Today is Basant Panchami. Basant is one of richest words you came come across. It evokes the stark yellow of mustard fields and marigold flowers. Basant Panchami has roots in the worship of Saraswati. But in its absolute terms it celebrates the coming of Spring (Basant Ritu). There’s something about Basant and laughter. They go together. Like little kids tossed about on high-flying swings and kites.
Kites. Flying high on Basant Panchami. Spring with its easy breeze. Tugging on strings on roof tops and in unkempt parks. Basanti. Not yellow, but the colour of spring. The intangible colour of life springing back like young shoots in the field.
My own introduction to Basant Panchami was outside of home. Our SouthIndian Saraswati prayers were offered during Navaratri. As a kid, I pondered over the hands of my female friends who had deep red Henna patterns on their hands to celebrate. In 2000, I had an incredible time accompanying friends to the dargah of Nizamuddin Auliya. You can’t help but wonder how it would have been in earlier centuries, when Sufis would have entered the dargah in the middle of much music and incense to offer flowers. The syncretic culture of Sufism adopted this ritual of welcoming bird-chirps into the fold of the cacophony of the Dargah.
The dargah is a religious oasis of sorts in the madness that is Delhi. One of the many. The legacy of Sufis seems to reside in their walls. This is from something I wrote a long while back -
This maze of history, tragedy and orgy of a million festivals. This place of faith has a lot of poetry strewn about. In its images and in its haphazard structure. Additions over the centuries. I don’t know which is more sacred to me. Hazrat Nizamuddin’s place of rest, or the great poet Khusrau’s grave. Which is more important. Divine message or human poetry? It’s like the Taj Mahal and Humayun’s tomb. You don’t compare. …
I want to go back to that dargah. It’s noisy and familiar. And you don’t really have to think unless you want to. We pass by the baoli. You know the story. Ghiyasuddin Tughluq wanted to build something somewhere in Tughlaqabad and he hated the Auliya. So his workers could only go visit the Auliya at night. Ghiyasuddin took the oil for the lamps away. Oh this is not the age of the motorcar. You need lamps. And then the water in the baoli was blessed and it burnt the wick they say. And thus was born Chirag Delhi. That’s what they say. Start a new city here, and you will die. The city won’t. It’ll just eat you. Out of love.
The story of spontaneity, love and Basant is old. Nizamuddin Aulia was in deep despair after the death of his young nephew. He is said to have stopped smiling and have become a recluse. Amir Khusrau was unable to bear the Aulia’s sadness and went hunting for cheery ideas. As luck and climate change would have it, Khusrau saw a group of women who seemed to be singing and frolicking with flowers. He realized this was pay dirt! Music, flowers and spring! Deciding that his Aulia deserved an offering of flowers too – he dressed up as a woman and teased the Aulia. Discovering the truth of this fun woman, Aulia smiled! And spring came like a leaping tiger cub!
Eroticism and spring go unmistakably together. Or maybe that’s just me. A lot of Sufi poetry (or even Bhakti poetry for that matter) eroticizes the idea of God – the notion of a union or being coloured in the same hues. Sample this – perhaps one of my favourite pieces by Amir Khusrau.
Mohay apnay hi rung mein rung lay,
Tu to saaheb mera Mehboob-e-Ilaahi;
Mohay apnay hi rung mein……
Humri chundariya, piyaa ki pagariya,
Woh to donon basanti rung day;
Tu to saaheb mera …….
Jo kuch mangay rung ki rungaai,
Mora joban girvi rakhlay;
Tu to saaheb mera…….
Aan pari darbaar tehaaray,
Mori laaj saram sab rakh lay;
Tu to saaheb mera Mehboob-e-Ilaahi,
Mohay apnay hi rung mein rung lay.(Trans.)
Dye me in your hue, my love,
You are my man, oh beloved of Almighty;
Dye me in your hue.
My scarf, and the beloved’s turban,
Both need to be dyed in the hue of spring;
Whatever be the price for dyeing, ask for it,
You can have my blossoming youth in mortgage;
Dye me in your hue.
I have come and fallen at your door step,
For you to safeguard my pride, my dignity,
You are my man, Oh beloved of Almighty,
Dye me in your hue.
