Kusum Choppra's Blog

 All our Puranas n mythologies are basically stories created to propagate concepts that the writers were promoting. and every subsequent re-writer gilded the previous -- the whole system elastic enough to accommodate differences and flavors to cater to different cultures, North, South, East, West, etc.

So how about Our (2021) interpretations? They said Parvati created Ganesh from her own body.  Doesn't every woman fashion babies in her womb; nourished by her intake, the fetus becomes a baby in 9 months. No Immaculate Conception --  perhaps Shivji slipped away from his boisterous pals for a romantic rendezvous.  Voila! Baby boy Hua! Could have happened?? Hai an! Did that make Shivji n Parvati first human parents?   Kya khayal hai? Another conundrum: That solid wall of Patriarchy of ancient times. Was it really so solid? Why was Vidur called Daasi Putra when his father Ved Vyas also fathered Drithrashtra n Pandu too? Why was Krishna called Devaki Nandan? His father was King Vasudev. Was it a question of a lesser Baap or higher Ma?

What is the meaning behind Hindu last rites?  Mental rifling and Google Baba on death show   our ancient Vedas have lyrical hymns to Man’s relationship with Nature, plus ways and means of dealing with it,  that were unfortunately overpowered  by  Brahminical platitudes and money-making practices, but the essence has  survived.

The soul/Atman is immortal. It is released at the Antyeshti rituals that return the body to the five elements, air, water, fire, earth and space…denoted in the Rigveda, section 10.16:

“Burn him not up, nor quite consume him, Agni: let not his body or his skin be scattered, O all possessing Fire, when thou hast matured him, then send him on his way unto the Fathers.When thou hast made him ready, all possessing Fire, then do thou give him over to the Fathers,  When he attains unto the life that waits him, he shall become subject to the will of gods. The Sun receive thine eye, the Wind thy Prana (life-principle); go, as thy merit is, to earth or heaven. Go, if it be thy lot, unto the waters; go, make thine home in plants with all thy members.”                

The Vedic rites are amazingly scientific yet ecofriendly. It’s amazing how eco scientific they are (let us reclaim the word ‘scientific’ for ecology, not just the destructive socalled Sciences)  the consumable arthi, the kapal kriya to release the soul from the brain, followed by the disposal of the phool/ ashes … Dust to dust returns.

Hindu symbols to create appropriate energies, seemingly irrelevant rituals that generate those energies:

Lighting a lamp shows light to the soul as it exits the body; tying the big toes with a red Molli heads the soul in the direction of Pitrlok. A turmeric line around the body wards off negative energies that may harm the soul, possibly insects n termites too. Cremation breaks the body-soul bond to enable the soul to move to its new incarnation.

Reams have been written on post cremation family rituals that in modern times, boil down to what Kinnary in my book SILVER DREAMS  calls “Closure”.

“Closure is important for a fresh start after death; if the family is not together for those days, ruminating, remembering, speaking, to close the chapter, it hangs fire; for that is what brings a sense of finish and closes that chapter.”

The undated Vedas composed centuries before being written, predate later scriptures promising entry to Vishnu’s Vaikunth, Krishna’s Golka or Shiv’s Kailash for the deserving.

But death rituals prescribe none of those. The deceased head for Pretlok, awaiting transition to Pitrlok, where three earlier generations of relatives await. The arrival of the newcomer will enable the eldest to wing out to a new destiny. 

So does the soul count its karma, waiting its turn? Or head for rebirth right away?  Different schools, different answers, quite confusing;  but closure  in humanland, Yes.

 

Pitralok congame

The guys who wrote the Ved Purans must have been a real misogynist lot.

Hey, wait a minute; didn't the Brahmins do all that transcription,

Centuries after the orals?

Hmmm Brahmins?        It figures.

Some say, after the release of the soul in cremation,

It goes to Pitralok. 

This enables a forefather to move to his next birth.

Hey!  No instant rebirth?

