that she
accidentally offered him banana skins instead of the fruit. Kṛṣṇa was so taken with
her devotion that he accidentally ate them. The śāstră also drew on well-loved nonSanskritic popular traditions, such as Tulsădās.
Interspersed with the discourse was some contemporary sermonising. At various
points he spoke of the power of remembering the name of God, the importance of
respecting brahmins and the necessity of adhering to the traditional duties of one‖s
varṇa (caste). He lamented the fact that in India people are ―losing their culture‖ and
are, for example, wearing jeans instead of dhotis. He included some short parables.
For example, once there was an old man who was dying. His sons said, ―There is no
need for the [Bhagavad]Gătā, just call the doctor to give him an injection‖. The old
man glanced from his sick-bed into the courtyard, and his last words were ―Hey, the
cow is eating the broom‖. ―If these are one‖s last words, what is the point of life?‖
asked the śāstră.
45
During these middle days, I had a chance to ask the śāstră about himself. Śră Badră
Prasād Nautiyāl Jă Śāstră was a local boy made good. Born in a brahmin family in
Sainj, his father had sent him to the Śrimadbhāgavata University in Vrindavan to
specialise in purāṇic readings, and because he ‖wanted the Sanskrit tradition to continue‖. During the five years that he spent at university, his class studied just 2–3
verses of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa per day: ―Just as a bee takes nectar from a flower, we
took the honey of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa just a little at a time, and returned often‖. He
began his studies in 1994 and graduated with the degree of śāstră five years later.
There were 55 students in his graduating ―batch‖. This was the seventh saptāh that he
had conducted since graduating. He now lived in the nearby village of Gangoră.
By the middle of the saptāh, the garden was starting to look tired. The increasingly
cold nights and the constant picking were taking a toll on the masses of marigolds.
The walnut trees had lost all their leaves since we arrived. Most of the zinnias had
been picked for use in rituals or as offerings. The lawn had been trampled by hundreds of feet: where there had been grass was now bare earth. It looked more like a
winter garden than an autumn one.
The final day of the saptāh
The final day, 25 November, differed from the days described above, and is worth
describing in detail. The tea-makers were busy from about 4:30am, chatting and
banging utensils just outside my window. The devtā was ―woken‖ at 5:40, and at 6:45,
―Śrī Rādhe Rādhe‖ blasted out over the PA. This was to continue at intervals for most
of the day.
Our final kathā session was expected to run from 9–11am, and we duly assembled in
good time in the marquee. There was some unexplained delay, but no one seemed to
care very much. Blue smoke from a cooking fire in one of the make-shift kitchens
drifted up through the thatched roof. In the garden, people sought out patches of
sunshine. There was a feeling that the event was nearing a conclusion. The drummers were talking about getting home, and Yogendra‖s international guests were
discussing travel agents, departure times and connections.
At 10:15 a pretty, white half-grown calf with garlands and ribbons around its neck
was led down the drive. It had just arrived from Syābā and would be presented to
the śāstră at the end of the day as part of his fee. At about this time, the backing vocalists started up with a kărtan of ―Govinda govinda gopāla‖. By 10:20, the śāstră had begun his opening Sanskrit chants, while the devtā‖s drums were ―talking‖ in the background. The sacks of wheat at the altar were now fat and bulging, and there was a
third bag for beans.
46
Between the kărtans and the ―Victory‖ cries, the yajmān ascended the păṭh and placed
a gold ring on the śāstră‖s finger, also part of his final fee. The conduct of the kathā
session was similar to that of the preceding days. As villagers drifted in, made offerings to the păṭh and took their seats, the śāstră related the stories of Kṛṣṇa and the
gopis, Kaṃsa‖s attempts to kill him, the devotee Sudāmā, Kṛṣṇa‖s flight to Dvārakā
and his marriage with Rukmiṇă (Book 10). He also touched briefly on the stories of
the twenty-four gurus (Book 11) and Mārkaṇḍeya, before giving the synopsis of the
whole Bhāgavatapurāṇa and the last verse (Book 12). The session concluded at
around 1:20pm when the devtā arrived for ārtă, kirtans and Sanskrit chants of
―Pūrṇam idam...‖and ―Om śāntiḥ...‖ Both devtās were now rocking ―excitedly‖ in front
of the păṭh. The air was thick with drums, horns, bells and incense, and a large
crowd had gathered. A young woman fell into a trance, writhed across the floor, and
seized the tray with which ārtă was being performed, before dropping back anonymously into the crowd. Shortly afterwards, as prasād was being distributed, both
devtās left for the yajñaśālā. The singing came to an end, the crowd ―circumabulated‖, half-prostrated to the păṭh, and dispersed.
The two devtās make a final trip to the river
At about 1:30, the paper flags on the bamboo poles that we had made on the first day
were being distributed. The two devtās circumabulated the yajñaśālā and headed in
47
procession with everyone on site, perhaps 70 people in all, down through the garden, out the iron gate, and across the stony flats to the Gaṅgā.
While the śāstră sat in contemplation on a rock in the river, bells and conches rang
out, and the ever-present drums and bugle were sounded. Both devtās bowed so
deeply to the Gaṅgā that their silver spikes touched the water. As the maṇḍapācārya
conducted a brief pūjā at the water‖s edge, I wondered when I would ever see such a
wonderful sight again: the dazzling colours, the primal sounds, beauty of the river
and mountains, the mystery and power of the devtās.
The devtās then led the way back to the marquee where the maṇḍapācārya conducted a further pūjā for the yajmān and his immediate family. While the Sainj devtā
held a long series of public consultations in the marquee, we all returned to the garden were the calf was waiting, tethered to a lemon tree. Another brief pūjā was carried out and a white cloth which had been covering the calf was presented to the śāstră to symbolise its handing over.
Back at the marquee, in the presence of both devtās, the maṇḍapācārya conducted a
closing ceremony in which everyone was thanked, and the coconuts, which had
crowned the kalashes in the yajñaśālā were handed out to selected individuals. At
this point another man was possessed, and hissing and panting, plunged across me
and poured a handful of rice into Yogendra‖s palm.
