The Hindus love me! and My Little Sonargon

Me and Nana
Originally uploaded by Bangla, Biryanis and Badminton.

I was out on one of my walks the other afternoon, when I just happened to run into a Hindu family going for an afternoon stroll. I spoke to them about how upset I was that I missed Durga Puja. To my surprise and delight, they told me that there was another Hindu festival in a few days and I was welcome to join them for the festivities (although, they warned that this festival wouldn’t be quite as big as Durga Puja). How’s that for luck?

Nice Hindus.

I accepted.

The Chowdury family lives behind a beautiful old brick archway that I have often admired as I walk or ride past. As I walked through the archway, my world changed – It was like a secret being revealed before my eyes. The family “backyard” was set amongst three AMAZING old buildings, which very closely resemble those of Bangladesh’s ancient capital, Sonargon, which I visited a few months ago. Naora isn’t exactly known for its tourist attractions (although the Hindu monument at my work has never before seen the levels of tourism as it has in the past six months!), but as I quickly found out, these buildings are over six hundred years old and well worth a look.

The family welcomed me warmly and I was thankful that they’d remembered I was coming. I’d had my doubts about just walking into a house of people I didn’t know, but something my dad told me on the way to the airport in Sydney kept going around in my head: If an opportunity to do something or go somewhere comes up, you have to take it. Wise man, my dad!

I was taken on a tour of the buildings. One of them is a temple, which is still used by the family and neighbouring Hindus, the other two used to be residences, but are now just empty shells. Inside the larger residence, the walls are adorned with paintings and decorative designs carved into the archways. I was astounded.

We then walked through the smaller second residence, out the back into another Chowdury home. I was greeted with the smiling face of a 98-year-old homeopath, sitting amongst his lotions and potions and, to my surprise, Dolly from my house, who was there for a consultation - I never even knew she was into homeopathy. Crazy. Not only is the old man a homeopath, he is also the local post office clerk!! I didn’t even know we had a post office here! Talk about a bizarre new world! It felt a bit like I’d gone to Platform 9¾ and ended up in Diagon Alley.

Back at the main house, the evening was a long one, with a mixture of religious ritual and playing dress-ups. The former involved a visit to a sacred tree and gravesite, the intermittent high-pitched shrills of women waking up the gods, chanting prayers and singing in front of the household shrine and, of course, the puja itself (which was held at approximately 11pm in the temple – offerings of fruit, cakes, flowers and other goodies were made to Lakshim, goddess of wealth and prosperity; more prayers chanted and songs sung).

The latter consisted of a 2-hour sari-donning and make-up session. The girls asked me if I’d like to try on a sari. Since I’d never worn one before, I was delighted at the prospect. And besides, I figured if all the other girls were going to be in saris for puja, I didn’t want to be the odd one out. They chose a hideous pink sari for me, which I would never in a million years choose for myself, but I was having fun and just went with it.

Next, the bling bling came out. Nose rings were inserted, Churi (collective term for “bangles, bangles, bangles”) was painstakingly (and I mean PAINstakingly – I still have the graze on my thumb to prove it) squeezed over hands and up to the elbows, and “tips” (aka “bindi” - those little stickers girls put on their foreheads) were placed with pin-point precision like gunshots between the eyes.

Out came the make-up and this is where Hemma, the beautician in the family, really got to work. As sweat beads gathered on her upper lip, she powdered, lipsticked and eye-lined all the girls. I had a little lipstick added for colour, but I’m afraid I “drew the line” at the eyeliner. I don’t do eyeliner.

It really was a fun girlie time. And people kept telling me how beautiful I was, so the ego got a good massage too.

With ten women and girls looking hot-to-trot, the boys entered the room to inspect and comment as they saw fit, and to take some video footage and photos. It was at this moment that I got to catch up with an old friend: the Light. For those that don’t know or can’t remember, I first met the Light at a Muslim pre-marriage ceremony a few months ago – the Light was attached to a 7 News-style camera and we hung out for well over 10 minutes until it went and made friends with a large cow. I feel very sorry for the viewers of that wedding video (and, subsequently, this Puja video), who will have to sit through so many gruelling minutes of me sitting there like a stuck pig. However, tonight, a consensus had been drawn by all present about me in sari: I was beautiful, and I had to be caught on camera. At one point I was sitting on a chair and one of the girls made an aside comment to her sister and pointed at me – “She looks beautiful sitting like that. Take a photo like that.” I had my photo taken with everyone in the family – separately, together, sitting down, standing up, holding hands, arms around shoulders, hands placed reassuringly on stomachs, smiling faces, serious faces.

It took two hours to put on all the saris and make-up. And as soon as all the photos were taken, we took them all off again. We didn’t even leave them on for puja! I was impressed by the girls’ commitment to femininity. To go to such lengths and take such care in dressing up with jewellery, make-up and hair, and then to take it all off again so soon, was reminiscent of Buddhists sweeping away a sand mandala – these girls are impermanence connoisseurs.

The night ended for me at 11.30 pm, when two “bodyguards” from my house, Shorip and Shahajan (a man of slight build, made to look more menacing by his army-style uniform and big stick), turned up at Mr Hussain’s order to come and walk me home. But the Hindus would not hear of me leaving without being fed (again. I had been given fruit and mishti upon arrival). As I ate my rice and dhal almost the entire family smiled lovingly down upon me. I had barely got the first spoonful to my lips before I was asked how I liked it. Lucky for me, it was delicious. I’d hate to be in that situation and for the food to be inedible.

Before my bodyguards ushered me out of the 600-year-old archway, the Chowdurys invited me back again the next day, and to the next Hindu festival, and the next one after that, and the next one after that.

Finally, a Hindu family has embraced me. I feel accepted. Complete.