SANDY’S Search for “PRABHAS-Her Bahubali”

Sometimes some dreams are so alive like beautiful memories that you want them shared with people. This one is about my bestie S. Sandhya (Sandy's) infatuation over the renowned South Indian Tollywood actor Prabhas Raju.This post is just about her thought of portrait for her dream man which might be similar to the dream of many thousands girls alike her. Hope I am able to portrait it according to her feelings without hurting anybody's emotions.

It was around 2 a.m on January 1, 2015.  

The whole world was making merry but we both chose to just stay off from the hustle & bustle to enjoy the serenity of nature at Yumthang Valley, Sikkim between the mountains and snow. We both trekked all day long and to shred off our tiredness we uncorked a bottle of red wine. In between our sips from our glasses on the shaded roof-top and, discussing about the coming year which had already crossed our door-step, we saw the platters of snow falling slowly on the floor. But, then, after some moment we both sat in silence just enjoying the beauty of nature. Suddenly Sandy held my hands and said, “I am losing him”. I was amazed and asked her, “Who?” She reoccupied her seat on the couch in front of me, grabbed her wine glass and murmured, “Prabhas”. Instead of getting excited relaxed on my couch, I took a sip from the glass and   started surfing though my laptop. After searching for about five minutes, I downloaded a photo of Prabhas and turned the laptop towards her saying, “See, your Prabhas in this photo”. Sandy slided from her couch to sit on the floor and without looking towards the image she answered, “I don’t want him”. Thinking that she has gone nuts I mimicked her and joined her on the floor, saying, “Youuuuu don’t want him, then whom do you want mannnn?” Sandy paused for few seconds and looked towards the downloaded image, “He is Darling Prabhas. He isn’t my real Prabhas”. I changed the image but she was adamant, “This is Mr Perfect Prabhas”. I was losing my patience because my thought was that it must be the wine effect making Sandy hallucinating But then she answered, “I am searching for the real Prabhas not “Prabhas- the Young Rebel Star”. I answered, “So, here is he the real Prabhas”. Sandy denied, “No, these are the various characters played by him, where is the real one?” I said, “How could you just get the one damn?” She murmured again, “I wish I could”.
 

Being from North-east I was always acquainted with both Hollywood and Bollywood movies.

 As I grew up and went for my grads where Sandy became one of my friends, I was introduced to “Prabhas” photo on social network as being Sandy’s boy-friend. This was the truth I believed for almost 4 years. During my post-grads when Sandy became my path-partner that was the first time when I came to know that “Prabhas” was actually one of South-Indian Tollywood actors. I still remember Sandy forced me to watch his film “Ragavendra” for seven times and she never really liked how I criticize him. Of-course, after that I watched almost all movies of him with Sandy playing my great interpreter.

It has been almost 10 years of friendship between us and I have seen different shades of Sandy’s emotions. But, I guess this was one of the most intimate emotions which she intended to keep as secret. Her love for ‘Prabhas’ and the most important part was she knew she won’t be able to get him. Without disturbing the flow of her emotions I opened another wine bottle & poured in her glass. 

Sandy continued, “You know Joyee I kinda know the truth that Prabhas can never really be mine but I wish he could have been mine.” She paused again and said, “If he would not have been a star I wish”. I gestured as a sign of agreement. She continued, “It has been almost 12 years that I searched for him everywhere but alas haven’t found him yet”. I responded, “Yes, during our Post-grads, we had engaged all the guys of our class who hardly knew anything about Prabhas to search for him in every social network.” Sandy added, “Do you remember Joyee how we both had gone to Hyderabad to search for him without a clue at all.” I punched her hard on her left arm and said, “How can I not remember damn. We waited for him in-front of a big house which some stranger said to be his house? We both were starving and it was damn cold on that December 25 in 2012.” She looked towards me and suddenly we broke into heavy laughter. It was one of the most unforgettable adventurous memories of our life. Suddenly she stopped and said, “My madness for him engulfed every one of my friends. Guess, I am having a disturbing effect.” By this time I came to know the magic of wine was working. Embracing her, I replied, “No, my heroine we all are friends. Friends do anything for friendship &&&& you know our gang is the Coolest gang right. We think different &&&&” Sandy added, “We do different things to achieve the awesomeness”.

