Yo enciendo una lámpara los todos dias.
"I light a lamp every day."
During my Spanish class, my tutor and I exchanged how we celebrate festivals around where we live. Earlier, we had spoken about routines and verbs. Apart from verbs like "bathing, having breakfast and going to sleep," I asked her how to describe a lamp, and the verb 'to light'. She tells me to think of the things I do more often, so we can have conversations about them. The phrase 'lighting a lamp" is my most favourite and useful one on my list. (My other favourite words are bailar and cantar which mean to dance and to sing respectively)
"Enciendo muchas lámparas," I said after Diwali.
We welcome warmth into our homes in the colder months through festivals. Most of them have something in common: lighting a lamp. I am not a religious person, but what connects me to festivals are the culture elements that come into the mix. I like the camaraderie that comes with cooking, decorating and meeting people. Actually, let's forget the last bit - the one that's the least enjoyable. I like dressing up on festivals where I have to meet no one new, and only for myself. What I take from these big days, into the 'everyday' are the same acts in albeit smaller forms. I cook, I decorate and light a lamp. It's funny that when I think of my daily routine, I'm taken back to the early 600s than the present century. I am reminded of Aandal, the female Bhakti poet (a prolific writer), who would wake up the women on a cold wintry morning by singing her songs. Aandal is known for plucking flowers from the garden, stringing them into garlands and adorning herself with them before placing them in the temple. She's said to observe her beautiful reflection in the temple well, decorated with the deity's flowers, quite a sacrilegious act.
To all my friends I've woken up by playing music on my phone at 5 in the morning, I see you. There's rarely any coffee to start my day but some yoga. I visit the flowering plants on my terrace, that surprise me with their bounty. Red, orange and white hibiscus. They throw their best selves at me, and I exclaim at the number of flowers that my hands find hard to hold together. I make myself a colourful temporary bouquet. I place the flowers in front of Devi and then Nataraja, the god of dance. I pour some oil to light two lamps. I do not know how to pray. Sacrilegious?
For me, the lighting of the lamp, symbolises the act of doing something everyday, irrespective of how you're feeling. That falls true for my writing and all my creative endeavours. Earlier, I was an artist who would work with sudden bursts of energy, and the other days when I felt uninspired would resort to doing nothing at all. (The reason for this is because I primarily indulge in self driven work for 75% of what I do, where I'm bound by self set deadlines.) I still work with these sudden bursts, but also work everyday however uninspiring that maybe. The big ones are the festivals. Celebratory. The smaller ones are the daily routines. It doesn't matter though. As long as you light the lamp everyday.
Lamps as continuity
Something else that I find interesting about lamps was best described in a segment in Venmurasu, a 25,000 page novel series of epic proportion by the Tamil writer Jeyamohan. Venmurasu means "The White Drum" and is a retelling of the Mahabharata interwoven with facets of Indian philosophy and deep explorations that reflect every single character connected or disconnected with the historical events.
Venmurasu was written as a daily blog for a duration of around 7 years, and spans 26 books. The complete series is available digitally on the writer's website, and the size of the physical copies are towering. In physical, intellectual, emotional and spiritual magnitude.
The only physical manifestation I see comparable to Venmurasu is the Himalayas itself. A grandeur before which one cannot try to make sense of but only bow down and surrender.
(Venmurasu deserved a grander introduction and I cannot wait for any of the books to be translated into English for me to keep recommending to my friends who should have a taste of this incredible work of literature. It is also true that ever since I started reading Venmurasu, I have included snippets of it in every single conversation that I've had.)
