A Crazy Diwali in Winter

 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. 

Tourism in Shimla

This article first appeared in the now discontinued monthly Himachal Guardian issue (Vol II) of 1994. The last issue in fact. The descriptions are now a little dated because of the decades that have passed. 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 annotations have been added here and there, and a few more pictures added. The original line drawings are in black and white. The newer ones have a dash of colour.

TOURISM IN SHIMLA

Tourists have always been attracted to Shirnla. Even when the British ruled India for half of the year from here, they seem to have expended most of their energies in socialising. riding on horses on the Mall, falling from horses off the Mall, golfing in Naldehra, seeing and being seen at the Gaiety Theatre, rumour-mongering, doing the Mall in the evenings, etc etc. So. even if they ostensibly came here to rule, the official work appears to have been more of an unpleasant distraction from the real business of enjoying Shimla.

What can the tourist expect to see, once he is actually there ? He will naturally see the TV tower. (but then, he need not have to actually be in Shimla to see it, the tower being visible from all the adjoining districts). If it is the Season, then the first thing he will see in Shimla is a traffic jam. The roads of Shimla were originally mule tracks. When the “motors” started making their presence felt in the Twenties, they simply kept widening the tracks and called them roads, steep mulish gradients and all. It is a wonder how the old model T Fords and Baby Austins handled those slopes. The small little car of some Viceroy, perhaps Lord Irwin, once had to be pushed up an incline near Khalini by BCS students, where he was headed to attend a function as the chief guest. Anyway, the roads which were built for wheeled traffic (the Mall, for one) are closed to the wheeled traffic of ordinary mortals. They used to be open for the old-fashioned rickshaws, which were dragged about by four sturdy fellows from Bilaspur or Arki; the last rickshaw was seen in 1992 or thereabouts. The new Tuti Kandi by-pass is too far out of the way to be of much use, except maybe as a by-pass. Tourists are advised to take a few large canvas bags with them. Then they can quietly dismantle their Maruti in some secluded spot and get a couple of Kashmiri “khans” to take those bags up to their hotel rooms.

Sports

On a Sunday, or any of the numerous holidays, holy days. mourning days etc. with which the school and office-goer is happily blessed, one cannot walk any of the bazars or by-lanes without encountering the sporting nature of the youthful citizenry, especially if it is not raining. More than once, the tourist will be obliged to interrupt his stroll on some path till the bowler has made his delivery and the batsman done his stuff. The paths having a decided gradient, the fielder’s lot is not a very happy one. The ball can roll on and still on, down the path – sorry, pitch – and  it may even roll right off. It is here that the passer-by on the road below is called upon to help. He sees three or four anxious faces peering down at him over the railing. A couple of those faces call out, “Uncle ji, ball dena.”

There are a few level playing fields on the Mall but the police does  not allow any cricketing there. And the Army booted out civilian players from Annandale long ago. Shimla never has been able to produce any international class cricketer as yet, no doubt due to the peculiar, canted nature of the unofficial pitches. Perhaps, if a cricket tournament were to be held on the top-deck of a sinking ship, a Shimla player would dazzle. Another deficiency of the Shimla cricketer, it is rumoured. is that in moments of stress, instead of shouting, “Howzzat” he lends to forget himself and appeals. “Uncle ji, ball dena”. I have not yet confirmed this rumour.

Annandale ground at sundown.

Cricket apart, a Sunday walk down the Lower Bazaar is often enlivened by lean little brats roaring down on roller skates, or by a game of marbles on any stretch of the road wherever it is level for half a metre, and not already occupied by someone selling plastic shoes. Watching a game of hopscotch (stapoo) on a 35 degree slope is an enriching experience.

