The Fragrance of a Jasmine

 

Summer is the time jasmines (malle in Telugu) flood the flower markets in South India. It is a busy and prosperous time for the flower merchants in every town and city and these beautiful, fragrant flowers adorn every occasion in every home. Malle has an important place in Telugu weddings. They are used for garlands of the bride and groom, to decorate wedding altars, and, not to forget, for the bride’s poola jada (plait adorned with flowers). I know many of my friends who got married during the months of April/May, daring the sweltering heat of summer, just to have loads of malle for their wedding.

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                                  My mom Savitri a few days after her wedding (1962)

A few days back I was going through my childhood pictures and my daughters were fascinated with pictures of my sister and me with a poola jada and dressed in traditional attire of pattu parikini (a Kanjeevaram long skirt and a blouse worn by girls on festive occasions). It was almost a ritual during summers to get a flowered plait done at least once. Every summer, my mom would set a date for us to get the poola jada done using the malle flowers that were abundantly available in the market. The program involved meticulous planning and my mom took it very seriously. One particular variety called boddu malle was very popularly used for the poola jada. My brother would be sent to the local flower market in Vijayawada to meet one particular vendor for the ‘best’ boddu malle buds for that perfect jada. He would buy a couple of kilos of them early in the morning. Then my mom would inform a lady who was a distant relative, who specialised in the art of making poola jada. The lady would arrive post lunch and then the important task would start. She was treated with utmost respect and everybody in the house danced attendance around her serving her coffee and snacks and generally keeping her happy.

If you ever harboured a fascination to have a poola jada made for your hair, one absolutely essential criteria was to have long, thick hair – ‘long’ because the poola jada would not look good on short hair; ‘thick’ because if you had thin hair, you would end up with a terrible headache owing to the weight of the poola jada. For those who had neither of these, a hair extension was used to make the plait look longer and thicker, with several knots and elastic bands all along the plait to keep it in tact. Today, as a matter of convenience, ready-made poola jadas are used for brides and flower vendors take orders even a few days before the wedding.

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Posing her best, my sister Aparna (circa 1983)

 

The making of poola jada involved several hours of patience and concentration. First our long hair was neatly plaited till the end which was then adorned with a hair accessory called jada kucchulu (an accessory used to enhance the beauty of the plait). Each malle bud was selected with care and with the help of a white thread, the buds were made into garlands. These garlands, made in different lengths, were then sewed into the plait right from the top of the head and along the length of the plait, carefully tucking away the flowers into beautiful designs. Sometimes other varieties of flowers in different hues like roses and kanakāmbara were used along with malle for added beauty. The lady would take a couple of hours for each of us which meant the entire episode went till 7:00 in the night.

The activity didn’t end there. After the poola jadas were made, my mom would make us wear the traditional pattu parikinis and the gold jewellery while my dad or grandfather would get ready excitedly with their camera, ready to capture the moment. I remember my sister and me grumbling all along for the silliness of the situation. The only fun part of it all was the fuss the elders made around us. We were suddenly treated with a lot of importance and we were fed dinner by my mom or an aunt, narrating a story or two to divert our attention from the discomfort. Bedtime was an agony with capital ‘A’. Lying down on the bed, with the poola jada carefully placed to the side, we spent the rest of the night in just one single position and invariably woke up in the morning with a stiff neck and bleary eyes from lack of sleep. The poola jada lasted the entire day and we would have a dreadful time taking bath and generally going around with the heavy thing following us everywhere.

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Me, super amused with my attire (circa 1983)

                                            

I remember a couple of weeks before school closed for summer, some girls in the school would come with poola jada and school uniform to go with it!!! It was a common sight in school during the pre-summer-days and teachers didn’t mind girls coming with mehendi designs on their hands, heavy silver anklets over their school shoes or flowers in their hair along with black ribbons.  It was a sight to behold!!

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Ready-made poola jadaas (image courtesy: Valli, my friend from Vijayawada)

I must confess here that my sister and I never actually craved to be part of these occasions since it would only mean two days of discomfort. We would just find ourselves in the middle of one every year, because the fun and amusement derived from these gatherings were purely for the adults, who absolutely enjoyed such occasional digressions from their routine life. But over the years, the nostalgic person that I am, I find the experience really unique and a significant part of growing up, carrying with it the essences of the bygone days.