Meanwhile, tarpaulins had been spread on the ground on either side of the drive,
and paper plates and plastic cups had been set out for prasād, the final meal of
blessed food. About 70 men took their places, while the staff moved up and down
the lines doling out big double handfuls of rice onto each plate, followed by generous scoops of dhal and curried vegetables, rotis and lime pickle. ―Śrī Rādhe Rādhe‖
blared out over the PA as we all ate together in the sun. This was a happy occasion.
After second helpings for everyone, each man received one cup of water for drinking, followed by another for washing their hands and rinsing their mouths. Almost
as one, the men finished eating and stood up. Their places were taken immediately
by the women and girls, and plates, cups and food were doled out a second time.
Once the women had eaten, three more places were set, and three more meals were
doled out, this time for Mayadas, Lakṣmilal and Dinesh, the Sainj devtā‖s musicians.
Being members of the Dalit community, they ate last.
By 4pm, the sun was getting low, and many of the attendees had already set out for
home, eating semolina halva as they went. Both devtās were in the marquee and
were preparing to leave, their ―skirts‖ tucked up in their undercarriage for the trip
home. The Kumāltă devtā received a last round of honours and a fine new gold and
red scarf from the yajmān and his wife. Both devtās seemed unable to get away:
48
there was always one last consultation to be given. At last, after a final bout of bobbing, bowing and ―affectionate‖ touching of spikes on poles, the Sainj devtā escorted
his ―younger brother‖ up the drive and out of the gate. The Kumāltă devtā was lifted
up on to the roof of a battered grey jeep and disappeared up the road.
The Kumāltī devtā leaves Naluna on the roof of a jeep
As the yajmān presented the brahmins with white envelopes containing their fees in
the marquee, the Sainj devtā completed yet another round of consultations to one
side. Then the devtā bowed to Anil who held the red-bound copy of the
Bhāgavatapurāṇa on his head. Finally the yajmān took the text on his head, and led
by the drums and bugle, he and the devtā escorted the śāstră up the drive, out the
main gate and on to the road. The Bhāgavatapurāṇa, the śāstră, his assistants and all
of their luggage were loaded into a second jeep which eventually headed off downhill.
Finally at 4:50 the drums and bugle led the Sainj devtā and his entourage up the
drive one last time, they turned on to the road and headed for home. We watched
the procession until the devtā on the shoulders of his two bearers disappeared
around a bend in the road.
With the devtās both gone, it really felt as if the saptāh was over. In the days that followed, the sound system was hurried off to its next gig and the tent was gradually
49
dismantled; the bedding was bundled into the back of a jeep and returned to its
owner, as were the huge pots, pans and woks. The fairy-lights came down and men
carried off sacks of left-over flour and rice and tins of ghee in their arms or loaded on
to the back of a donkey.
The Sainj devtā leaves Naluna on foot
The yajmān returned to his favourite spot on the sunny veranda, where he sat in
state, issuing instructions to staff and dealing with petitioners and visitors. Naluna
was slowly returning to normal, and once we were gone, the only sounds in the garden would be the chatter of the bulbuls and the rush of the Gaṅgā.
These were my impressions of the saptāh at Naluna, but to what extent was this
typical of saptāhs in the district? By way of a broader context, one local informant
told me that he had been to about ten saptāhs in the local area: four at Sainj and others at Maneri, Sarḍ and another village. All had a yajñaśālā ―either bigger or smaller
than this one‖. A second informant had been to two saptāhs in Syābā and eight in
other villages. He said that there is usually about one per year in the district, and
they all followed the pattern of yajña in the morning and kathā in the afternoon.
Asked if they were like this event, he replied: ―Bilkul esa ka jaisa‖ (―Exactly like this
one‖).
This concludes the ethnographic description of the case studies in Vrindavan and
Naluna. In the following section I will identify points of continuity between the archetype and the two case studies. I will then describe a number of ways in which
they both diverge from the archetype.
50
PART THREE
Theme 1:
Continuities between the Archetype and
the Case Studies
The description of how to run a saptāh found in the Bhāgavatapurāṇa and the two
contemporary events described above may be separated by as much as a thousand
years, but there are many points of continuity between them. In this section I will
identify and discuss these continuities, while drawing on the contextualising saptāh
events as well.
Centrality of the text and Sanskrit
The Sanskrit text of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa as an artefact is obviously of central importance to the archetypal saptāh, ―This text, known as the Glorious Bhāgavatapurāṇa, is
Kṛṣṇa himself in manifest form‖ (0.1.30). The instructions explicitly declare that it is
an important focus of worship. What is the role of the text in the contemporary saptāh events?
The DVDs of Mridul Krishna‖s huge saptāh in Mumbai have excellent close-up footage of the role of the text in the preliminary rituals. When it first appeared, it was
tightly wrapped in dark red brocade, bound in golden tape, and crowned with red
rose petals and yellow marigolds. The śāstră and a pujari honoured the text with
flowers, then with a tray of flowers, fruit, water, and kumkum powder. Finally, the
śāstră performed ārtă to the text. The śāstră and the pujari then placed the text on the
head of the yajmān, while a pitcher (kalash) was placed on the head of his wife. They
all left in procession for the venue of the saptāh; the yajmān and his wife walked in
front with the text and kalash on their heads, while the śāstră followed in a garlanded silver carriage drawn by two white horses.
At the saptāh venue, the Bhāgavatapurāṇa and kalash were placed at the feet of an
image of Kṛṣṇa Bihāră on the left-hand side of the main stage while the pujari and
śāstră conducted a brief pūjā before the image. After the pūjā, the yajmān and his
wife again took the text and the kalash on their heads, while the śāstră conducted a
second pūjā to the image of an ascetic (Nimbārka?) While the śāstră ascended his
throne, the pujari placed the text on the altar and the kalash on a shelf below it. The
yajmān then garlanded the text with red and white flowers. He and his wife also offered flowers. The text was then crowned with marigolds and a coconut on which a
red swastika with four dots had been painted. The yajmān and his wife performed
51
ārtă to it, and at the end of a series of Sanskrit invocations, the entire official party of
about twenty placed flowers on it, while those at the back threw their offerings towards it and others bowed or half-prostrated to it. Before ten minutes passed, a pujari replaced the red and white garland with one made from yellow and orange
marigolds and mango leaves.
