You will always be my Durga

With my original Durga

This story dates back to 1997. I had turned 13, the year my periods began.

Flashback:

It had been four years since we had moved to Delhi. Coming from Bokaro, we’d still not warmed up to the national capital. The summers were too hot, the winters too cold, and no rains in between. There was no Bokaro Steel City Club to chill at. The parents of colony children were too strict with playing hours. Open spaces were too few and far between. English was too common, and the city’s fashion standard too pompous for our tastes.

And then, as a 9 year old, I finally discovered something I liked about Delhi – the Kanjak Puja.

Back in (the then) Bihar, there was no Kanjak Puja. There was only Dushehra, but it was celebrated with inimitable fanfare. We knew of only one Navratri that was celebrated in autumn, and all nine days were days of Durga. Of Kali, the eternal Shakti. The all-powerful goddess with 108 names. In my childhood memories, Dushehra, or Navratri, was a time of nine days of ceaseless play hours. Of decked up roads and colonies. Of wearing new clothes. Of hopping from one pandal to another. Of eating prasad and visiting neighbors. Of the community radio blaring bhajans and Bollywood music into the wee hours of morning. Of Papa reciting the Durga Saptashati in his powerful baritone, his face aglow with passion, and our hearts reverberating in awe of his impeccable recitation.

Save the last, Delhi had none of that enjoyment for us. So when neighbors came to invite my sister and me for Kanjak Puja, we had no inkling of what it entailed. I remember how even my parents were amused when we told them about the rituals performed on us as part of the ceremony. How our feet were washed (which was cringe-worthy for me even back then), how we were worshipped like goddesses, how we were sat down for yummy food, and how we departed with unexpected bounties! The gifts would include stuff like lunch boxes, geometry set, school bags, color pencils and even minor cash. Naturally, I loved it. I started looking forward to it – to make things better – twice every year!  

We were told that this ritual was a part of worshipping nine forms of Durga, which manifested in girls. Too bad, I thought for my brother, and shared some of the gifts with him. On some of these days, my calendar would be packed from morning till post noon, but I wasn’t complaining. Who minds getting gifts anyway?!

Then came 1997, the year of puberty.

Unaware of the impurity that periods had supposedly brought into my life, I continued the ritual. Even my mother didn’t find anything unusual about it. Until one of those Kanjak Puja days, a well-meaning neighbor asked my mom in hushed tones if I were still ‘shuddh’, that is, pure. My ears burned in embarrassment. I remember how my mother’s face changed as she defensively replied that ‘that’ too was a gift of god. But then, this Puja is only for shuddh girls, the neighbor explained kindly. Mom and I walked up the stairs silently. She, unapologetic. I, miserable.

That was my first tryst with the societal stigma of periods. It stung me so hard that I remember the moment vividly even today. I felt ashamed and enraged at the same time. Ashuddh? Impure? How could I be impure? How can a human being go from pure to impure for no fault of hers? How about my brother - was he impure or pure from the very beginning? Or worse, did his purity/ impurity not count? And if the society knew that I would be getting my periods one day, then why did they raise me to the skies with all the worship, only to pull me down later? Girls from families who may have known about this ritual – did they not feel the same hurt? Could they really accept that they had become impure only because they had known this fate for long? Does knowing meaning accepting? If periods were a sign of impurity, then why did these people worship Durga, who’s a full blown woman? Why worship any other goddess for that matter?

A thousand questions exploded my teenage heart. It was not the loss of gifts or the food or the fun – it was the loss of status, from pure to impure – that incensed me. It defeated everything I knew to be correct. It defeated logic and dignity. I felt cheated. I suddenly wanted to throw every gift I had hitherto received as a part of this trap. In those few searing seconds, I decided to jettison these notions around periods for good, and forever.

As I walked through the door of my home that day, my mother saw the copious unshed tears within my eyes. With a plain resolute face, she said, “Chhodo yeh sab. Tum hamesha meri Durga rahogi.” (Leave that aside. You will always be my Durga).

Looking back, I realize, that my mother has always written my destiny in her one-liners.