Theatre/The Arts

The Gaiety Theatre is suitably located on the Mall. In case the performance in the theatre is bad, the police control room is also suitably located. Right next door. A bamboo danda on the head is known to help boisterous audiences cool down. The theatre oozes history from every dressed stone of its walls. It has seen a whole succession of well-known figures like Curzon, Kitchener. Kipling, etc. The Indian showbiz has benefited in some measure from Shimla’s theatrical traditions. Sadly, as in cricket, no hero has emerged. Only villains like Pran. Madan Puri, Prem Chopra and Anupam Kher. One girl did make it as a heroine but I am not sure if Priya Rajvansh (Haqeeqat) belonged to Shimla proper or some other town. One aspiring heroine who called herself Candy, instead of bedazzling cinema audiences, ended up as a bit player of the Emergency. To return to our villains. remember the old black-and-white movies.in which a nattily dressed Pran blows a couple of smoke rings, strokes his thin black moustache and leeringly shoots the hero’s mother? Or a nattily dressed Prem Chopra (thin black moustache etc.) gives a drawling laugh “Heh! Heh! Heh! Ab mein tumhe zinda nahin chhoroonga.” Or Madan Puri (natty dress, thin black moustache. evil smile etc.) says, “Is laash ko thikane laga do.” The audiences here have always loved those scenes. Only the last reel, in which the chocolate hero bashes up Shimla’s own, has failed to evoke the necessary appreciation among the audiences in Regal (now burnt down ), Ritz, Rivoh or Shahi. The cinema houses are running to seed now-a-days, thanks to video, cable and dish, and now the viewers enjoy the villainy from their sofas. Such a parade of villains has dampened spirits somewhat, and dramatic performances at the Gaiety seem to have given place to grand sales of ready-made garments. One hopes Shimla produces a hero soon, otherwise they might close up the Gaiety and make government offices there. (Sincere apologies to Priety Zinta, but this was written before her debut).

Sights

A sight no tourist is likely to miss in Shimla is the extraordinary number of signboards indicating a government office of some sort or the other. Quite a few are located in the most unlikeliest of places. The Pollution Board office is a stiff climb above the US Club (which itself is a stiff climb above the Mall ) on the top floor of a high building which looks like someone started to build a hotel and then abruptly changed his mind. I also remember once doing a stiff climb (what else?) to find the Weights and Measures office in what looked like a ruined church. But then, almost all government offices took like ruins. Cubby-holes / nooks/ crannies /closets/orifices etc. which are not already occupied by a government office, are then most likely to bear a discreet white and black plate of some lawyer. Surprising, the amount of litigation the people of Himachal can indulge in, considering that we do not even number one crore.

IIAS, formerly the Viceregal Lodge, as viewed from Tutu 

Where government offices are concerned, many a visitor has remarked on a most curious phenomenon that is observed in Shimla every so often. As soon as some auditor starts getting too nosey into the records of some office — the said office goes up in flames one fine night. Well-seasoned deodar wood burns fast and bright, and tourists can enjoy a free show from outside the police cordon. They tend to blame it on short-circuits, but I believe there is a deeper and more mysterious reason. The Department of Unconventional Energy Sources should try to crack this one and solve India’s energy problems. The scholarly-looking types in the Indian Institute of Advanced Studies should stop lazing about on the benches in the sun and get some real work done on this most baffling scientific conundrum. Perhaps, I ought to apologise if I gave the impression that the scholarly types at the IIAS — formerly Rashtrapati Niwas — and still formerly the Viceroy’s Lodge — only sit about on benches lazing in the sun. A couple of them were once seen to show a most satisfactory burst of activity when it suddenly started raining on their bench.

Another sight of Shimla which no tourist can miss is Mahatma Gandhi’s statue on the Ridge. Shimla residents have lived with that statue for decades and find nothing amiss. The newcomer, however, immediately notices that the Mahatma’s glasses are missing. The statue used to have spectacles (the frame only, of course) but they were filched, some time in the Sixties. The Concerned Authorities, whoever they may be, made numerous valiant attempts to replace those glasses. For a couple of weeks, I think in 1981, Gandhi ji even wore an undersized spectacles frame of pink plastic. But they were stolen, every last one of them. A squad of policemen’s statues, in the Nek Chand style, was posted behind Mahatma Gandhi’s statue; the dummy cops presumably were to stand guard over the dummy spectacles. The glasses thief was no dummy however, and is yet to be caught. The thefts continued. Now they have got a special pair made and keep it under lock and key. The statue gets to wear them on special occasions only. For the rest of the year Gandhi ji must perforce follow the dictum of one of his own monkeys See No Evil. And someone somewhere in Shimla has a sizable collection of spectacle frames. (Note added in 2013: They probably got sick of the whole spectacles business and took down the old pedestal and put the statue on a new, higher one. Now anyone wanting to sneak the specs will need a ladder).