The text of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa wrapped in brocade and gold tape at the Mumbai saptāh.
Source: Vipul Music Co.
At the Vrindavan saptāh, the text of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa was adorned in an almost
identical fashion—bundled in red brocade and garlanded with marigolds. It was
clearly an object of great veneration for both the śāstră and members of the official
party, and at the start and end of each session over the two days, it was honoured
with flowers, ārtă, gifts and prostrations.
Similarly, at Naluna, the text was a very significant focus of ritual attention and veneration. From the moment it arrived with the śāstră on the head of a assistant, until it
departed with the śāstră seven days later, this time on the head of the yajmān, it remained a focus of ritual attention and worship, being honoured with flowers, fruits,
garlands, incense and lights. The śāstră bowed to the text whenever he ascended the
păṭh, and both devtās bowed to it conspicuously whenever they were in the marquee.
52
I will now include a small anecdote to illustrate the great significance of the text as a
sacred object. During the kathā sessions I followed the progress of the discourse by
referring to a two-volume bilingual copy of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa. At one point I had
placed one of the volumes on top of my folded jacket on the ground next to my seat.
The śāstri noticed this and interrupting his discourse, to my extreme embarrassment,
addressed me directly saying, ―Do not put that near your feet‖. Chastened, I hastily
retrieved the volume and kept it safely in my lap thereafter. As a sacred object, it is
suitable for carrying one‖s head, and is not to be placed in a lowly position.
It is not explicitly stated in the archetype that the text must be read in its entirety
during the saptāh, but that was certainly the goal of the śāstră in his early morning
private reading sessions. It was also apparently the intention of the two on-stage
readers of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa at the second saptāh at Govardhan. My informants
explained that at saptāhs in Bangalore, this is often but not always the case.8 It seems
that the śāstră at Vrindavan, Mridul Krishna, is perhaps the exception in this instance, as reading the whole work did not seem to feature in his programs.
Moving from the role of the text itself to the role of Sanskrit, how are we to understand the place of the sacred language in the archetypal saptāh? Sanskrit has long
been the language of an educated, literary and spiritual elite (Pollock 2006). The archetypal saptāh may have been conducted in Sanskrit, as it is an ―exceedingly rare
congregation of the pious‖, in the Bhāgavatapurāṇa‖s own words. This certainly
sounds like an elite gathering to me. The expositor may have read verses in Sanskrit
and perhaps explained them in simple spoken Sanskrit, occasionally with the assistance of his seconder. (There is, however, one good argument in favour of the archetype being conducted at least partly in the vernacular to which I will return below).
Irrespective of whether the entire saptāh was conducted in Sanskrit, we can assume
that Sanskrit played a central if not an exclusive role.
The śāstră at Vrindavan made extensive use of Sanskrit quotations from the
Bhāgavatapurāṇa, and śāstră at Naluna less so. Nevertheless, Sanskrit verses were
used in both events at crucial points in the narrative, where they served to add emphasis, beauty, dignity or authority to a particular passage, as they tied the spoken
discourse directly back to the authority of the original text.
8
In Bangalore, a traditional scholar (vidvān) may make his own selections from the Bhāgavatapurāṇa
and give a discourse in which selected Sanskrit verses would be recited and explanations in the local
language (Kannada in this case) given thereafter. In the tradition of pārāyaṇa (―reading through‖) the
reading itself is an auspicious act. This may be a pārāyaṇa of the Bhagavadgătā, Rāmāyaṇa,
Bhāgavatapurāṇa or any other chosen text. In this case a pandit might just do the reading and no explanation may be sought or given as the reading itself is a sacred act. There are also instances where
selections from the Bhāgavatapurāṇa may be read out aloud by a junior apprentice-scholar followed
by detailed exposition by a venerable pandit.
53
On the basis of this evidence I suggest that the centrality of the text of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa as a focus of worship and the significance of the Sanskrit language are important points of continuity between the archetype and contemporary practice.
Determination of times and date
The archetype advised that an astrologer should be invited to determine an auspicious day on which to begin the saptāh, and that the Indian months covering the period from August to November and June-July were considered most suitable.
As mentioned above, the possibility of holding a saptāh at Naluna was first conceived by the yajmān, Yogendra Yadav, and myself in early April 2009. Among the
first steps taken was to call Anil Rana at Naluna, who advised that the ―ḍolă‖ (i.e. the
devtā) of Sainj had to be consulted. As the yajmān reported, ―They will ask the ḍolă
for permission to hold the saptāh. Whatever happens in the area of Sainj, they have
to ask the ḍolă‖. By the end of April, the yajmān had heard from Anil that the ―ḍolă‖
had granted permission and the dates 19–25 November had been selected.
Further, it appeared from discussions with the yajmān that saptāh events in the
neighbourhood of Naluna were usually held towards the end of the year, especially
after the festival of Divālă. ―Before Divālă everyone is too busy‖, as the yajmān put it.
The post-festive season also coincides with a lull in farming activity in Garhwal, as
the summer crops have been harvested and the winter crops have not yet been sown
(see also Alter 2008: 27). It seems therefore in the case of Naluna, that the devtā fulfils the role of the astrologer in selecting appropriate dates, but that the rhythms of
the agricultural year may also play a role.
Are particular months favoured for saptāhs in other locations? I noted nineteen advertisements for saptāh events in Vrindavan and one in Uttarkashi. The starting
dates were as follows:
Month Jan
No.
0
Feb
1
Mar
0
Apr
1
May
1
Jun
0
Jul
1
Aug
1
Sep
2
Oct
10
Nov
2
Dec
1
Starting dates for fifteen events (75 per cent) fell between August and November,
which tallies well with the statement in the archetype that the months from August
to November are the most auspicious. However, the archetype also mentions June–
July (Śrāvaṇa) as an appropriate time, but this appears to have fallen out of favour.
