Dear Reader,
It’s early morning in the forest and I feel a tap on my arm.
All around and above me are ancient deodar cedar trees, their sap-green, needle-covered branches rising a hundred feet into a clear blue sky. Below me, the cool grey stones of the temple courtyard. Sounds surround me: the high clear tones of the conch, the rhythmic beats of the drums, the clang of the temple bells. The smell of incense fills the air.
Today is the Goddess’s birthday, and I am excited to join the celebrations. I have reached early and Hadimba’s musicians are still laying out their instruments: the dhaunsi, the dhol, the nagara drums, the long curved narsingha and ransingha trumpets, and the shankh.
A mother and her two school-going children sit down on the rock and take off their shoes before going into the temple. A group of teenage boys are being scolded by a teacher for posing for photographs before they enter the temple, and a furry brown dog wanders around.
And then it begins. The goddess Hadimba’s musicians gather in a semicircle before the temple. The conch player steps inside, beginning the ritual with a long, high ceremonial note that rises into the Himalayan sky. Then the drums take over — first the deep, double-sided dhol, then the nagara kettledrums, building from a faint rhythmic thrumming into a powerful percussive wave. Perfectly piercing this primeval call to prayer, the long curved brass ransingha trumpets, their crescent shapes catching the morning light as their notes climb and climb. And through it all, the comforting, reverberating ring of the brass temple bells.
Standing surrounded by the temple sounds, watching the warm glow of the fire inside as the priest performs the aarti, I want to bottle this moment, bottle the feel of the crisp cold Himalayan air, the sight of the ancient temple before me, its triple layered pagoda roof, its exquisite wooden carvings, the ancient ibex horns and antlers upon its walls. I want to bottle the warmth of the sunlight streaming in, the golden glow it gives to the marigold flowers bedecking the temple, the way it lights up the faces of two old women wearing traditional Kullu pattus, sitting on the plinth of the temple, the incense tapers held in their gnarled hands.
And so I slip my hand into my pocket, withdraw my phone, hold it against my chest and begin to film.
And then I feel the tap on my arm. An old man with a sunburned face and dark, weary-looking eyes, wearing a Kullu cap and a waistcoat, gestures to me: put your phone away.
For a moment, I freeze. I can feel the muscles tight against my cheeks. How right he is. And how stupid I have been. I feel the old man’s eyes on me again, wary and vigilant, watching quietly, unsure if I am the kind of person who will start filming again.
This is a sacred moment. Along with everyone else around me, I must live it with all my being. It is foolish to try and bottle it. The truth is that if I do take a clip and watch it even years later, it will never have the intensity and energy of this moment. Besides, I am being disrespectful and gawky. I am being the tourist I tried not to be.
I think back to the early morning – I woke up early, and took longer than usual to choose what to wear. Not jeans, not a dress. I chose a dark blue kurta and salwar, clothes that would help me blend in, not stand out as part of the torrent of tourists that come to visit this town all summer. Should I put on the blue and green Kullu headscarf my neighbour bought me? “You look good in it. You should wear it more often,” she said. Or would wearing a headscarf be appropriation? In the end, it is easier not to.
Later in the day there will be a mela, stalls everywhere with hand-knitted woolen socks, wooden keychains, and name plates painted with pictures of pine trees and red-roofed houses. People living in the Doongri and Old Manali village host open houses, and we will wander from one to the other, eating traditional kadi-chawal, rajma, and local chicken and mutton curries.
For now, I walk down through the forest to the market. I think about the goddess and her many origin stories. Local folklore connects her with the ancient sage Manu, from whom the valley town of Manali gets its name. The two are sometimes thought of as brother and sister. In some ceremonies, these two gods share a chariot. In another version, the goddess Hadimba is the protector of the sage Manu Rishi, who is washed up in Manali after surviving a great deluge.
Others say Hadimba and her two brothers, Ghaipan of Lahaul and Jamlu of Malana, have come from the high Himalayan plateau of Tibet, taking refuge in the valleys of the Indian Himalayas, after fleeing from evil demons.
In the best-known version, the goddess Hadimba Devi is referenced in the Mahabharata epic as the wife of Bhima and the mother of the warrior Ghatotkacha. Kavita Kane’s historical novel Bhima’s Wife gives her a romantic arc — beautiful girl, violent brother, Bhima as liberator.
Thinking about these stories, I cannot help but think how insidious the mainstream can be. Hadimba is a local girl, a tribal, labelled as a rakshasi, an asura, a demoness, and redeemed through marriage with a mainstream man, the Pandava brother Bhima from mainland India.
Reaching the market, I head for my favourite coffee shop. I pull out the orange-colored hardback I have been carrying around these last few days: The Many Faces of a Himalayan Goddess. Israeli author Ehud Halperin goes deep into the myths and legends, talking to the pujaris of the local devtas and referencing historical accounts and travelogues set here. I love the book for its depth of research and for how it lets this goddess be many things at once, without needing to resolve her, and how it makes connections between the goddess Hadimba and the economy and ecology of the Kullu Valley.
(Sonya Dutta Choudhury is a Mumbai-based journalist and Founder, Sonya’s Book Box, a bespoke book service. For all questions about life and literature email sonyasbookbox@gmail.com.)
