Mahalakshmi

पोस्ट मराठीमध्ये वाचण्यासाठी इथे उपलब्ध आहे.

Mahalakshumya aalya
kashachya paayee?
sukh-samruddhichya paayee 

“The Mahalakshmis have arrived!” 
“On what steps do they tread?” 
“On the steps of happiness and prosperity!”

Welcoming the Mahalakshmis into our household is a beautiful, synchronized ritual performed by two ladies working in perfect tandem. Beginning right at the Tulsi plant outside the door, one person dips her palms into a metal platter (tamhan) filled with water mixed with turmeric and lime, leaving auspicious handprints of liquid red and yellow along the floor. Following closely behind, the second person carries the sacred brass masks of the Goddesses on a tray. All along the way, she chants aloud the blessings the deities bring with their steps.

At the altar and by the Tulsi plant, she calls out, “They come on the steps of righteousness and divinity!” Moving past the wardrobes, she chants, “They come on the steps of gold and silver, of diamonds and rubies!” Walking into the kitchen, she proclaims, “They come on the steps of abundance and grain!” Continuing this beautiful procession, they finally reach the sanctum where the deities are to be installed, where the Goddesses come to rest gracefully on the steps of eternal happiness and prosperity.

This grand arrival triggers a whirlwind of activity at least ten days in advance. Houses are deep cleaned, and traditional festive snacks (faral) are prepared. Back in my school days, I loved creating new decorative items for the festival at home. Polishing the brass masks of the Goddesses until they gleamed, and carefully painting their eyebrows, eyes, lips, and gandha was my favorite task. My sister and I would enthusiastically plunge into the preparations a week prior.

In the older days, we used three legged metal stands to set up the Gauris. The arrangement was a tower of tradition with a large round tin box at the base, a smaller tin box on top of it, and a metal pot (gadva) crowning the structure. The stands were then draped in elegant sarees, and the masks were fitted onto the pots. The boxes beneath were filled with traditional offerings typically given to married women (sawashna), such as grains, almonds, betel nuts, turmeric roots, coins, and dry dates. One of the boxes would always be filled with sweet festive delicacies like laddus and karanjis. Since I never had a sweet tooth, and my mother always said that the Gauris represent married daughters returning to their maternal home, I would tease her, saying, "If they are daughters like me, fill the boxes with savory chaklis and chivda instead!" Mother would smile and reply, "You can do that when you manage the setup, let me offer sweets to my daughters."

Times have changed, and Mother has now replaced the old tins with readymade fiber frames and masks. The festive snacks, instead of being hidden inside boxes, are now laid out beautifully in front of the Goddesses. I truly appreciate this trait of my mother, her willingness to evolve with the changing times while keeping the underlying emotion pristine. She refuses to cling stubbornly to rigid rituals.

Because the day was spent cleaning the house and setting up the elaborate backdrop, Mother preferred bringing the Gauris home in the evening. Even if everything was ready by noon, she would say, "Let them not walk in the scorching afternoon sun; let them arrive in the pleasant evening breeze." When I was very young, Mother would manage the complex draping of both Gauris all by herself. One year, I asked her if I could drape one of the Goddesses. It turned out beautifully, and since that day, preparing the Gauris has become our shared ritual, one is styled by Mother, and the other by me. Once the brass masks are set and the traditional vermilion and turmeric holders (karandes) are placed in their hands, the Gauris truly embody the divine, their faces instantly crackle with life. In most households, Lord Ganpati sits right in the middle with the two Gauris flanking Him. In our home, however, grandmother insisted that Ganpati should never sit between the Gauris. We never found out the reason, but we still place Ganpati to the side. On the first day of their arrival, our traditional offering consists of simple comfort food: fenugreek greens (methichi bhaji), pearl millet flatbread (bajri chi bhakri), and lentil-rice (varan bhaat).

The second day features a grand feast centered around sweet puran polis. When grandmother was alive, a staggering sixteen different vegetable dishes were prepared, today, we make five. It amazes me how I transitioned from a young girl who only handled the decorations into someone who actively cooks the festive meal. Today, the responsibility of preparing the five vegetables, the spicy-tangy panchamrut, the yogurt-based kadhi, and five varieties of chutneys and salads rests entirely on my shoulders, while Mother still handles the puran polis and the savory amti soup.

After offering the food to the Gauris, we host a traditional feast. While it is ritualistically meant for married women, our feast is a joyous gathering of everyone young, old, relatives, and neighbors alike. While the guests are still dining, the house begins buzzing again with preparations for the evening Haldi-Kumkum ceremony. The women who visit our house can always easily distinguish between the Gauri draped by Mother and the one draped by me. After my marriage, I turned this into a playful riddle for my husband. Despite both Gauris looking incredibly similar, he correctly identifies my work every single time. This second day is incredibly exhausting. By evening, I am completely drained, and I look at my mother with immense admiration, wondering how she coordinates this massive day year after year without a single sign of fatigue.

To my sister and me, the two Gauris always felt like reflections of the two of us.

The third day brings the emotional departure (visarjan). After offering curd-sugar-rice and traditional steamed dumplings (kanavale), Mother gently nudges the masks to symbolize their departure. The moment she moves them, the lifelike warmth in the statues instantly vanishes, returning them to mere metal and cloth. Through all the shifting tides of life and even during adverse financial times, Mother never let the grandeur or devotion of this festival diminish. Today, the Goddesses have blessed her in return, leaving her with absolutely no lack in life. On the night of the second day, Mother closes the lids of the flat vermilion containers and leaves them before the deities. The next morning, she opens them to check for footprints or divine impressions. When she spots faint, delicate lines etched in the powder, a deep, serene sense of fulfillment washes over her face.

(Translated from Marathi with the help of AI)