Cost of running a saptāh
The archetype advises that the sponsor set aside as much money for a saptāh as he
would for a wedding. The total cost of the Naluna saptāh was in excess of Rs 200 000
(US$4300). The dakṣinā (sacrificial fees) for the brahmins came to about Rs 55 000;
54
the hire of the marquee, sound system, stage, etc., was Rs 45 000; the construction of
the yajñaśālā was about Rs 40 000, and the remaining Rs 60 000 was spent on food
and other supplies. Even allowing for inflation, this is more than three times the cost
of a wedding held at Naluna in 2006 which was attended by 500 people.
One informant suggested that the minimum cost for staging a saptāh in Vrindavan is
in the range of US$10–15 000, and ―it goes up from there‖. Mridul Krishna‖s saptāh in
Mumbai with tens of thousands of participants (not to mention the five elephants in
the procession) must have been astronomically expensive. Pilot Baba, a well-known
holy man with an ashram near Naluna, was rumoured to have received 10 crores of
rupees (US$2 million) plus a helicopter for his role in a saptāh. ―Even the sādhus next
door got a crore (US$215 000)‖ for giving a saptāh, one informant commented.
Publicity and advertising
The news that a saptāh is to be held ―should be made known everywhere‖, declare
the instructions for the archetype. The intensive advertising of saptāh events in
Vrindavan provides an eloquent expression of this principle in the contemporary
context. I have already commented on these hoardings in general terms when I described the saptāh in Vrindavan. I will just add a few observations here. Nearly all of
the posters included pictures of the main expositor. One surprising feature is that
very few of the expositors resemble the stereotypical Indian holy man: flowing locks,
grizzled beard, saffron robes and strings of beads. As few as one quarter of expositors depicted in the posters fitted this description. A similar proportion had boyish,
saintly appearances, and were clean-shaven, but with shoulder length hair or longer.
The great majority, however, sported what I would call Bollywood good looks: they
were depicted as being of very fair complexion, handsome, and tending towards
pudgy. Most had moustaches and were perfectly groomed. The śāstră at Naluna also
fitted this description to a large extend. They had a very prosperous middle-class
look about them, and perhaps represented and indeed appealed to a middle-class
demographic.
Publicity was also an important aspect of the Naluna saptāh, and consisted of large
banners, printed posters and personalised invitations. As mentioned above, the two
banners were hung over the main road at Naluna and at the foot of Sainj village. The
posters were stuck on walls all along the main road in the district. The surplus posters were glued to long strings and were strung up like bunting around the front
gate. The personalised, printed invitations were distributed to distinguished friends
and neighbours.
Apart from the obvious information (time, date and place), there are several other
features worth noting in the publicity material from Naluna. First, both the poster
55
and invitation were headed with salutations in Sanskrit to three deities: Gaṇeśa,
(Rādhā-)Kṛṣṇa, and Kaṇḍār. Further, the invitation stated that the saptāh is to be
held ―under the benevolent direction (satpreraṇā se) of Śră Kaṇḍār-devtā‖. Both of
these underline the important and unique role of the devtā in the Naluna saptāh, a
point to which we will return below.
A second feature of the promotional material from Naluna is the fact that the invitation and the poster gave the names of both the śāstră (Badră Prasād Nauṭiyāl) and the
maṇḍapācārya (Jagatrām Uniyāl). The presence of the maṇḍapācārya and the
prominence he was given in the promotional material distinguished the saptāh at
Naluna from anything I saw at Vrindavan.
The third feature is that the posters were issued in the name of Yogendra‖s elderly
parents. The yajmān noted that this was a matter of etiquette while his parents were
still alive. Seeing his name on the posters was, incidentally, a source of great pride
and pleasure for the 87-year-old Mr Yadav Senior.
Visual impacts: decorations of the maṇḍapa
The archetype states that the site of a saptāh should be decorated with leaves, flowers, fruit, trunks of banana palms and flags. The ―thick description‖ of the saptāh at
Vrindavan should have provided some idea of the profusion of decorations at that
venue. Even if over time the nature of the decorations has changed (now it is fairy
lights, plastic flowers and the curious Chinese backdrop), the intention and motivation, which are perhaps basic to many societies in India and beyond, remain unchanged: the site of any sacred event is to be made as beautiful as possible with the
materials available.
This represents a continuity, but with a twist. The instructions for the archetype indicate that the kathā is to be held in a structure called a maṇḍapa (―pavilion‖), but no
mention is made of a daily fire-ceremony or a yajñaśālā to house it. This significant
difference between the archetype and the Naluna saptāh will be discussed below. In
the meantime, however, it should be noted that the archetype‖s instruction for the
decoration of the maṇḍapa, which should logically have been applied to the marquee where the kathā was held, was applied instead to the yajñaśālā at Naluna. The
floor of the yajñaśālā, for example, was sealed with cow-dung plaster, and it was to
the yajñaśālā that the banana palm was attached. The yajñaśālā was also richly decorated with flowers in the form of marigold garlands and artificial flowers, fruits (it
was a requirement that the banana palm bear fruit), strings of mango leaves, and
colourful paper pennants glued to thin bamboo poles.
56
Spatial arrangement: seating at the saptāh
The instructions for the archetype suggest that the expositor be seated on a raised
stage, and that seven spaces (loka) should be reserved for brahmins and others who
have ―renounced worldly passions‖ (virakta). At Naluna, on many occasions, the śāstră would invite sādhus to ascend the stage and sit next to the musicians on his right,
where a place of honour was reserved. The young sādhu in the long salmon robe
sometimes sat here, as did a wild-looking wandering sādhu with a huge mop of
dreadlocks. Interestingly, with the exception of the three brahmin-musicians, the
other brahmins who were regularly part of the yajña did not attend the kathā.
Restrictions on the yajmān
The archetype‖s instructions give a long list of restrictions which the chief sponsor
(yajmān) is expected to observe. A certain number of these have carried though to
the present: the yajmān reported that he was supposed to sleep on the floor, apart
from his wife, during the saptāh. He was also required to fast each morning until the
―meal of fruit‖ (phala-āhāra) after the fire-ceremony at about 11:30, although tea was
permitted. Fruit had become so expensive that potatoes (in the form of curry) had
been substituted, and because ―potatoes are almost like fruit‖ this was deemed acceptable. Onions, garlic and chillies were banned. No alcohol was permitted during
the saptāh, but a bottle of Chivas Regal was being held in reserve for after the event.