Anyways, so grandson releases grandfather, and so on. 

Now what about the women?

Does grandma also need a grandson?

Does it have to be her son’s son or Beti‘s son will do?

Or a grand beti will do?  Is there any mention?

After all in our times when one son is common,

What happens to Daadima,  Naanima and  Mausima? 

Everyone doesn’t have a son.  Some have none.  

If no grandkids, toh?

Agar bete ki Beti hai, toh?

Agar Beti ka beta hai toh? Uske Dada ka kya hoga?

If only one child releases grandpa, what about grandma?

Or are women to remain souls floating in ether forever?

 Hold on guys. If that happens,

What happens to your vows of "janam janam ka Saath"

For the prescribed saat janams? 

 

How long should we wait for a relook at these Puranic tales 

To spot a clause that  can be interpreted:

It’s ok for a boy to kick off the next birth of one forefather

But each girl will have to kick off at 4-5 of her foremothers 

To make up for the backlog of centuries.

 

This piece was written in the aftermath of a mental churning and research on Hindu last rites after my elder sister died a spinster. at 75, with  one ambition unfulfilled: to be Pune’s oldest lady paraglider.

 

 

 That fascinating Great Indian Rope trick of yore has become the Great Indian son trick...  with innumerable two or more sons families. 

When did medical practitioners master the art of thus catering to our current Indian craze for sons?  By effectively ensuring that no daughters are born?  Accident? Or that great unspoken shame, Foeticide practised but never acknowledged? Earlier, daughters’ names were not entered into family records, except under exceptional circumstances.  Yet, our hoary literary marvels do revolve around women, aka daughters.This thought arose during the recent updating of my family tree that threw up an interesting observation:  before the advent of the two son family, for a long period, there were huge families with or without betis’ names on record.   It was held that more kids were on account of high mortality, poor health, and obviously multiple marriages.Does this health-mortality argument not stand at odds with Our Glorious pre-British past?That era possibly had another plus: inter-communal relationships appear cordial. Pointer?  The frequency with which the name “Iqbal” occurs in pre-Independence family trees, even Iqbal Devis!!Where have we gone wrong in our times in fostering present-day bitterness?

The Ramayan boasts of two strong men: Ram and Raavan. The former worshipped in North India, while Raavan is a legendary hero of modern Lanka's modern economy.

Given the Ram frenzy building up,  Raavan's lead role in Sri Lanka tourism,  and its legendary ‘Pearl in the Ocean’ status, now needs reinforcing beyond the existing references and beliefs showcased by Kankan tourist industry.

Ayodhya too needs  archeological evidence to bolster "belief" of being    real birthplace of Lord Ram, that is not mentioned in any early text.  The city  boasts of numerous temples, where birthplace tag is quietly contested by some of those temples' attendants.

Sri Lanka, a small blessed island did not take  long after Independence to ring in a positive  edge to its economy.  But it paid a heavy price  for rapid action,  when buddhist vs Tamil politics mingled with international economic jousting to ring in decades of Civil Wars.

Tourism helped by the famed Ramayana Trails,  helped revival. South and East are riddled with recreations of places connected with the epic, the grove where Sita lived, the pool where she bathed, the quarters of those who looked after her, the scorched soil of the landing site where the Pushpak vimaan in which she was flown to Lanka,  the battlefields, the mountain with medicinal herbs that Hanuman brought to treat Lakshman, forest trails, tunnels, riverine sites etc.
These find place in the tourist circuits, quite apart from the numerous modern resorts showing off Lanka’s natural beauty.

