Setrawa, India: The Jagrata, The Haircut & The Goat Sacrifice

I arrived by train late at night into Rajasthan’s famous Blue City of Jodhpur, India. Everything annoying that can happen to a woman traveling alone in India had happened to me prior to my arrival in Jodhpur. For one thing, I was suffering from Shiva’s Revenge I had contracted eating at some place not well maintained in Jaipur. In addition, I forgot to heed my Lonely Planet guide and did everything wrong. As a result, I was thoroughly taken advantage of. With hotel touts to change my plans, tour guides to swindle me for all my cash, swill kitchens to infect my intestines, men leering and hoping to romance me into bed, and the entire population seeing me as a probable income opportunity, my defenses were exhausted. By the time I boarded the train in Jaipur, I hated India and all that it stood for. Therefore, when the man I met on the train, another North American continental like myself, told me that things would get better for me now that I had successfully escaped the so called ‘Triangle of Evil’, (a reference to the ‘Golden Triangle’ of Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur), I could only hope he was right.

When I got to the Durag-Niwas Guesthouse, my host, Govind Singh Rathore, had stayed up to welcome me. He offered some mint tea to settle my stomach, and we chatted in the sari draped courtyard. He had taken the time to read the stories on my website. He seemed to have a refreshing sense of who I was. He invited me to a Jagrata in Setrawa, the small Thar Desert village of his family’s heritage. His family was traveling there in a couple of days to celebrate a very important ritual for a Rajput family: the ceremonial sheering of the hair of the first born son. This was in honor of his two year old son, Ayush. It was to be a two day ceremony consisting of music, possession by the Goddess Durga, and finally a goat slaughtering and feasting upon said goat. Govind was vegetarian, as so many Indians are, and didn’t like the idea of the goat slaughter at all, but it was tradition in the village, and must be adhered to. He hoped I could come as their guest, and record the event with my audio equipment. Of course I accepted, granting my intestines would be on the mend.

I wasn’t feeling too much better when the day came for us to travel to the village, but my desire for the experience won over my physical complaints. Govind’s mother, his wife Mukta, Ayush, Mukta’s sister, her small daughter and her cousin, Govind’s employee who also was our driver Bunti-Baba, 4 tourists (of which I was one), many supplies, and 2 male goats that were to be sacrificed for the event, squeezed into a rented jeep wagon for the long drive to Setrawa.

Govind and the rest of the extended family drove in a mini-bus that followed behind. As we passed up the hill and out of the city, we had an astounding view of the Mehrangarh Fort and the surrounding houses, painted blue in Jodhpur tradition. We wound our way through magnificent ruins of old Havelis, stone houses, abandoned sandstone quarries and broken rock walls until we were finally out on the open Indian highway.

In India, driving, for some, means playing chicken with the other drivers as a means of passing the time. None of the Indian passengers seemed to be concerned with this game Bunti-baba, our driver, enjoyed. I, however, was afraid that Shiva would resume his revenge imminently. Ayush’s grandmother noticed this and smiled knowingly while she kept her hand on my knee so my seizures of fear wouldn’t send me through the window. Ayush spent his time climbing over the seats and experimenting with all of the possible lap options.

We stopped at a village along the way for some spicy fried pakoras being sold at a roadside stand. The villagers, all men and boys, crowded around the car to stare at the strange contents, namely, pale skinned foreigners such as myself. The goats didn’t seem to concern them. I stared back and smiled, noting the golden flower earring posts that all the boys wore. Western style light cotton button down shirts and casual slacks seemed to be the mode of dress for most of them. They had cold water to sell and held it up to the window. I would have bought some if we hadn’t brought several cases from the city. I smiled and shook my head at them. Grandmother put piles of pakoras on newspaper pages and handed them out to all of us. I thanked her and ate heartily, hoping for a miracle to happen in my stomach. It didn’t, but my mouth was in paradise.

After several stops on the side of the road so the children could relieve themselves, we arrived at the village in the late afternoon. A pit hole toilet never looked so beautiful, though I knew that it would be shared by about 30 other folks. I would spend my days looking longingly in that general direction, hoping for an open door, and meander that way at every available opportunity.

