A God in Every Speck

The last offering has been given to Agni in the havana kuṇḍa. Through her folk song, the songstress integrates into a Vaidika ritual, and the pantheon of our gods and goddesses, the deification of a mound of mud that lies a little outside my village. I stand up to take the āratī and take my leave to go back to the city. But, my mind is buzzing with the kind of questions which often arise after the realization of the profound, which has existed in plain sight all along.

Nowhere does this integration come together as evocatively as in a village, where life, nature and cosmos are made sacred by that invisible, yet, all-pervading consciousness, which defines this land we call Bhārata.

My village is named Trilokpur – the place which contains all the three realms. The metaphysical significance of this name strikes me only now, as I conjure the unknown faces of my humble village ancestors, who unassumingly lived the high philosophy of our religious texts through this simple act of naming the place they made home.

A narrow mud path runs between two patches of overgrown grass, leading me to the dīh, Deuhare Baba’s abode. He is the first witness of all village activity and the first recipient of all news; of visits, departures, joys, sorrows, births and deaths. He is the confidant of his people. He is the protector of the fields lying outside the village and of those who till that soil.

In the fields beyond this periphery, wheat has been sown. In the month of Jeth, when the wheat ripens to a beautiful gold, it will be harvested. The villagers will prepare pharwar from the first harvest. Wheat grains and coriander seeds will be roasted, ground together and mixed with jaggery. This mixture will be first offered to the land, which produced the wheat, then to Deuhaare Baba, before being distributed among the village folk. The land will rest for a while before paddy is planted. In the month of Kuar, the paddy will be ready. Land will be honored again for the gift it keeps giving. In the harvested land, alongside the ripe paddy glumes, a hearth will be set up. The women will prepare khirbhojan. Songs will be sung to thank the earth and the elements which make it possible to grow this food. Deuhaare Baba will watch benevolently, as the birds will be called to partake of the khirbhojan, as the dogs which protect the khalihaan, will be given their share.

If Maai, my grandmother, was alive she would have come to see me off till this periphery. She would have brought the small brass vessel filled with water, three tulasī leaves floating on the surface. She would have stood facing the east, whispered a prayer and offered dhāra to Deuhare Baba – the soil, water, direction, leaf and language, all at once respected and made sacred through a continuous stream of belief.

The hair on my body responds to the feeling of an invisible presence. As if, the eyes of Deuhare Baba are watching me as I remember my grandmother. I fold my hands in reverence, giving in to the involuntary emotion rising in my throat, and bow quietly to this land, my land.

A few hundred kilometers east of Trilokpur, two villages are in competition over their name. One calls itself Isaru, the other Esharou, both pronounce the name the same. Perhaps a family conflict lies in their past, maybe a case of splintered claims and ownership. But at the main highway that splits these two villages is a humble installation. Most who pass by would not even notice it. Two figures draped in old, soiled fabric, seated facing the village on their mounts. Here, Deuhare Baba is called Dih Baba, and alongside him is his consort. They are the guardian deities of the village. And even as Isaru and Esharou compete over their name, inhabitants of both villages pause here and take a moment of gratitude and prayer, whenever they pass by.

A few hundred meters into the village, another innocuous shrine comes into view. Cows idle lazily here, turning their curious eyes to the rare visitors that venture. A dog sits in the shade of a large bull, its ears keen to the surroundings. Under an old banyan tree, a small shrine marks the region of Sati mā, my kula devī. She is mostly forgotten now, and the neglect around her shrine reflects it. We are led here by a cousin, but even he has an amused smile on his face as he guides us. As if to say - why are you folks so curious about her?

Indeed, engagement with the kula devī has dropped in the past three generations - and even her memory threatens to dissipate. We are here through a personal resolve to re-engage with our clan deities, and while one side of the family claims the kula devī is Mā Kāli, another says it’s Sati mā. A minority insists it’s actually Mā Durgā. In all cases though, the clan connection to the divine feminine is evident.

And on the other side of the village is yet another shrine, this time to Tribhuvan Deva, the clan ancestor who, centuries ago, migrated here from Ayodhya with his brothers and settled the village. Among the family branches settled here, veneration for Tribhuvan Deva is high - he is solemnly remembered as the one who brought us here.

In this single trip then, we establish reconnection with the grāma devatā, kula devī, and pitṛ deva that have watched over Esharou/Isaru for generations. No doubt we have visited them before - but in past lives. In this life it is my first time here, but certainly not the last.

Dīh Baba and Sati Mā watch over all of Avadh, Purvanchal, and parts of Bihar/Jharkhand. As clans migrated and spread in the previous centuries, they took the deities with them and settled them in newer villages. The implications are profound. For generations, these deities have watched over hundreds of thousands of people. Trilokpur, Esarou, Rudrapur, Gonda - these are only a few of the village names. When we think of a clan, a community, a group of kinsfolk united by common ancestries, common traditions, and common deities - these are found settled along the tributaries of the Gaṅgā. From tree to stream, stone to pebble, soul to dust - a god in every speck.