Doing the Mall

Scotsmen are known to have got dewy-eyed
seeing these cast iron covers on the Mall:
Glenfield & Kennedy, Kilmarnock

This is one activity which has gone on uninterrupted ever since the British dug the Mall out of the hill-sides. This activity starts off at about five in the evening and picks up tempo, tapering off by eleven. In this. one marches resolutely from the Scandal Point to the Lift and back again, over and over. It has many advantages: physical fitness, meeting old friends. meeting old enemies when they aren't expecting you, etc. Doing the Mall is a capital way to meet anyone. That person will be doing the Mall too, and you are bound to cross each other. When a regular suddenly disappears from the daily round, he may be (a) out of town, (b) out of sorts, (c) in the next world, (d) owing money or otherwise anxious to avoid somebody. Persons desirous of meeting some Mall walker, but too lazy to do the rounds, simply drape themselves over the railings around Scandal Point and wait for the quarry, ogling St. Bede’s girls in the meanwhile. Mindful of this fact, the City Fathers wisely made the railings at the Scandal Paint extra strong. Should any of those railings ever fall down on a summer’s evening, I am afraid Ripon, Snowdon and the other hospitals will find themselves running short of plaster and X-ray film.

Old friends meeting on Mall after lengthy separation of 2 hours

Doing the Mall is de rigueur for Shimla residents, both permanent and temporary. The Lajpat Rai statue at Scandal Point is a mute witness to the numerous political careers that have been built up here simply by doing the Mall. If ever it is frustrating, it is to the Mall’s shopkeepers. Seeing such crowds, the commercial transactions taking place in the Mall’s shops is surprisingly tiny. Nobody seems to buy anything. Even the students thronging the Alfa, and the oldies crowding the Coffee House, only order a coffee and then sit around chattering or dozing meditatively for two hours. This helps explain why the managers and waiters have that resigned, tired look in the evenings.

Some Tips on What to Wear and Sundry Useless Advice

Like they say, do in Rome as the Romans do. Look carefully at the Shimla resident: what is he wearing? He is certainly not wearing a light summer dress. He will have a sweater, June or Jan. An umbrella completes his outfit. If the bowler and umbrella means London, duckback gumshoes with umbrella and sweater means Shimla. It starts to rain in Shimla without proper notice. None of that leisurely build-up of strato-cumulus, the lightning flashes, the rolls of thunder, the first few patters in the dust. No, In Shimla Lord Indra, the god of rain, believes in coming straight to the point. There you are, one moment, enjoying the bracing air and the sun out of a deep blue sky. A white little scrap of cloud, oh so innocently, gives a picturesque effect behind that clump of deodars. The next moment the sun and sky are replaced by murky grey. It starts soaking you immediately, without fooling around with the preliminary electrical and sound effects. Now the patient reader will appreciate my advice regarding that sweater and umbrella. If you don’t have the umbrella, perhaps it is best not have the sweater either. A sodden sweater is one of life’s tribulations. Even if it does not rain, the sweater-umbrella combine may help you while shopping — you might be mistaken for a local.

Now a word about what not to wear. When the tourist goes to the Ridge, he see a whole lot of photographers. A few of them offer to shoot you in “genuine pahari dress”. Quite a few times have I seen the tourists getting themselves snapped in pattoos provided by the photographers. This is not a bad thing if you are a lady, but when you are a man, it can get a bit embarrassing. But I should not be unduly harsh on the photographers. It can get quite boring, photographing tourists in the same hackneyed poses all the time. Photographers are entitled to their fun, and gentlemen can proudly display their snaps at the Lions and Rotaries in Bhaunagar, Howrah and Aurangabad without anyone the wiser that they are wearing a pahari woman’s dress.

If you are going to Shimla in your own car, my advice is — don’t! It is better to park it at some relative’s place in Chandigarh and take a bus — the service is excellent night or day. If you do not have such a relative at Chandigarh, then, on reaching Shimla, smile ingratiatingly at the nearest policeman and ask, “Please, havildar saheb (even if he is only a constable) to which place do you usually tow away impounded vehicles?” He should readily tell you, because he has to keep providing this information to mystified tourists looking for their cars. Or you could try to find a parking place in the Lift or Holiday Home car parks. Or you could buy a lottery ticket. Or you could look for a four-leafed clover. Or teach a cat to bathe. Who knows? You might even succeed.

Please do not get me wrong. Shimla is a nice place to holiday in, especially in the off-season, when it is cheaper. (I hope this last line will save me from the lynching I know the Shimla hoteliers, taxiwallahs, pony-wallahs. guides, photographers etc. may be preparing for me).