Now the hunt for one kingpin hinge to prove that Raavan was all that Lankans believe he was: a gifted ruler of legendary greatness, wealth and knowledge, with so much learning of the Vedas and other ancient texts of knowledge that he needed ten heads to contain all of it. 
Lankans firmly refute the orge image  painted in North India, for which his effigy is horrifically burnt every year at Dusshera when  massive effigies are ceremoniously ignited.  While in the South,  he is being worshipped for as Lord Shiva's greatest devotee who appeased him with his mastery over the Shiv Tandav dance; who created the intricate musical instrument, the veena from his own body parts and mastered the art of playing heavenly music on it;  ran an immaculate, efficient and stupendously prosperous kingdom at Lanka that he got from his step brother Kuber; with connects going all the way to Pataala Nagri which was across oceans in Brazil!

The North reviles him as the defiled the wife of Maryada Purshottam Ram.
The woes of Sita, forced to Clear a burning fittest to be respected as his wife by Ram -- who soon after exiles her while pregnant to satisfy the ego of a  disbelieving washerman, are of no consideration in this scenario, except in the writings of feminist  writers.
It is another matter that South India celebrates Raavan as a scholar and a Shiva devotee.

Ironically  there are writings that indicate that perhaps  Raavan was the biological father of Sita and kidnapped her to separate her from Ram, perhaps to test the virginal puppy love bred by a handsome Prince, now in deep trouble?

Hence sensitive archaeology before too much history is submerged under modern development projects and building activities to accommodate global interest in Sri Lanka’s vantage location in the Indian Ocean.

While Lanka needs authentic archaeological proof of Raavan's legendary city,    Ayodhya's war-cry for a temple at the disputed birthplace also needs that missing logicality,  lost behind numerous records going back to the earliest Buddhist times and before that, its earlier avatar as  Ajodya, a major trade centre that found mention as the capital of the Ikshvaku kings.
Earlier digs indicated  it was abandoned around 1426 BCE;  rebuilt temples also fell into disrepair. The Buddha taught at Savatthi 58 km from Ayodhya, attracting numerous pilgrims including Fa Hien and Hieun Tsang from China. Neither mentioned it as The birthplace.  The city was then called Oudh.  Later it developed into a great Buddhist and trade center for centuries, before Buddhism went out of favor in India.

It is indeed unfortunate that unlike the archaeological evidences of the places mentioned in the Mahabharat,  empirical evidence of Ajodhya, Chitrakoot, Dandakaranya, Panchavati, Videha, Kosala remain elusive. Hence the urgency in digging to unearth concrete  aka physical bolsters to the arguments for the purported Birthplace, apart from “people believe”. What is available is that which was consecrated after Tulsidas’ Ramayan, centuries later, with the controversies actively fostered under colonial rule.

When the focus shifted back to the Valmiki Ramayan, (the original) scholars saw  exciting hope in  intriguing mentions of distinct landmarks in the four pronged hunt for Sita in confinement after her abduction by Raavan. 
Closer examination revealed that most were related to sites that may possibly be out of the Subcontinent, from east to South America to west beyond West Asia, perhaps the Urals in Russia?

Those studies apart,  the issue at hand remains the similar concerns for archaeological proofs of the authenticity of  Ram’s birthplace over which much bloodshed has happened in the recent past; and of validation of the numerous legends that question the evil mantle conferred on Raavan. These find mention in not only Lanka  and South India, but also our other neighbors and some of the numerous Ramayans.

Small and medium industry decimatedThen the bottom fell out of farmingFinally, Big Industry is keeling.When Biscuit ji crackedThe response:How can glucose surviveWhen India is sugar-free?Bitter tidings in the Land of Rasas.