Social inclusiveness: gender, caste and class
The archetypal instructions state that ―Women, śūdras and others who stand remote
from stories of Viṣṇu and who stand remote from songs of praise to Kṛṣṇa‖ should
be informed of a forthcoming saptāh. The only point in informing such people
would be if they were able and welcome to attend. This inclusivity is an important
distinction between what we might call ―purāṇic religion‖ and more orthodox Hindu
traditions. As mentioned above, Vedic rituals were restricted to the ―twice-born‖
varṇas and generally to males. In fact terrible punishments were prescribed for nonbrahmins who happened to hear Vedic recitals. We can assume, then, that in the past
women and members of non-―twice-born‖ varṇas could attend saptāhs.
What can be said about gender, caste and class in relation to contemporary saptāhs?
Firstly, women made up at least half of the audience in all the saptāhs I witnessed,
except the Mumbai event where they accounted for at least 90 per cent of participants. Secondly, the three dalit musicians from Sainj were often in the marquee listening to the kathā at Naluna, although they seemed to sit towards the back and to
one side. In informal situations at Naluna—for example, sitting around the fire chatting or smoking—they seemed to socialise as equals with men of other castes, but in
57
more formal situations, especially when eating, they always appeared to be on the
outer.
As already mentioned, the Yadavs, of which the yajmān is a member, are not regarded as one of the three ―twice-born‖, ―upper‖ varṇas who are permitted to take
part in particular brahminical rituals, including the fire-ceremony. As we have seen,
this problem was circumvented by investing the yajmān and his father with the sacred thread worn by the ―upper‖ varṇas, signifying ―temporary twice-born status‖ for
the duration of the saptāh. The yajmān was not only qualified to take part in the ritual, but could also eat with the brahmins. Everyone else (saptāh attendees, house
staff and foreigners) ate second, while the dalits ate last.
The Vrindavan saptāh, like the Naluna event, was open to the public. In theory, anyone could walk in off the street and take a seat on the floor in the public section. In
practice, however, the audience seemed to be self-selecting in terms of class. As
noted above, it appeared to be a lower-middle class demographic of well-dressed,
well-groomed and well-nourished townsfolk. With a single exception, I did not see
anyone who looked like a manual labourer or farmer. While the venue was in theory
open to all, the opulence of the interior and perhaps the steely glint in the security
staff‖s eyes might have deterred anyone who felt that they ―did not belong‖.
What was the position of foreigners? All foreigners are thought to be wealthy, and
therefore high in terms of class, even though they are outside the caste system in
terms of ritual purity. In general, class trumps caste, but only to an extent. Our class
status was sufficient to elevate us to a position equivalent to a middle-ranked caste.
At Naluna, foreigners ate with the rajputs (90 per cent of villagers in the district), but
after the brahmins, and before the dalits. Similarly, like the rajputs, foreigners were
generally excluded from the yajñaśālā where only brahmins were permitted.
The yajmān was also regarded as ―rich‖ by villagers in the district, and therefore of
relatively high class. His perceived wealth and class-status enabled him to acquire
the temporary equivalent of high-caste status as well. Thus he ate with the brahmins
and participated in the yajñaśālā.
Other minor points
Several other minor points mentioned in the archetypal instructions were also part
of the Naluna saptāh. During the ritual performed on the first day, the yajmān and
other members of his family took a vow, as specified in the instructions, to listen to
the saptāh for a week. Secondly, the instructions mention gifts of clothes, gold and a
cow. All the brahmins received a set of new clothes on the first day, and both the śāstră and the maṇḍapācārya received gold rings worth about US$150 (I later heard that
the other brahmins were disappointed that they missed out on a ring).
58
The śāstră also received a pretty white calf, although some concern was expressed for
its future. It was observed that ―These brahmins don‖t look after cows‖ and that it
would end up being taken by a leopard. The yajmān tried to buy it back, but its
original owner would not accept it because it had been offered to a brahmin. The calf
was led up the hill towards Sainj by one of the śāstră‖s relatives, its prospects uncertain.
The yajmān had also been instructed to give the śāstră a new copy of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa, which is also in accordance with the archetypal instructions. In the hurlyburly of the preparations, nobody managed to buy a new copy of the text. Instead,
the yajmān gave the śāstră an additional Rs 500 at the conclusion of the event by way
of compensation.
Having surveyed the major points of concurrence between the archetype on the one
hand and the case studies and contextual events on the other, the major points of divergence between the two will be addressed in the following section.
A two-year old white calf with garlands and ribbons, part of the śāstrī’s fee
59
Theme 2.
Points of Divergence between the Archetype
and the Case Studies
Four major points of divergence between the archetype and the case studies will be
discussed below: 1. the significance of sectarian content, specifically the role of
Kṛṣṇa‖s consort Rādhā in the Vrindavan saptāh; 2. the role of the Sainj devtā; 3. the
role of the yajña in the saptāh at Naluna; and 4. the use of the vernacular language.
Sectarian content: the role of Rādhā
One of the clearest abiding impressions of the Vrindavan saptāh was the centrality of
the figure of Rādhā. Within the Nimbārka and Gauḍiya traditions of Vaiṣṇava worship, Rādhā, the gopi princess, is said to be Kṛṣṇa―s principal consort. The divine
couple constitute the highest objects of worship (Schweig 2007a). Rādhā first appeared from about the 12th century CE onwards, and this tradition strengthened under Caitanya (1486–1533). Within these lineages, her yearning for Kṛṣṇa is regarded
as the purest form of love for the Divine, and is a model for human emulation. Worship of Rādhā, which is particularly strong in Vrindavan, seems to overshadow that
of Kṛṣṇa himself (Chandra 1998: 259).