The compound was a stone and cement block structure with a large open courtyard in the center, an overhang on one side, and a few rooms on the other. One of those rooms was designated as a galley. The kitchen supplies and a propane powered stove were all brought in and set up. Various cots were brought out into the courtyard and the older women of the family lay down on them to rest. A large blockprint blanket was laid out and women and children gathered there to play and laugh. The women were dressed in orange and pink saris, and kept their heads veiled. The tradition in Rajasthan is for women to wear a veil; then, if a strange man appears, she will pull the veil down over her face so she can watch him, but he can’t make eye contact with her.

A child appeared in the courtyard, beating on a drum, and with him a narrator spoke telling the story, in Hindi, of how the statue of the Goddess Durga was brought to the village. They left, and a musician appeared and set himself up on a blanket near the doorway. My host tells me the musician is Dholi caste, also known as Damami, an untouchable. Apparently the music is a tradition that is fading away. Their caste’s purpose is to travel as needed to perform songs for the proud Rajput Warriors and their ceremonies. Now, many of their children are fortunate to get an education, and are choosing other opportunities for employment, leaving the musical traditions behind.

The music was riveting as the singer sang archaic lyrics with a fluidity and vocal mastery that could only come with lifelong practice. His tone was clear but with a rough edge that hinted at what I could only imagine was a strained existence. He accompanied himself on the harmonium, an accordion like keyboard instrument. The instrument has found many uses in various styles of Indian music since the mid-19th century, although it is a French invention.

The ceremonial barber appeared in his bright turban of many primary colors, artfully wrapped in a traditional Rajasthani style. The turban accented his thick mustache and sharp nose. He wore a white homespun cotton suit, and had a set of beads draped around his neck. He lives in the village and is very important in the ceremonies of Rajput people. Although he is not from an untouchable caste, his is much lower than the Rajput, a privileged caste.

He was leaning against the side of the house when I stepped outside to view the desert. I told him how beautiful it was there in the village, and he said that yes, it was beautiful but very tough living. Most do not have electricity, and there is only one water tank. Throughout the village, women in colorful saris were balancing pots of water on their heads.

I went up the cement stairs to the roof where I and three other travelers were to sleep. Our mattresses were laid out with a number of wool blankets to keep us warm in the cool desert night. The shadows grew long as I looked out over the sparse desert vegetation and round mud huts with thatched roofs. The sunset cast a warm yellow light over the desert. I stayed there for a while and watched the children playing in the courtyard below while chatting with my fellow travelers. There were a Dutch couple who had been traveling for several months, and were on their last couple of weeks in India, and a Swiss woman, Nigama, who would later prove to become my traveling companion.

As the evening grew darker, some of the family’s women moved into the galley to make chapattis. As there was no electricity in this compound, a series of extension cords was stretched over the desert from a power source far away. A light bulb was plugged into the borrowed power line and strategically placed to light the galley and the courtyard simultaneously. The light cast magical shadows off the people bustling in the courtyard, silhouettes of turbans and mustaches grew long against the wall. Saris and veils flowed behind women chasing toddlers, their shoes making a clatter on the stone floor.

Several men in white cotton suits and turbans of oranges and reds came into the compound and created an altar on an empty shelf in the courtyard. They were Rajput mediums who travel from village to village as needed to perform these rituals. I watched one of the men use his fingers to ornament the wall with a blood colored substance, creating a symbol of the goddess. Also on the altar was a small fire where offerings of sweetcakes were made. They chanted some things that I imagined were holy and profound. The light of the fire accented their mustached profiles as they finished their evening offering and left the compound.

The mediums had gone outside to a little cement block temple, which housed the statue of Goddess Durga. Since I was recording the event, I was invited to come out to the temple and sit in front with the men of the village. Many were wearing turbans and talking and laughing in gruff voices, speaking Hindi, and interrupted by the occasional Bidi cigarette cough. The musician had moved into the crowd and was singing songs and playing his harmonium while we waited for the ceremony to begin. I said something to my host and the feminine timbre of my voice caused the man next to me to glance over, eyes wide and in shock. It seemed my presence in this sea of men was a bit unnerving, to them, and to me. There were a few other women present to observe the ritual, but they were relegated to the back of the crowd. I smiled at the staring men and went about my recording duties. After a time, they seemed to forget I was there.