Oftentimes waking up is accompanied by a sickening realization: That some sleep time was devoted to a new painless suicide method.  This morning the window net went up to peer down,  checking for a clear fall down so many floors to die? Ghastly answer: NO.  Pairs of window shades at every level created enough brakes to ensure numerous broken bones,  but death was doubtful.   One more fail-safe method gone Phoos. Ducking in,  an intriguing sight caught my eye. Two scantily clad tall trees stand out in the dense copse below the window, bearing scattered yellow blooms. Close to top of a tall tree sat a baby monkey, surrounded by a gaggle of pigeons determinedly making its life miserable.   Perhaps having been chased from feeding grounds by Baby's seniors, methinks. For good ten-odd minutes, the pigeons taunted it,  pecking at his back,  tweaking the long hanging tail. Baby swatted with all his energy. At some stage wisdom,  or perhaps mama's inaudible call reminded him that if his attackers had wings to change position in rotation,  he could Leap. And leap it did.  Gathering strength,  a huge leap landed him invisible in the dense foliage next door. Then possibly a speedy passage unseen thru the thick dark green, nary a telltale movement of a leaf.   Prey vanished,  the pigeons dispersed in different positions. From the distance, I had wavered between cat n monkey,  until its distinctive back marking and impressive leap confirmed Monkey, agile as only a monkey can be.

Through my bedroom window, I look down on a giant bedroom.It sleeps 23 odd scattered around, singles, doubles, triples and quartets.Dark nights offer no glimpse that I rush to catch at daylight.My eyes first seek out the horizon, shuttered by rising skyscrapersMonster steel and glass development symbols that slurp resourcesTo spew out fake humans with fake emotions that change with every audience,Ultra right / left, ultra-modern / old fashioned, liberal / conservative, 50 / 50Fulsome praise to your face, vicious criticisms behind your back.Ahead of the skyscrapers are swathes of variegated greens, the trees swaying majestically in the early morning breeze. Easy to pick out those with a new coat, in fresh new shades of glistening green standing out from the mature shades around.Then the eyes reach closer home, the terrace immediately below my eerie. There, just below my window, is an old thick-set man on his solitary string bed with two pillows. Occasionally he is joined by a young grandson, perhaps, on a smaller bed. The old man’s khatla is positioned to allow him to sleep a little late as the overhang of the adjoining room casts a long shadow screening off the early rays of the sun. Three other family members sleep well away from the old man and rise early enough to move quietly away, not to disturb the patriarch.Those who sleep on the northeastern corner of the terrace, diagonally opposite, are not so lucky. The first rays of the sun strike full in the face – only a young lazy boy covers his face as if challenging the rays to get through. But the battle only earns him the dubious honor of having to fold everything, stack all the beds against the wall and stacking the bedclothes on all the three beds.On the northwest of the terrace, across from the old man’s slumber, a foursome of beds is cooled by a handsome pedestal fan. Often I imagine them squabbling over the placement of the beds in the lee of the stairwell that offers some shade from the sun’s first rays, with one particular bed that offers an extra 10 mins of sleep before the light bores into the eyes.One morning I was late! Only the last bed on that western corner was occupied by the time i reached the window. A middle-aged woman came gracefully up the stairs and surveyed the terrace, now bereft of sleepers, except our late Latif. Why do the girls never sleep late? I asked myself.Her hair and sari were so perfectly in order, I guessed she must have already done tea, family breakfast and a little wash up before heading back up. With practiced ease, she picked up her bed and placed it horizontally against the adjoining wall that offered her family privacy from the adjoining segment of the terrace and offered the longest shaded lee against the heat. As she moved each bed, the bedclothes went onto the adjacent one, till they were all piled on the recalcitrant sleeper who was thus forced to sit up. With incredible grace and patience, the lady folded each just so, then neatly piled them up on the stacked beds. Finally, the boy got up, gathered all the pillows and marched off with them downstairs, while the mother stood up the last bed and covered the lot with an old black cover. Then with one hand, she picked up the pedestal fan to stand in a shaded corner, covering it before sweeping off downstairs.Only one little corner of the terrace stood empty of outdoor sleepers, a little enclosed corner with doors remained firmly shut. Four pairs of big and smaller slippers outside gave away the strength inside.Looking down onto a now empty terrace, I thought, morning has come the house from my Upstairs window. In that instant, loud sounds of jubilation rose. Were they from the ground floor? That I had never seen. The middle floor flats had protruding balconies which were summer bedrooms. Soon loud wails took over. I wondered what was happening for my people.My people?? I didn’t know them from Adam. Never even seen their faces properly with my rheumy eyes from so afar. Yet they were mine! My early morning companions for so many years now.The dhobi’s brother arrived to pick up the day’s ironing after a half hour’s impatient wait. ‘Where’s your brother?’‘His daughter has scored above 90% in the Board results. They’ve gone to the school,’ he announced with great pride. ‘Tonight we will celebrate after work.’’‘But some people were crying too. What happened?’‘ A call came from the village. Bhabhi’s mother died and she’s gone to the village.’The good and the bad had happened on one day amongst my people.Advertise

