Ethnographic memories of a land of faith

In the month of May 2019,Orissa especially Puri caught the imagination of the nation as a cyclone ravaged land that displayed tremendous fortitude in countering a momentous natural calamity and its spiraling after effects. Phani tore down structures, uprooted trees and lives but failed to break the spirit of the old Orissa town. To me her forbearance or survival however didn’t come as a surprise as it brought back decade old memories when the temple city and Bhubaneshwar used to be my kārmabhumi.

It was in 2006 during my first M.Philfield trip to Bhubaneswar that I had become acquainted with a pervasive belief among the residents of that state,of them being‘protected’ people. It was June and I could not perhaps have chosen a worst month. Delhi was burning and as the New Delhi- Bhubaneswar Rajdhanichugged out from the familiar station amidst a swirling andhi,the thought of landing in Bhubaneswar at 44 degreesdid not seem particularly alluring. Yet I had no choice. Tickets were easily available as all scouted out cooler climes and more importantly it was a time I had learnt, that the mahari—( that is how the devadasis of Orissa are traditionally known as) would remain comparatively free from her ritual performances in the temple which traditionally ensue in full swing from July.

The Bhubaneswar visit was uneventful as I spent days in the State archives and whenever the weather permitted went on walking sprees along roads or lanes that looked and sounded interesting. On days when the sky opened up and rained, the streets were inundated, football grounds got submerged and yet life went on as usual. That was my first encounter with their strange nonchalance. At that time I perceived it as a perseverance born off years of living through erratic summers and monsoon—seasons that have historically been extremely unpredictable in Orissa. But once I stepped into Puri—which was almost 3 weeks after completing the first half of my archival work in Bhubaneswar, I realized it was Faith.

I first met Shashimani–the last surviving mahari of the Jagannath temple (she passed away in 2015 and the remembrance of our last meeting in 2012 at her ‘son’s’ house is something I would treasure forever)in 2006 in the house of the interlocutor who was her dharmāputra. Each morning I travelled by a rickshaw to his house at DattaTota in Sadar Thana locality where the mahari used to be present sharp at 10. By then I had picked up Oriya to an extent and could understand what she said though communicating with her fluently would have been difficult but for this elderly gentleman who considered the devadasi as his mother. He chipped in most helpfully explaining the nuances of her Oriya dialect thus enabling me to take a peek into the creative, multifaceted world and self of the mahari that was wondrous and multidimensional. In this context it is pertinent to mention that the manner, in which a mahari has traditionally been perceived in the local socio-cultural-religious milieu of Orissa, has historically been very different from the way a devadasi has been viewed in Tanjore or elsewhere in India. In those socio-cultural worlds,devadasis had generally been perceived as ‘public’ women who offered themselves to God’s ‘service’ and led ‘amorous’ lives. In Purihowever she enjoyed a sacred status.

Since qualitative interviews are not usually time-bound andrely largely on the comfort of the interviewee, therefore I knew even before I had started speaking with her that the course would be determined principally by her eloquence or silence. Never did I imagine that the mahariwho was then 83 years old woulddance spontaneously or break into traditional songs while narrating different rituals or describing her experience. She was lithe and amazingly graceful and when she danced shewould get transported into a different world.Dance was worship for her. After experiencing it first hand as a participant observer, I realized why the devotees touched her feet after her performances at the natmandir of the Jagannath Temple and virtually worshipped her. Those were moments when to them,she became chalāntilakhhi(Goddess Lakshmi incarnate)—the epithet that is traditionally associated with the maharis of Puri.

