Walking Down the Kadals of Herath

It takes me days to clear the sacred altar space created for special religio-cultural festivals and get everything back to where it was, physically and metaphorically. Partly because I want to savour the remnants of the sights and smells of those ceremonies. And partly because well, letting go is hard. Growing up, these festivals and celebrations were filled with heady excitement – at the opportunity to eat delicious treats (have you ever noticed how blissfully delicious and satiating prasad or phaake batta – food cooked during fasting days are? Even the humble mong’e daal with monje – moong dal with kohl rabi and khaenje oloo – the poor yet magically rich cousin of dum oloo, taste like a slice of heaven), or wear something new (all hail ‘wah wah palav’) or receive a monetary gift.

Every year, without fail, my grandfather would beckon my brother and me on the morning of Salaam to give us our Herath Kharch – for non-Kashmiris, Herath Kharch is cash placed in an envelope or directly in the depth of your hollow, cup-shaped, expectant palm which you can use to spend any way you wish while Salaam is the day after Herath or in simple terms is the day everyone else in the world but us, celebrate Maha Shivratri 😁 yes we were a step ahead clearly and it’s all a little confusing but stay with me. . .  My brother and I would shower early and be ready in our new clothes (even if it was a school day – full marks for commitment AND optimism!). Daddyji (either suited and booted because ‘angrezon ke zamaane ke doctor, ha ha!!’ IYKYK 😜 or wearing his ironed shirt with crisply starched pure white, straight cotton pyjamas) sat at the dining table. ‘I have a cash prize for you’, he would say – he rarely ever spoke to my brother and me in Kashmiri. It was intriguing and novel because my grandmum always spoke to us in nothing but Kashmiri.

I digress or perhaps, amble along the kadals of some memories that resurface during these times. We would walk towards the table – my brother would lead as the younger grandchild (being the older sibling, it was my job to thrust him forward and get an idea of the lay of the land so to speak) and receive a grand sum of Rs. 10 and 3 Cadbury’s éclairs. The purple and gold wrappers of the eclairs shone like veritable navaratnas heightening the acceptance experience and reducing the blow of having received just ONE crisp ten rupee note. Yes, a moment of silence for those that received said gifts growing up at a particular point in the space-time continuum. I don’t know about you but the concept of inflation never quite landed in my home when I was growing up, particularly, in fact dare I say, especially for the purposes of grandparental Herath Kharch 😁 And even though the only indexation that took place was in chocolate currency (yes, I will have you know that we did graduate to a 5 star bar at some point!), we did receive other kharch that were significantly higher in value, I grew up (did I though;-) ) and left home to first study, then work and then move after marriage, Herath Kharch is probably one of the sweetest and most enduring legacies of my childhood. Calling my parents on Herath and Salaam even now, and hearing Mama saying, ‘Chyon Herath Kharch chhumay sheerith thovmut’ (fret not, your gift money for Herath is safely with me and you will receive it when we meet next) is probably the thing I most look forward to hearing each year, turning me into a five-year-old once again.

With the passing years though, there is something else I look forward to and long for during this exceptionally transformational period of Maha Shivratri. It is the time after. . . .after the pooja (the actual Vatuk Pooza is carried it in all its splendour and glory back home by my mum-in-law and my parents so what I do here in the U.K. is a smaller scale version) including the magical posh pooza – shower of flowers on the bride and groom and the bells ringing to the sound of the leelas and divine incantations of several Adi Shankaracharya mantras, after the consumption of the scrumptious saal (the staples are dum oloo and ledder tszaaman of course but this time we had mujje chettin – grated white radish in yoghurt with green chillies, nader yakhin – lotus stem cooked with a gravy of fennel infused yoghurt and aromatic spices like cinnamon, cardamon and cloves and matar palak – spinach and peas) and after all the clearing up. It is the time after sound of the footsteps going up the stairs, the whirr of the electric toothbrush, the gentle humming in the bathroom and the not so gentle rustling of sheets that slowly stops. It is the time of night when everything has finally been done and everyone within and without is asleep except me (please fear not, it is not the time I turn into a nocturnal creature and unleash my vampiric wrath on the unsuspecting world outside).

I sit in front of Shiv Shambhu, unable to take my gaze off his majestic, detached being. The candlelight first flickers, then finds itself in a steadfast flame. This is Hara-Ratri for me, the night of Hara and it is precisely this silence of the night that I yearn for. The ego is decimated, I see how small I really am and how fragile life is. I see the ultimate truth and acknowledge the necessary but irrelevant noise around. I submit. The tears stream down my cheeks like Ma Ganga has been released from Shiva’s locks for just one night. They cleanse, heal and nourish. I close my eyes and in this moment all I can think of is the verse from Adi Shankaracharya’s Nirvana Shatakam:

na punyam na papam na saukhyam na duhkham

na mantro na tirtham na veda na yajnah

aham bhojanam naiva bhojyam na bhokta

chidananda rupah shivo’ham shivo’ham

{I have transcended both virtue and sin, as also pleasure and pain; even chants or sacred places, Vedas or sacrifices. I am neither the enjoyer (subject), nor the enjoyed (object), nor the enjoyment (action); for I am Bliss-Consciousness. I am Shiva and Shiva is me.}

Translation source: Chinmya U.K.