                                                                                                                   July 2019Once upon a timeShe loved her hairOiled n washed n brushedBurnished with mehendiAu de naturelleIn times of hybrid.It flowed down her backAwaiting The TouchOf a Love’s fingersStroking sensuouslyThrough glossy bouncing tresses.
Buns n upturned beehivesOr a chignon at the napeAdorned with a rose C’urtsy genial g’dnerTo send off next post Recalcitrant LoverAbhorred flowers,Ignored nurtured glory.Left, right or Center parting sans sindoorMarital symbolNo man wears.
Awaiting The Touch, Tired of battles with dyesShe slashed it shortGlorying in freedomFrom a vain old dream.

Two old womenThe old woman who lived in a high heeled shoeHad several rooms for the slaves she drove.When they itched to run awayShe warned: Had Cindr’lla returnedShe wouldn’t be a PrincessSo they stayed and slogged.
Her old and smiling friend didn’t live in a shoeShe had strange antennae, longer than any butterflyRooted in her heart.Wherever she wentThey sniffed air to tell herPeace or Acrimony, Love or RancorQuarrel or kisses, whatever in betweenThat would upset her very muchTill a fairy told herYou were not sent to take trouble to heartRuminate, but not absorb, Say what should be saidIssues resolve themselvesYou were sent to smileHug and spread cheer only.

Be Not Proud
A long life was lived, adventures, eventsBirths, marriages, failures, triumphsFamily and professional.The Life Test slipped by, you never took it.The Test of Loss, Death in the face,Holding it in your arms watching Life turn lifelessSuccour a survivor at the moment breath left.Nay?Missed the Rites of passageTo test Humanhood?Be not proud.-------------------

A Unique Couple They made a unique couple, a policewoman and a journalistShe so glamorous,  he so stodgyLugging her bag and paraphernalia.She of the large round face, the ready smileObvious makeup, that glitzy sari!He sober in corporate shirt and a bulgy belly.
Actually, it should have been the oppositeHer hail-fellow-well-met persona ideal to niggle outJuicy bits from unwary tongues.While the stodgy gent so lent itself To the seniority of a Babu!----------

A Hair Story
Once upon a time, she loved her hairOiled and washed and brushed, burnished with mehndiAu de naturelle, in times of hybrids only.It flowed down her back, awaiting the touch Of a Love’s fingers, stroking sensuously thru the glossy tresses.Varieties of buns, upturned beehives, or a chignon at napeAdorned with a rose, courtesy genial gardnerTo send off next post to Recalcitrant loverWho ignored  the nurtured glory.When fashions changed, into waves and curlsLeft, right and center partings, sans sindoorMarital symbol no man ever wears.Tired of battles with bottles n awaiting the Touch,She slashed it short, elegant SilverGlorying in Freedom from a vain old dream.
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 Through the bedroom window, I look down on a giant bedroom
Dark nights offer no glimpse; I rush to catch at daybreak.My eyes first seek the horizon, shuttered by skyscrapersMonster steel n glass symbols of slurped resourcesTo spew out fake humans, with fake emotionsThat change with every audience, ultra-right / leftUltra-modern, old fashioned, liberal/conservative or 50 / 50Fulsome praises to your face, vicious criticisms behind the back.
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