There was a sacrificial fire burning on the cement landing of the temple. Offerings of opium, sweetcakes, and various trinkets had been left for the goddess. There was a large drum and the mediums sat around it. They began pounding a slow beat which accompanied a repetitive chant. After what seemed like quite a long time, one of the men lurched forward and began to yell and heave. His eyes rolled back in his head and he started shaking. He got up and ran into the temple and began to ring the bell, yelling the entire time. As my host explained, the medium was undergoing possession by the diety.

As Durga made her presence known, the village men all seemed to act as if nothing unusual was happening and continued to chat and laugh amongst themselves. I watched the spectacle in utter amazement. The embodied presence sat down in the temple and village men began to go in one by one to ask questions. The questions, according to my host, were practical subjects to desert survival: things like, why won’t the goat give milk anymore? The embodied goddess gave tactical answers, although I am at a loss as to their effectiveness. The fact that this female deity was embodied into a man in order to speak to other men while the women watched from afar was not lost on me.

I went up to bed and put in earplugs in order to escape the noise enough to get some rest. Long into the night, I could hear the beating of the drum seeping through my earplugs as the activities continued and were repeated again and again. I stared up at the starlit sky and reflected back in wonder on all I had just experienced. It was a very different India then the shops and tours and constant haggling. I was now far away from the ‘Triangle of Evil’ and seeing the heart of a people living out ancient traditions. I thought about my fortune of being a female from a country that gives me the freedom to travel at my own whim. I sighed in deep appreciation and faded off to sleep.

From the fathomless depths of sleep, I heard a distant sound. The women were singing in the courtyard. The repetitive melody was led in an edgy nasal tone by one of the older women, joined by the sweeter sound of all the younger girls and women who sang in chorus with her. I took out my earplugs, turned on my recorder, and leaned over the balcony to watch. The songs bless the honored child and welcome him into the family. The enchanting singing continued for a while until it suddenly ended in laughter and giggles.

I put my earplugs back in and faded back to sleep… but the distant sound of the harmonium soon returned me to consciousness. Then the Dholi musician sang, his lonely voice weaving an agile web of tones echoing through the courtyard in the cool morning air. Opening my eyes a crack, I could see a hint of light on the horizon. Dozing off again, the voice became a part of my dreams. As the sun blasted over the horizon, a chorus of peacocks joined in.

Day 2

We breakfasted on fruit, toast and leftover chapattis. The other travelers and I sat around laughing and talking about the Jagrata with Govind. He was very excited about the day. Although normally he dresses in polo shirts and jeans, he was dressed in a rainbow turban and white suit for the haircutting ceremony. Ayush, the young lad about to be shorn, was sitting on Nigama’s lap and drinking water out of her bottle.

We joined the family as they proceeded out of the compound and down a path where the barber was preparing a fire in the sand. The cement block temple is only one of several designated temples to the Goddess that surround the compound. The other sites are each marked by a rock in the sand that denotes the place’s holiness. The fire was made at one of these rock temples. Sweetcakes were placed in a pan by the fire as an offering for Durga.

Govind’s mother had saved Govind’s baby hair from when he was two. For some reason, Govind’s family didn’t have the opportunity to have this ceremony in his youth. She had saved his hair all these years for just this moment. Seated between her and the barber, Govind observed reverently as his mother placed his baby hair into the sacrificial flame. Then the rest of the family joined them around the fire.

Govind remained in front of the fire while Ayush sat happily in his lap. Ayush’s mother Mukta, sat next to them wearing a flower patterned sari and red ceremonial veil which was trimmed in gold. She had the veil over her head. Govind’s mother and the other women of the group stood around the young family as the barber took out his sheers. Ayush stared up at the man, eyes wide with concern at the long, sharp, snappy thing coming at him. The boy relaxed as the gentle barber clipped his baby locks and placed them into the fire. The family’s pride was contagious.

After the ritual was completed, we walked back to the compound. It was getting hotter by the minute in the midday desert sun. Govind had some meetings to attend in the larger village, some miles away. The rest of us made our way to shady spots in the compound and spent the day reading, journaling, and chatting together.