Makar Sankraanti

Of all the festivals we celebrate every year, my most favourite one and the one I look forward to is Makar Sankranti. It is the time when the harvest and the prosperity that it brings to a farmer’s home is celebrated with pomp and revelry. India being predominantly an agrarian society, harvest festivals are believed to bring wealth and well-being to a farmer’s home.

In the southern state of Andhra Pradesh, Sankranti or Pongal as it is popularly called, is celebrated typically on 13th, 14th and 15th January every year. The festival excitement starts a week ahead with schools closing for term break. When we were children, our vacation plans always involved a visit to Godavarru, my maternal grandparents’ village. My grandfather was an agriculturist which meant the visit was a double treat for us as we would witness the farming activities up close. Sacks of paddy reached home in bullock carts and were stored in a huge warehouse which was in the front yard of the house. Paddy was also weighed and distributed among the farmhands, which was generally the practice in villages. They were always paid in kind for these seasonal activities.

The first sign of the Sankranti season was the advent of a Hari Daasu, believed to be an incarnation of sage Narada, a dedicated disciple of Lord Vishnu in Hindu mythology. A balladeer, he would go from village to village singing songs in praise of God and his greatness. Dressed in a typical traditional attire of a saffron coloured dhoti, a garland around his neck, hair tied in a knot, he would go from house to house carrying a brass pot on his head collecting his share of rice from householders. His voice would be heard a couple of lanes away singing and playing the tambura, (a musical instrument used for pitch) and all of us would eagerly wait at the door for him with excitement. A hari daasu is almost never seen or heard today as their successive generations are opting for more lucrative professions because of changing times.

Hari Daasu

Another quintessential practice during Pongal is drawing rangolis (creative patterns using rice flour) in front of every house and sometimes adorning them with gobbemmalu (cow-dung balls decorated with marigold flowers). It is believed that rangoli in front of a home wards off evil eye and keeps the householders happy and prosperous. It is a common sight in smaller towns of Andhra Pradesh even today to see girls in front of their home, drawing beautiful designs either leaving them plain white or filling them with colours. In earlier times people procured cow-dung from a local cattle shed every day during the festival to make gobbemmalu. These were replaced by new ones every morning while old ones were flattened against the wall of the cowshed to dry, eventually to be used as cooking fuel. Many of these practices are now obsolete with the changing times.

Rangoli

The most awaited Sankranti activity for me even today is the bommala koluvu, a display of dolls in an artistic manner on makeshift steps. While many South Indians have the koluvu (or Golu in Tamil Nadu) during the Navratri festival, in Andhra it is a usual practice to have it during Pongal. The koluvu traditionally has dolls arranged on each step with a theme from mythology. My mother would start preparations a month before the festival, getting us children to find useful material and tables to put up the steps. This display would sometimes also have additionally a miniature village, with fields grown by sowing grains on sheets of paper two weeks before the festival. We had a whole box of huts, miniature farm animals and people that we used to make the village with. It is also a tradition to buy a new idol or a doll every year to be kept in the centre of the display. Though there are several versions to explain the significance of bommala koluvu, the most important reason for me is the fun and festivities shared with friends and family during these days. On the day of Sankranti, women and children are invited home and they were served snacks and given a small gift. As children we would go around to visit displays in other friends’ houses and at the end of the day would boast in front of everyone that our bommala koluvu was the best.

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Bommala Koluvu with the miniature village

With two daughters at home, I keep the tradition alive and still celebrate Pongal with the same fervour. Though my koluvu is not as big as what my mother or my grandmother used to have, I still experience the same childish enthusiasm putting up display with the help of my girls.  A few dolls from my mother and grandmother also made their way to my collection and I always arrange these on the first step of my koluvu. I keep each doll and each memory back in the box after the festival and stash them away safely, yearning to open them all again for yet another lively experience.

Tradition for me is keeping these memories alive and maybe if I could, pass them on to my daughters.