This
article first appeared in the now discontinued monthly Himachal Guardian issue of January 1994. The author is grateful
to Dr. Subhash Sharma (prof. of Fisheries, HP Agricultural University,
Palampur) for giving his kind permission to re-print this article in this blog.
A few corrections and additions have been made here and there. The original
article didn’t have any drawing by the author as he had his right arm in
plaster and a sling at the time. (It was typed out with one finger of the left
hand, if you want to know). The line drawing was made by his cousin based on
verbal descriptions.
Kullu’s Topsy Turvy Diwali in Winter
A festival dating to the
hoary pre-Vaishnavite past is held in certain villages of Kullu district. It
does not seem to have a definite date, as every village has its own time fixed
for the festivities, which may also differ in matter of details barring the
main theme. This ‘Diwali’ has nothing to do with the victory of Lord Rama;
rather, (according to my late Nana Pt. Chandrashekhar) it is dedicated
to the Yakshas, or lesser gods who are said to have baser tastes. It is
to gratify the ‘base’ tastes of the Yakshas and Yakshis that
things seemingly go topsy turvy on this day.
In January 1989, I had the
opportunity to witness the elaborate celebrations of the ‘Maghi Diwali’ of the
village Bhrain. This village is a steep climb above Bhuntar, and a little below
the Bijli Mahadev top. The really serious climbing starts after you pass
through village Jia, at the foot of the Bijli Mahadev mountain.
 |
The Bijli Mahadev mountain as seen from Bhuntar.
Village Bhrain is on the flattish shelf on the right of the mountain |
As the name implies, the
big day is in the beginning of the month of Magh, just a day after
Lohri. My friend and I were the guests of Shri Shiv Lal, who is a resident of Bhrain.
Night had fallen and there
was snow all round, which a couple of sunny days had set ice-hard. Every family
had the male members around blazing fires in their homes, where one window was
left open. Chilly winds blew into the room through the small window and we
huddled closer to the fire. A stick of dhoop smoked in the window. There
was no chit-chat, and no liquor - only glasses and glasses of tea. Everyone had
an eye and ear cocked towards the window. Outside, in the still winter night, a
person, in the role of Master of Ceremonies, was to give a loud call at three
different times through the night. We all had to be alert enough to hear all
three of them. The last call was the signal to start the celebrations, and
nobody knew beforehand just when he might call. From past experience one had an
idea that the last call would be about 5.00 a.m., just before dawn.
The long wait through the
night was quite interesting. The night, the village, had pin-drop silence. The
first call came at about 10.30 p.m. There were sighs of relief, “A good thing
that this year we have someone with a loud voice.” “Yes, the fellow last year
twittered like a bird.” In the knowledge that the next call would not be just
yet, there was a little bit of banter. An old gentleman, the family head, told
of the evil that had befallen those who missed out on the last call, and the
good fortune of various persons who had got all of the festival right.
After about an hour the
tension again gradually built up. Twelve... One-thirty… Two... No call; anxiety.
Did we miss it? I shuffled uncomfortably and invited annoyed glares – the
rustling of my clothes seemed audible a mile off! At 4.30, a thin wail. The
room suddenly came to life. Boots were pulled on and a ‘gachi’ (a pattoo
tied tightly around the waist) donned by the three men who were to represent
this household in the ceremonies. As it was nearing dawn, the last call was due
anytime. Three large torches, comprising thin strips of pine-wood tightly bound
into a mashaal about a metre and a half long, were taken down from the
rafters, where they had been drying in the heat of the fire below. Each man
took his torch and held its end close to the fire. The idle ones, like me,
cleared out of the way to the door and got the fire blazing and crackling
merrily. Now, the tension in the air seemed as real as an electric charge. We
all sat, rigid in attention, listening for the last call.
The sticks in the torches,
held close to the fire, boiled and bubbled resin, all set to light up at the
touch of a flame. The fire crackled so merrily, in fact, that I missed the last
call – suddenly the three men lit up
their torches from the fire and were out of the door in a jiffy.
The rest of us struggled
into our boots outside the room and followed them to the designated spot in a
field. The pile of wood laid there for a bonfire was already surrounded by a ring
of some thirty or so torch-bearers. The light from so many torches reflected in
an orange glow from the snow underfoot, while the smoke shone a dull red in the
otherwise pitch darkness. At a signal from the same person who had been calling
through the night, all the torches were hurled at the wood-pile. This
immediately blazed up into a roaring bonfire.
This was the sign to start
the day’s festivities. Some went home to get a bite to eat while the tipplers
produced their bottles of hooch and set to. Tired after the nightlong vigil, I
tried to snatch a few winks of sleep in my host’s house, but a small group of
drinkers were already there, all displaying the effects of alcohol on an empty
stomach. They were reeling off bawdy songs in the Kullvi dialect with the
intensity of worshippers singing psalms. After all, today was the great day
when the Yaksha gods would be pleased by vulgar songs, and dances so
rough that fractured bones are not uncommon. Dawn had broken by now and the
village was bathed in blessedly warm sunshine out of a clear blue sky.
Thousands of feet below us the small town of Bhunter, with its airfield, was still deep in
the shadows. Small bonfires had come up in a couple of the wider threshing
floors in the village. The drummers and a couple of shehnai players had
assembled near one fire and were beating out music for a slow nati
dance.
Or rather, the dance
started as a nati, with the men linked together in the usual fashion in
a chain, with slow, stately footwork. But the song being sung by them was
special for this day: it was full of vulgarities with sexual overtones A
stranger might be a bit startled to see an old man with only two teeth in his
head, arms linked with a youth who may well be his grandson, belting out the vulgar
chorus with fervour. Suddenly, the nati beat ceased, the drums gave a
few warning taps. This was a signal for the physically unfit and the squeamish
to fall out.