In this scene, a siddha physician called Agathiyar is invited from the South to the Northern kingdom of Hastinapuri to take a look at the ailing king Vichitraveeryan. The king, diagnosed with a nervous condition since birth, is allergic to sunlight and has pretty much been on the brink of death ever since he was born. The genius sage and physician, comes to inspect the king's health and offer any medical advice to the physicians of Hastinapuri. He enters the hospital chamber of the king. The sage is extremely short in stature, with the height of a 3 year old and the facial features of an 80 year old. He jumps playfully over the tall steps leading to the entry way. The sound of the wooden flooring as he jumps around is resonant, which he enjoys. He enters the chamber and instead of taking a look at the king, observes the architectural style of the building. He notices the materials used, the difference in resources to build, and how it varies from the South to the North. He asks the king's minister standing nearby, detailed questions about the construction process. The minister is annoyed. Why does a physician have to be concerned with the style of the building? He grows impatient with the consecutive questions being thrown at him by the inquisitive sage. After a point, he stops the sage. He asks him doubtingly, if he indeed is the real Agathiyar or a playful student of his. The sage points to all the lamps lit on the wall. He asks the minister, "If the flame from the lamp lights up the curtain nearby, are they burning with the same fire, or different??" The minister gains clarity.
He then goes ahead with an analysis of the king's health.
The question and answer were striking to me. Till the end, it is not revealed if he indeed is Agathiyar. But it doesn't matter. The sage comes up with an eloquent assessment of the situation that we forget the nature of his identity. What is more important is the school of thought that he comes from. In this way, ideas and knowledge stay alive within people, that it becomes inconsequential to the nature of the exact person who presents the idea. We are all lamps of similar sort, and some ending up burning brighter or longer than the others.
Lamps for letting go
Lastly, during my conversation about festivals with my Spanish tutor, she spoke of a festival called Las Fallas, celebrated in the town of Valencia. Huge sculptures are constructed for over a year, paraded and displayed on either sides of the streets on the days of the festival and then burnt to ashes in the evening. The sculptures are incredible pieces of art and brilliant in scale. She asked me if there were similar festivals here in India. Diwali and Durga puja have pyrotechnics with burning Narakasura sculptures in Goa and Mahishasura in the West. Karthigai, celebrated at the coldest month of December, is when we light oil lamps all around the house and turn off electric lights. There is a huge towering bonfire with palm leaves and straw lit in front of temples. Bhogi Pongal or Lohri are festivals where we light bonfires and shed anything that we might have to let go, symbolising a fresh start to the year.
Here, fire becomes a way to let go of the past. A symbol of mortality. It is regenerative as much as it is destructive.
Other ritual traditions in India ask for the lighting of a lamp and letting it float into the river or the sea. When I watched Masaan, a film which shows the city of Kashi in a spectacular manner, the floating lamps and the burning pyres represented the fleeting nature of life. I do not know when I will feel comfortable enough to visit Kashi. Lamps and burning fires also confront you with the idea of death. The flames stare at you in the eye, saying that you are ephemeral, a flicker. I've heard of many people say that they spend hours watching the burning pyres by the ghats in their accounts of Kashi. I guess that the idea of confronting death, draws many towards the city.
Around our town, when someone passes away, we are asked to keep an oil lamp lit for three days by continuously pouring oil at intervals. I personally felt the lamp dissolve some of the immediate emptiness a person's passing has left you with.
I'm sure lamps have far wider interpretations in other cultures that I'm not fully aware of. I've seen glass walled rooms with rows and columns of lamps near the entrances of monasteries. The Chinese floating lanterns that you release into the sky are another example. These interpretations offer interesting stories to look at. On the other side, I have also seen many, religiously lighting a lamp to dissolve their troubles. To them, it is only a symbol of praying to God and nothing else. When I was younger, I was troubled by all the lamps I would see at the temple. I found them purposeless. Like hopeless requests to someone they believe in. Similar to unrequited love. I think my view of it changed when I placed the lens back to the person lighting the lamp than the purpose or person they are doing it for. That brought the act of doing it back into light. Unrequited love is precious, because it's about the act of loving. Like just keep walking. Keep writing. Keep doing something. Running. Singing. Anything.
Light the lamp everyday.
enciendes una lámpara.
----Swarna
Comments