Something about Ganapati

Right from childhood the Elephant God has held me in a spell. There issomething so eminently lovable, so very human about him. That story about him being made from sandalwood paste, which Parvati peeled off her own body contributes with the “human touch.” The God, who rides his mouse, is man and also child. He incites brother Karthik over small matters and turns a blind eye to many others. Grown-up, but not quite, the child within this God remains well alive. And kicking.

Ganapati, as Ganesh Chaturthi — celebrated during Bhadrapad each year — isoften called, is a festival removed from all others. There are no new clothes, no outwardly trappings. This is a family festival in the true sense of the word: families getting together, exchanging good wishes, lots of sweets, lots more sweet talk. Something common to all Indian festivals, but then here it’s Ganapati we are talking about.

As far back as I can remember, it has been a hallowed ritual in my ancestralhome. Days before the festival set in, idol-makers near Sursagar Lake would be visited, an idol of “certain specifications” ordered. Come G-Day, and the artistic ones among us cousins (yours truly hogging the limelight here) would be chosen to draw rangoli, after which the murti would be installed. The pattern has been unflinchingly regular down the years — getting durva grass for the aarti, the mad rush in the afternoons that were spent putting together packets of prasad. Packets of cornflake chivda (I often wondered why it was only that chivda) would be packed in polythene pouches and distributed to devotees who thronged to our Ganapati. And then Visarjan when the idol — standing tall and proud till now — would be immersed in the water.

When the family — first cousins, second cousins, long unseen kakas and maushis — got together to sing Sukhkarta dukhharta vaarta vighnachi, we were celebrating the spirit of togetherness. We might not have met for months, not spoken for days, but come what may, but now everyone would scramble for a darshan. And nothing was better than the “fun time” that followed the aarti. Ears were to be shut to sound (not literally) and all energies concentrated on screaming the loudest. There is no competition, but somehow the one whose scream is loudest considers himselfthe winner. I sometime wondered what a passerby on the street might be feeling when he heard shrieks of varying magnitude, matching the beat of the cymbals, emanating from a house. But being Ganapati, all was allowed.

This is one God who adapts to change almost as fast as it happens. Just lookaround. Over the years, we have had Khalnayak Ganapatis (this was when Sanjay Dutt was arrested) and Kargil Ganapatis (obviously after Operation Vijay). This year, from all indications, mandals will hasten to put up Crorepati Ganapatis.

Gods, they say, are venerated more than they are loved. But somehow Ganapaticuts across the line delineating man and God: he is loved much more than heis revered. Clearly, there’s something about Ganapati.