The remaining dancers
formed a ring in the threshing floor and caught each other tightly by the
waist-band or gachi. The musicians and bonfire were in the ring’s
centre. The drums now started up in a beat fast enough to rival any disco. The
dancers vigorously whirled anti-clockwise around the floor in time with the
beat. The leading dancer, a man in his fifties, rapped out a line rich in the
pahari equivalents of four-lettered words. The answering chorus was “Hi! Ho!”
yelled at full volume. Each dancer had his neighbour on either side gripped
strongly by the gachi. This was to serve a twofold purpose: to keep his
own balance and to try and throw down either of his companions. As the dance
picked up tempo, all thought of singing was abandoned and the cheer leader only
shouted “Hi-ho”, the chorus responding with a similar cry.
 |
The hi-ho dance, as drawn by Cousin Parag.
Actually the musicians were in the centre, near the fire. |
The ring of dancers now
took on folds and a confused shape all over the floor. The hard-packed snow
ensured a fair number of spills. All of a sudden, the drums would cease and the
dancers would jerk to a halt. Most of the clumsy ones would take a fall just
then. One fellow, to my horror, flew out of the line and went skidding and
spinning over the snow towards the drummers. They seemed quite used to this
sort of mishap and neatly side-stepped, and he plunged straight into the
bonfire. All the others were most amused. His thick woollen clothing saved him
from any injury more serious than frizzled hair, a slight burn on his leg and a
bruised ego.
At mid-morning, two races
were held. The runners were to run right across the village to the sacred spot
in the field. The dancers etc. had moved out of the dance floor and the runners
waited there expectantly. A priest and a couple of others collected on the
slate roof of the house above, and performed some rituals. Then they threw down
a shower of small tufts of dried grass. There was a mad scramble to grab one
tuft and run. Anyone who did not have such a tuft at the end of the race was
automatically disqualified; it meant that he had either not run the full course
from start to finish, or had started prematurely. This apart, the race had no
rules.
 |
| The evil thorns of Bhekhal bushes (Prinsepia utilis) were no deterrent |
Rocky boundary walls, slippery paths, Bhekhal thorn bushes, and a race where
pushing, shoving, tripping, short cuts are all allowed, ensure that this too
claims its share of casualties. There is a great desire to come first; a belief
that the winner will be blessed (feminists, please note) with a second wife or
a son, acts as a strong incentive. The winners of the two races are selected
for the honour of carrying the ‘god’ of the day on their shoulders.
But first, the two winners
were made to run, chased by the disgruntled mob of runners-up. Some gave up in
mid-chase and contented themselves by hooting and pelting them with snowballs
and sods of earth. The two persons who caught them were selected to help them
in bearing the ‘god’.
The ‘god’ for the day is a
Harijan who has been selected beforehand. He is given a ceremonial bath and a
completely new outfit of traditional Kullu dress. After a lot of elaborate
ritual, he is taken in a comic procession by his bearers on a pole, somewhat in
the manner of a yankee lynch mob carrying a felon on a rail, after tarring and
feathering! In the front are the musicians, then the ‘god’ riding his pole (normally
used for pounding rice). The retinue follows behind. The ‘god’ yells abuse from
his precarious perch, and the retrain is taken up, sing-song fashion, by the grinning
followers. Next, takes place another bout of the “ hi-ho” dance, but on a
larger scale. Now the ‘god’ also takes part, but great care s taken to place
the surest- footed and strongest dancers on either side of him. Even while
everyone tries his best (worst?) to throw down his neighbour, under no
circumstances is the ‘god’ to fall down, lest an un-named calamity befall the
entire village.
This festival - and others
similar to it in other villages - is not mentioned in tourist brochures. In
fact most of the settlers in the valley below have not even heard of it, and
the villagers would rather prefer it that way. This is partly because outsiders
are apt to look down their austere, ‘civilized’ noses at such ritualised
vulgarity. A few, who have heard vague rurnours of these celebrations, wrongly
think them to be orgies of some kind.
No two versions that I
have heard regarding the origins of those ‘diwalis’ are alike. One old man was
candid enough to admit that he had no idea why this festival was held, but that
it had always been held in exactly the same way as far as he could remember
come storm, snow, famine, or even death in the family.
Note added in January
2014:
According to late Mahant Keshav Gir of
the Jia math, this festival dated from the old times when the local
rulers could be unpredictable tyrants. Villagers used this festival as an
excuse to air their grievances (“Just joking, Maharaj!”).
Contemporary newspapers have started
mentioning these “Diyalis” held in various parts of the district. Their
explanation – the abuse and vulgarity is for chasing away evil spirits. This
seems a facile reason. Every village has it’s own god; virtually every
mountain peak or water spring is watched over by a Dev or Devi;
besides they are lurking all over the forests. These gods would be extremely
remiss if any evil spirit ever got through to the villages. The only evil
spirits I ever saw were the home-brewed, bottled kind.
An outsider might remark on the strange
absence of women in the festivities. Kullu women, as a rule, don’t put up
with much nonsense from their menfolk. But on this day they mainly stay
indoors and let the men have a good time. The rest of the year the "Kulu
woman rules her man”. (Not my words; they’re in the Kangra
District Gazetteer of 1917, CMG Press, Lahore).
|
A ‘Festival of fools’,
probably dating from pre-Christian times, used to be held in France and other parts of Europe,
which was remarkably similar in a great many respects to this ‘diwali’. Even
the dance, judging by a contemporary illustration, was uncannily similar. Such
celebrations were firmly stamped out by the medieval Church under pain of
death. Let us see how long they survive the reformers here. After all, the
participants agreed that even if they did not know the origins, the festival
was great fun and was as good a way as any to let down their hair, after the
cold winter months.