Mridul Krishna‖s presentation of stories from the Bhāgavatapurāṇa did not particularly stress the role or importance of Rādhā, but she was an ever-present and central
element in the delivery of those stories. There are seven aspects in which the centrality of Rādhā to the Vrindavan saptāh can be explored:
1. The ashram in which the saptāh was held was called the Śră Rādhā Sneh Bihāră
Ashram, located in the part of Vrindavan known as Bihāră-purā, ―The City of Bihāră‖). The word bihārī (Sanskrit: vihārī) means literally ―one who wanders about
for pleasure‖ or ―the sportive one‖. It refers specifically to Kṛṣṇa as the cow-herd
prince who enjoys love-games with the gopis of Vrindavan, of whom Rādhā was
the foremost. ―Rādhā Sneh‖ is Hindized Sanskrit meaning ―beloved of Rādhā‖.
Thus both the name of the ashram and even its location give a clear indication of
the sectarian inclination to be expected in the saptāh itself.
2. The central image in the ashram, the glassy black figure which stood behind the
silver doors is also this form of Kṛṣṇa, Baṅke Bihāră, playing his flute while the
devoted Rādhā is pressed close by his side.
3. A great number of the kărtans, either sung by the śāstră himself, or those which he
led and to which the audience responded, were directed primarily to Rādhā. For
example, commonly used kărtans had the main refrain ―Beloved Rādhā, Glorious
Rādhā‖ or ―Victory to Rādhā, Rādhā, Rādhā!‖
60
4. The śāstră frequently broke up his narratives with a call to the audience, to which
they would respond enthusiastically, ―Śră Rādhe Rādhe‖. With each call, the audience would throw their hands in the air with palms facing the front as if receiving darśan.
5. The bulk of the calendar-type images and posters around the walls of the hall
depicted Rādhā with her celestial lover or alone. I suggest that the visual presence of the favoured gopi complemented and built on her presence in the discourse, song and call-and-response episodes.
6. Observing the women and girls dancing in an uninhibited manner, especially the
younger women in the VIP section, it was very easy to imagine that they had
been transported to the mythic forests of Vrindavan and were dancing with ―the
sportive one‖ themselves. More than once, women stood up in the audience, and
in a semi-ecstatic state, opened their arms in the direction of the image of Baṅke
Bihāră, as if inviting a lover into their bosoms.
7. The final aspect is the contemporary devotional music that was being played
over the PA and piped out into the streets surrounding the ashram. The main
song is called ―Rādhā nām saṅg—Braj caurāsă kos yātrā‖, and is performed by
Gaurav Krishna, Mridul Krishna‖s son. This is a popular new release and the CD
was on sale in Vrindavan, Uttarkashi and Rishikesh.9
Having spent two days at the Vrindavan saptāh where the air was thick with
Rādhā—even the śāstri‖s black scarf was emblazoned with her name—I was very
surprised to discover that she is not actually mentioned in the Bhāgavatapurāṇa. It is
true that in BhP 10.30, Kṛṣṇa disappears into the forest for a tryst with a favoured
lover, but she is never named. It appears that Rādhā is a later invention and has been
interpolated into the dominant narrative. It was a great revelation to discover that
Rādhā, who in many respects was the ―star‖ of the saptāh, is absent from the very text
on which the entire event was supposed to be based.
Role of the devtā
The second significant point of divergence from the archetype is the role of the devtā
in the saptāh at Naluna. It would be difficult to over-emphasise the importance of
his role. A brief summary of his contributions to the event is given below in rough
chronological order:


Gave permission for the saptāh to be held
Determined suitable dates
9
Somehow this CD had also found its way to Naluna. It was the very one that the sound-wallas had
chosen to broadcast over the PA for most of the final day. As a result this very catchy tune has become inextricably linked in my mind with the saptāh experience as a whole.
61






















Suggested that Yogendra‖s recently deceased brother would be a suitable
beneficiary of the saptāh
Placed ban on cutting of trees
Was named alongside Gaṇeśa and Kṛṣṇa in publicity material
Gave instructions for installation of finial on the roof of the yajñaśālā
Criticised construction of yajñaśālā floor
Restricted access of women to yajñaśālā
Determined the position of Hanuman‖s banner and oversaw its erection
Required that a large rock be removed
Led initial procession to the Gaṅgā
Welcomed the text of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa and the śāstră on their arrival
Presided over Kalaśasthāpana and Saṃkalpa rituals
Led Kalaśasthāpana procession to the Gaṅgā
Presided over the fire-ceremony and all other rituals in the yajñaśālā
Objected to the wearing of shoes
Presided over the first kathā
Was frequently honoured by name in kathā sessions
His drums and horn led the procession for ārtă at the conclusion of each day‖s
kathā
Welcomed the Kumāltă devtā
Presided over the final kathā session and closing pūjā
Led final procession to the river
Escorted Kumāltă devtā to the gate
Escorted the text of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa and the śāstri to the gate
In short, he participated in, or presided over, most major aspects of the saptāh from
beginning to end. Like Rādhā at Vrindavan, the Sainj devtā was the unexpected ―star‖
at Naluna. He added a great deal of life, colour, interest, mystery (not to mention
uncertainty and unpredictability) to the event.
While the devtā was central in much of the decision-making processes for the saptāh, he did not always have the final word. For example, at one point there was a
problem with the floor of the yajñaśālā: some of the slates under the cow-dung plaster had come loose. When the devtā was asked if the slates should be re-laid, he replied that they should remain as they were. In the event, the yajmān went ahead and
fixed them anyway. He added with a mischievous look, ―The paṇḍits and the devtā
make all the decisions, but sometimes I disagree with them‖. On another occasion he
remarked, ―The paṇḍits and the devtā have authority, but I also have authority‖.
Having to consult the devtā at every step was also a source of some frustration. The
yajmān put it this way: ―I say what we should do, but Anil says we need to consult
62
the devtā.‖ Nevertheless, the cooperation and approval of the devtā were crucial for
the ultimate success of the entire saptāh. To quote the yajmān again, ―If we make a
mistake, the devtā will leave, then the brahmins will leave, and then it will be a
complete disaster.‖
The above list expresses the practical aspects of the devtā‖s involvement in the saptāh. His presence was also experienced on a much more subtle, psychological level
as well. This is perhaps best illustrated by the fact that saptāh seemed only truly to
begin when he arrived, and was only truly over when he had departed. His constant
presence seemed to be expressed by the continual beating of his drum which permeated all events at Naluna.