As the night fell, we all piled into the car and drove off through the sand to the larger village for the next part of the ritual. We got out of the car in what seemed to be the center of the village. There were a few little shops for supplies, but it wasn’t what I would call a bustling center of commerce. We went on a walk up a very dark path through 600 year old ruins that were in a sad state of disrepair. Currently, these ruins are being used as toilets. Govind is hoping that money can be raised to do historical restoration there.

At the end of the path above the ruins we came to a small temple where there was to be another ceremony. A young boy beat the drum as we walked into the courtyard that surrounded the temple. Govind was carrying Ayush as Mukta followed them in. They were tied to each other with a scarf. Since Govind had forgotten his scarf, an important part of the ritual, I loaned him mine. In the center of the temple was a statue of Durga; a holy man sat near the statue. The holy man said some things to the three, and then they proceeded to walk clockwise around the temple three times. After this, Govind repeated the ritual with his own mother, completing his own hair cutting ritual begun long ago.

When this was finished, we all walked down the path to the center of the village. There was a fire burning in a pit underneath a tree. The family sat down around the fire. I looked up and saw many goat legs hanging there and realized that we were about to witness the goat sacrifice.

There was a clearing behind the tree where the goats were. A crowd from the village had gathered to watch the slaughter. A man was stretched out on the ground holding the back legs of the goat and Bunti-baba himself was primed to strike with a sword. I watched in shock as the he brought down the sword in a violent heave. But instead of going through the goat’s neck, the blade broke off and flew toward the crowd. At this point, I went away. I know the goat was killed a few moments later, but I didn’t watch it happen.

We all piled back into the car and Bunti, freshly invigorated from his recent goat-kill, decided to express his machismo and, putting his foot hard on the gas pedal, tore off across the desert at a terrifying speed. We slipped around in the sand as one of Mukta’s cousins put her hand on my knee to keep me from fearing. Or perhaps it was a way of holding on…? In any case, I was grateful for the camaraderie. Thankfully, the car didn’t tip over, and we did arrive safely back at the compound a few miles later.

Bunti-baba, a man of many talents, was now to prepare the goat stew. It was very late when he started, and it would be several hours before the feast would be ready to eat. I sat around the fire burning in the corner of the courtyard and watched him prepare the food. He carved up the goat and put it into a large ceramic pot on the fire. He added water and what must have been a pound of cayenne pepper. I knew that I would not be tasting this stew. The idea of eating goat was bad enough, but I knew that the pepper would not sit well in my very tender intestines. And besides, whatever was still living in them, and breeding, seemed to thrive on spicy food. I went to bed and listened to the others scream and laugh when they finally got around to eating the fire-goat concoction, sometime around two in the morning.

In the morning the peacocks sang their lonely cry. The women and children had left with Bunti in the minibus. The rest of us waited for a jeep to arrive that Govind had summoned from Jodhpur. Two hours later, a tiny open jeep with no doors arrived. I stared at it in disbelief and gravity took my jaw toward the earth. Nigama and I looked at each other in shock. Govind noticed this and said, “In India, anything is possible.” I had heard this before. He and the other men went to work to arrange the jeep to accommodate the load: four wide eyed travelers, Govind, his brother Shakti, a family friend, the driver, all our suitcases, the stove and the propane tank. As it turned out, holding the rollbar while utilizing the propane tank and suitcases as chairs made effective seating for two, accommodating Jan of the Dutch couple, and Govind, both laughing heartily.

I climbed into the back seat where there was no door to close, no seatbelt to hold me in, and furrowed my brows. Since I had no hat, I covered my head with a black veil I had, tying it tightly around my neck to shield me from the sun and wind, and contemplated my death. From the privacy under the cloth, I wept quietly in fear. “Only in India,” Nigama whispered, trying to comfort me through my veil. I relaxed a short time later when it was clear the driver was very cautious and slow, and then the lot of us laughed our way back to Jodhpur.

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A two year old Rajput boy and his family travel to their roots in Rajasthan’s Thar Desert village of Setrawa for a Jagrata; a nightlong invocation of the Hindu goddess, Durga.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

Setrawa, India: The Jagrata, The Haircut & The Goat Sacrifice