Whenever I asked her what made her dance so gracefully even at that age, she would smile and say it was her love for her husband who was omnipotent, omniscient…the ‘purushottam Jagannath Deva’.It is this identity as the ‘living wife of the Lord’, as the holy consort, that has traditionally acted as a safety girdle around the mahari who consider their status to be ‘higher’ and ‘purer’ than the ordinary women.Shashimani thus took a lot of pride in stating how when a maharidies, the Jagannath mandir remains closed. Incidentally it’s an honour reserved only for the King of Puri and the devadasis of Sri Jagannath temple; not even for the queen of Puri. The subtext of a mahari’s traditional position in Puri is thus nuanced.  While on one hand being “wives of the God” they cannot marry any mortal, at the same time, they are allowed to take a partner who has to belong to one of the 36 karanas(specific temple services designated by the temple chronicle and operational since the 12^th century)i.e be an integral part of the temple community.When I touched upon this sensitive issue, Shashimani was quick to point out that she too had married a man belonging to one of the temple ‘Karanas’ as she felt her ‘actual’ husband—Purushottam, had blessed the union and it was in His presence that the ceremony had taken place. What was liberating was the ease of faith with which she talked about her simultaneous roles as‘living wife of God’ and ‘wife of an earthly man’, as in the mahari belief system there was apparently no conflict between the two. The latter was a bond of this lifetime whereas with Jagannath Deva, it was an eternal tie. This in varied ways embodied traditional Indian spiritual ethos that thrives on oneness of faith and love and is oblivious of duality.

This girdle of faith seemed to envelop everyone associated with the temple and even without. It was not Hinduism per se but a quiet belief in a force that had sustained life in Puri for centuries despite historic cyclones and floods as there is a certain belief among all the residents that as long as the Temple stands, the sea would never rise beyond a limit…it would never encroach into and engulf lands which are not his. This unfathomable faith –that I found echoed in the narration of Shashimani—who was at that time the last surviving mahari of Puri; in the words of Bhimsen Chappanbhog(our family’s old panda whom I discovered in the temple courtyards during one of my many visits there) whose family traditionally prepares daily bhog for lord Jagannath as one of the 36 Karanas; in the casual remarks of the librarian of the Gauranga library that stands diagonally opposite to the temple or in the arguments of the middle-aged official in charge of the 36 karanas, as he took pains to explain why it is preposterous to assume that they protect the temple since they themselves are protected in this God’s land—was overwhelming. Right from swargadwar to the narrow lanes that led to the temple or the broad Grand Road on which stood the majestic structure built in the 10^th-12^th century by King Anatavarman Chodaganga Deva of the Eastern Ganga Dynasty, there was a semblance of uniformity.  Faith in this sea town was not constricted to a particular structure of religious belief or to the rituals associated with it. Instead much like the sea, it was flowing, infusing each citizen with resilience as they were confident they would survive every ordeal. On the face of it, to a ‘rational’ mind used to urban binaries, such uniform texture of faith seemed surreal. However during my field work in Puri that took place in two sequential segments, each lasting for more than three weeks, I had the opportunity to encounter it first- hand.

By that time it was July and it was pouring. My field days were numbered and so I chose to disregard the signs and set off for a place a little outside of Puri to interview the official who was then on leave. He had been a contemporary of Shashimani in the temple community and his narrative therefore was crucial to juxtapose the mahari’s version. By the time I had completed the interview and started returning to Puri, alerts were sounded that rains have breached the danger zone and citizens were asked to take precaution. I remember my umbrella was blown away; the auto that I had reserved for travel, malfunctioned and a part of the road had suddenly caved in. There was no other vehicle in sight and Puri was still more than 6 kms away. As I was finally helped by a rickshaw puller who risked his own safety and ferried me back to the temple city, I recall how I actually didn’t feel anxious. Instead as the downpour continued, I felt a strange oneness with nature and the local people and could eventually decipher and realize what keeps Puri afloat.  It is an inexplicable faith that connects the citizens of this historic city…faith in some greater force that had protected their land, their ancestors, and would further protect them and their children.Shashimani believed in it, so did I for the time-being in that land of faith where religious boundaries seemed superfluous.

Somdatta Chakraborty

Senior Adjunct Researcher