At one point I asked the yajmān whether the devtā made the decisions or if it was
the people who decided. He first answered, ―The devtā and the people are the same‖,
but then after a moment‖s reflection, he gave a second answer, ―The people decide
and the devtā gives a stamp of authority‖.
In so far as the devtā represents, creates or crystallises some form of community consensus, its control of the saptāh is really a surrogate form of community control. The
devtā is the means by which the community exerts its hegemony or authority over
affairs in the district. In using the word ―community‖, however, I am under no illusions as to how democratic this consensus might be. The ―consensus‖ that is represented almost certainly reflects the gender, caste and class power imbalances in the
village community.
Just as the devtā ―exoticised‖ the event for the foreign participant-observers, I suggest
that it ―localised‖ the saptāh for the village community. As the presence of the devtā
brought the event under local control, it enabled the adaptation and integration of
the kathā—essentially an alien product of an elite Plains culture—into this mountain
environment. This was most clearly symbolised for me on those occasions when the
devtā presided over ārtă in the marquee: his drums and bugle seemed to coalesce
easily with the pandits‖ flute, harmonium and mṛdaṅga to form a single, unified,
whole. Forty years ago Berreman wrote of a perceived threat posed by Plains-style
Sanskritization to shamanistic mountain traditions (1964: 61). It appears that the passage of time has produced a new symbiosis, and indeed a new syncretism.
Role of the daily yajña
The saptāh at Naluna clearly consisted of two parts, the yajña every morning and the
kathā every afternoon. The yajña was a central and integral part of the saptāh at
Naluna. About half of Yogendra‖s time was spent in the yajñaśālā.
63
The construction of the yajñaśālā accounted for about one-quarter of the cost of the
entire event, not to mention the great care and attention with was expended on it.
The yajña also necessitated the attendance and participation of the maṇḍapācārya
and eight additional brahmins, at a cost of about Rs 40 000. The cost of the yajña
component was therefore about Rs 80 000 or about 40 per cent of the total.
According to the archetype, the otherworldly benefits of the saptāh are conferred on
the chief sponsor and his ancestors through narrating and hearing the stories in the
Bhāgavatapurāṇa, that is, through the kathā. There is no mention of a daily yajña. At
Naluna, however, the ―salvation and homage‖ of Yogendra‖s forebears would explicitly be accomplished, not through the kathā, but through the yajña, the complex series of ritual acts and the on-going fire-ceremonies in the yajñaśālā.
The yajña and the kathā were also linked in another interesting and symbolic way.
The position of the păṭh in particular and therefore the marquee as a whole had to be
sited so that the śāstră had a clear line of view from his seat to the yajñaśālā. This also
meant that a large and venerable plum tree in the garden had to be severely lopped.
As mentioned above, I discussed the role of the yajña with two informants at Naluna
who had each seen ten saptāh events in the district. Both informants confirmed that
the yajña and the yajñaśālā were part of all the saptāhs that they had attended. The
śāstră also confirmed what I suspected from my own observation, that saptāh events
in Vrindavan do not have the daily yajña component, and consist only of the halfday kathā sessions. This was also said to be the case by informants who had attended saptāhs near Delhi and in Bangalore.
It appears that the yajña has been interpolated into the saptāh program at Naluna
and elsewhere. Just as the yajñaśālā ―usurped‖ the decorations suggested for the
venue of the kathā in the archetype, the yajña also seems to have usurped at least the
soteriological and liberational functions of the kathā.
The use of the vernacular
I outlined above my reasons for believing that the archetypal saptāh may have been
conducted in Sanskrit. My belief rests on the fact that Sanskrit was the usual medium for elite religious discourse, and the saptāh would fall into this category. The
one possible objection involves the participation of women and people of ―low‖
castes, which is encouraged by the archetype‖s own instructions. It is widely believed that women and members of ―low castes‖ did not understand Sanskrit. There
are therefore two possibilities: first that the discourse was delivered in a vernacular
for their benefit (which seems unlikely); and second, that the discourse was delivered in Sanskrit, but that they would benefit simply from being in its presence. This
second possibility seems more probable. The belief in the power and efficacy of sa64
cred sound, with meaning as a poor cousin, is very common and widespread in
Hindu communities today. Further, the idea that one must be able to understand the
sacred word in order to benefit from it is perhaps an Orientalist habit of mind with
roots in the Protestant traditions of Europe.
The intentions of the authors of the archetype are ultimately unknowable. In any
case, the contemporary saptāh is certainly conducted in the vernacular. In the case
studies and in the contextual materials, the śāstrăs spoke śuddh Hindi. The reason for
this choice of register is obvious. The saptāh is conducted in a traditional and deeply
religious context. The traditional nature of the discourse means that English, which
usually characterises modern, globalised, urban Hindi, is inappropriate. Arabic, Persian and Turkish vocabularies add a distinctly Islamic flavour to the register, and
would of course be avoided in a specifically Hindu context.
Minor points
I will conclude this section by noting a number of minor points on which the case
studies diverge from the archetype. The archetype makes no mention of musicians,
but the śāstrăs were accompanied by harmonium, flute and/or mṛdaṅga in all the
contemporary saptāhs I witnessed. The archetype specifies an early start, followed
by 10–11 hours of discourse per day. All the contemporary saptāhs were half-day
events and ran in the afternoon only. According to the archetype, five brahmins
should continually chant name of Viṣṇu during the saptāh to ward off interruptions,
but this does not appear to be current practice. The Kalaśasthāpana, which was part
of the Vrindavan, Mumbai and Naluna events, appears to be an innovation as it is
not mentioned in the instructions for the archetype.
Having considered the main continuities and points of divergence between the archetype and the case studies, we will now examine both continuity and divergence
in the light of globalising processes in the concluding section.