The rites of climate change – dyed yellow to please Spring. Kite-flyers, bangle-sellers, yellow-kurtas, high-swings and other hyphenated acts of joy.
nexus between saraswati and basant:
season undoubtedly has catalytic a effect on arts culture and music..higher expression of music romance nad nature flow spontaneously in such a milieu.
its no wonder we then that we celebrate saraswatis birth on basant panchami.
she is the goddes of learning
and arts and music.
glory be to Her.
here is another khusro couplet
which fits the bill
Sakal bun phool rahi sarson
Ambva borey, tesu phooley,
koyal boley daar daar,
Aur gori karat singhar,
malania garhwa le aayin karson
Sakal bun phool rahi sarson
.ashu
Ashu: Quite a nexus that!
And for the benefit of the non-Hindi readers – the couplet that Ashu quotes can be read here with a translation as well.
(Trans.)
The yellow mustard is blooming in every field,
Mango buds are clicking open, other flowers too;
The koyal chirps from branch to branch,
And the maiden tries her make-up,
The gardener-girls have brought bouquets.
Colourful flowers of all kinds,
In hands everyone’s bringing;
But Aashiq-rung (the lover), who had promised to come
To Nizamuddin’s house in spring,
Hasn’t turned up – its been years.
The yellow mustard is blooming in every field.
translation of these things is usually
slopps-the lingual beuety is usually
absent.
just a question
is it not mohe apne hi rang me rang le nizam?
i mean the word nizam is it part of composition?
finally reminds me of another
aa piya in nainan mein
jo palak dhaa.np tohe lu.n
naa mai.n dekho.n aur ko
na thoe dekhan du.n
.ashu
This one’s a Hall-of-Fame post, Neha. Really, really good.
krishna
Lets take this 19th century Amir Khusro poetry and update it for 21st century sms generation.
Mohe rang de basanti rang de basanti rang de basanti, yaara!
Do you understand at least now why people all over India love RDB, except perhaps NRIs and wannabe NRIs like that loathsome Uma ?
btw it is Mohe not Mohay, you southie.
Ashu: I think when it’s sung by Qawwals you have a chorus in the background with a refrain “Khwaja Nizamuddin Auliya.. ” etc.
Km: Thankings!
Anonymous: LOL! I happened to love that song. It was the movie that I had a problem with. Isn’t it sad when a “southie” knows the language better than you? Hindi/ Hindavi/ Urdu is wasted on you!
Hi Neha
I’m writing to tell you that we have started a small project to syndicate Sri Lankan web logs.
We are still in early beta, adding features and new blogs as we go..
Please help us by visiting the site… tell us what you think?
Also, if you think its worthwhile, please can you link to it from your blog so as to help get the word out.
Thanks for your kind help!
Oops. I forgot the url. It is
http://www.zsri.com
Thanks
THIS is the post that made me feel warm inside….posted the comment in the next one by mistake…
oh, so its not just margazhi and thirupaavai for religion cum eroticism, i guess. and why does that story remind me of twelfth night?
zSri: Did link to you from GV. Will give you my feedback as it comes!
Chandni: Well.. Spring is warmer and all!
Sudha: Oh yeah.. the revered Maargazhi Poo and what not. I suppose eroticism is one way of reaching god – but the interesting homoeroticism that comes bundled with it seems to be missed by the prudes.
Well – You have to admit – the idea of dressing up as a woman to “amuse” one’s master is most Shakespeare. Except this would have happened in the late 13th century and early 14th century.
Hi Neha
Really appreciate your help!
thanks
zSri
That was a really, really lovely post. Wish spring would make an appearance here in London too, sooner rather than later.
homo eroticism :O .. where in tirupaavai?
well, the woman grieving someone’s death and a guy dressing up to amuse her was just too much of a coincidence for me but i guess it was just a coincidence.
Sudha: Nizamuddin Auliya was a man. :) Another man – Amir Khusrau dressed up as a woman to amuse him.
As regards Andal’s Thiruppavi – the notion of unmarried women falling in love with God and singing – and men singing the same songs – remember there is an element of almost physical love in this.
Yup. I suppose I see it.
and i totally forgot tantrism ……
i must be getting senile/dumb.