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PART FOUR
Conclusion:
The Impact of Globalisation on the Saptāh Tradition
Globalisation, the accelerated worldwide interpenetration of economic, social, cultural, political, epistemological and technological processes, has exposed the practice
of the saptāh to a raft of new ideologies and technologies. Many of the phenomena
described above—both the continuities with, and divergences from, the archetype—
can be explored in terms of globalising influences. These might be seen as either resilience in the face of such processes or adoption of contemporary technological innovation. The relationship between continuity and divergence on the one hand, and
resistance or assimilation on the other may be expressed in the following two-way
contingency table:
Continuity
with archetype
Divergence
from archetype
In spite of globalisation/
modernity/technology
 Centrality of BhP text and Sanskrit
 Determination of time and date
 Restrictions on yajmān
 Traditional decorations
 Gifts
 Role of devtā
 Daily yajña
Because of globalisation/
modernity/technology
 Decorations
 Adoption of contemporary
products and technologies
e.g. chinoiserie backdrop
 Extended publicity, websites, Youtube
 Use of vernacular
 Advertising posters, sound
systems, DVDs, music
 Shorter hours
 Middle-class sponsors
Continuity in spite of globalisation
There has been a long historical decline in Sanskrit education and literacy, especially
with the rise of English as the language of the educated elite. Today, the Bhāgavatapurāṇa and Sanskrit in general are only intelligible to a tiny fraction of the population. As a result, the function of both the text and the Sanskrit language has shifted
since the archetype was first envisioned. They are not so much sources of knowledge
or the medium of knowledge transfer, but have become symbolic sources of authority and power. Both now fulfil a more ritualised and indeed talismanic function. In
spite of the impacts of globalisation, the text of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa itself and the
use of Sanskrit remain central to the saptāh, though in an altered and more symbolic
form.
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Global scientific epistemologies have failed to dislodge indigenous knowledge systems, such as astrology, which remain particularly lively in India. Given this, it is little surprise that the dates of the saptāh are still determined by astrological specialists, or, in the case of Naluna, by the local medium or deity. Similarly, the traditional
Ayurvedic system which determines the conduct of the chief sponsor during the
saptāh (the maintenance of a pure, sattvik diet, conservation of energy—tejas–
through sexual abstinence, etc) remains forceful.
Further, much of the decoration of both the site of the kathā and particularly the yajñaśālā at Naluna remains highly traditional: the garlands of marigolds, the flags and
fruits, and the banana palm. In spite of the impracticality, and indeed in spite of a
preference for more fungible rewards, gifts of gold and a cow remain elements of the
traditional fee given to the expositor at the conclusion of the saptāh. We saw that
these gifts are negotiable with Yogendra‖s donation of Rs 500 in lieu of a new copy of
the text.
Continuity enabled by globalisation
One significant area of continuity with tradition that has been enabled and enhanced
by globalisation is in the area of decoration of the site of the saptāh. A wide range of
contemporary industrial products has been adapted to traditional usage, for example, garlands of plastic flowers now hang alongside traditional wreaths of yellow
and orange marigolds. One of our favourite ―globalised‖ decorative items was the
printed ―Chinoiserie‖ backdrop that ringed the marquee where the kathā was held.
The authors of the archetype understood the importance of publicity and explicitly
stated that word of a saptāh ―should be sent to all places‖. The advent of the Internet
and especially Web 2.0 technologies have greatly expanded the possibilities for diffusion of Bhagavata narratives in general and saptāh events in particular. Google
shows over 40 000 hits for the modern Hindi spelling of ―Bhagwat puran saptah‖, and
video of hundreds of saptāhs are available on Youtube.
Divergence in spite of globalisation
Two major points of divergence from the archetype seem to be enduring in spite of
globalising influences: the role of the devtā and the daily yajña. Both of these are
products or processes of traditional, indigenous epistemological systems. Both are
enduring in spite of exposure through processes of globalisation to dominant positivist materialist worldviews. In fact, the health of indigenous knowledge systems as
witnessed here may be interpreted as a form of resistance to or resilience in the face
of hegemonic globalising processes.
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Divergence because of globalisation
Many of the most obvious divergences from the archetype are the result of the impacts of long-term societal change, partly if not exclusively the result of globalisation. First, a decline in the use of Sanskrit means that the contemporary saptāh is
conducted in Hindi. Secondly, the widespread use of information and communication technology has enabled the evolution of a genre of saptāh events that would be
barely recognisable to the authors of the archetype: the laser-printed hoardings, the
booming PA systems and the glittering halls. Other social changes mean that few
would have the luxury of being able to spend 10–11 hours listening to the kathā for
seven days on end, with the result that the contemporary saptāh typically runs from
1–4 in the afternoon. Finally, the globalisation of the Indian economy has spurred the
emergence of wealthy middle class, which now has the means and the inclination to
sponsor saptāhs on a scale never imagined before and costing millions of dollars.
Thus, the saptāh, like cultural and social practices everywhere, is increasingly enmeshed in a web of globalising processes. Some of these processes are forcing or
enabling change, others are enabling or enhancing continuity with traditional practice. The most successful, resilient and sustainable communities will be those who,
like the villagers at Naluna, are able to adapt and adopt those aspects of global practice on their own terms, and who are sufficiently empowered to maintain their identities and belief systems on their own terms.
This perhaps is the most important lesson that can be learned from the performance
of Kṛṣṇa, the Indian idol, in a globalising context: it is the responsibility of those who
have benefited most from the fruits of globalisation to ensure that others less fortunate are sufficiently empowered to maintain or regain control over their own destinies.
No matter how far the contemporary practice diverges from the archetype, the saptāh will continue to be used as a recognised, time-honoured, sacred shell into which
sectarian and/or local content can be incorporated to give that content legitimacy,
credibility and power. It will continue to be the means by which sponsors express
and demonstrate their piety and munificence. It will be the means by which they
continue to accumulate social capital by providing the community with opportunities for spiritual edification, communion with the divine, entertainment, and perhaps, halva. They will continue because, as one of the folk at Naluna put it, ―Saptāhs
make everyone happy‖.
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