Sandy continued, “Hell, Joyee if I could have met him once.” I said, “Of course, you can meet him and it’s not impossible”. Sandy looked towards me and said, “Not, like a star but a normal person. I mean, a boy next door who has a care free life. I mean, doesn’t he feel obsessed by wearing the mask of stardom every day. Every morning, he has to wear the mask and run throughout the day, not getting the time to peel it off at night”. I said, “Who knows he might enjoy his stardom”. She replied, “Might be he not”. I was stunned and asked, “Why? And, howww do you know, darling?” Sandy said, “Why because his eyes seem to reflect it and how it is. I can feel it.” Sandy took a pause, “I find him to be a paradox who is neither happy nor sad. He smiles at pretty things and laughs at funny incidents but somewhere at night, he might become a mess of emotions and prays that he might disappear somewhere.” 

I just kept quiet and looked towards her who was staring somewhere in an unknown horizon and thought, “I had never seen this emotion of Sandy. Was it love or just hallucination? Unlike other fans of Prabhas I had never saw her pasting poster of him in her room or keeping his photos cuddled in her books. Neither did she fantasize herself like other crazy fans writing posts on his social media page but yet she had a soft corner for him in the heart. She used to criticize his works when she found it not satisfying. During this journey of 10 years of friendship, many guys asked her out but she turned out every single proposal not because she didn’t like them but because might be she found them in-compatible to the man of her dreams “Prabhas”.


There was a rush of adrenaline running through my nerves because I thought Sandy was caught in her imaginary which she may never overcome. I got up and touched her shoulders, asking quietly, “Hey, what will you do if he gets married?” She remained silent for some time and turned towards me. Shrugging her shoulders, she responded, “What shall I do? He will lose me. I will have some one better than him.” Saying so, she placed her hands around me and gave me a tight embrace.We laughed so hard that our bellies burst out. I was relieved that she is still real.

I freed myself from the embrace and asked,” Ifff you know you cannot meet him then why did you say that you are losing him?” Sandy took a sip from her glass of wine and answered, “See, his next film Bahubali will be released worldwide and most probably in Hindi, so his fan base will double. He shall now be a worldwide famous personality not only among the South Indian community but on the national level, so, probably he shall never know that somewhere a girl from Assam fantasized about him. Hence, I will be lost among the millions of the fans somewhere.” She sighed.

 I tried to empathize with her nude feelings and brought Sandy back to our couches to pour more red wine in our glasses. We raised the toast together and Sandy screamed at the top of her voice, standing on her heels, “In the name of Prabhas”. I relaxed back and said, “Cheers. May his film Bahubali be a blockbuster hit.”

This was the first time probably that I wished something straight from heart for someone whom we both would never meet. 

Sandy responded, “Cheers”.

 Behind us Pink Floyd’s “High Hopes” raised its allocation through my laptop to welcome the New Year’s break of dawn and we saw the first ray of sun sliding through the Sunrise point of the Yumthang Valley.

 
It has almost been a year since this incident had taken place. Our wish for Bahubali had come true. It had been a mega-blockbuster. But, my heroine’s search for her fantasy continues still today in-between work breaks. She hasn’t been successful, yet. 

But, one thing I understood from this incident is that fantasies are somewhere necessary that makes ones feels too close to their loved ones. Ultimately though it might be left as a sweet un-accomplished dream yet its existence does helps one to survive through with a ray of hope that someday their dreams shall be turned into reality.

The beautiful festival from Seemandhra explored by me with the help of my bestie Sandy which helped me to visualize that every tradition has got a scientific explanation of it's performance.  

Samralu – The Experience Of A Festival Celebrating Daughters In A Seemandhra Village

One of my happiest memories are of Samralu, the festival of giving thanks, celebrated in every village of Seemandhra in July. I had the chance to experience it thanks to Sandy, my best friend, whose family invited me to their village for the festival.

It was late July, 2011 and the heat of Kolkata, combined with the traffic jams, was making life difficult at R.G. Kar Medical college, where we were posted for post-graduate training. The phone call by Sandy’s dad inviting us for Samralu was just the break we needed, and we set off after a few days. Sandy had visited her village several times yet would be witnessing this festival for the first time, so we were both really excited. We boarded the Falaknuma Express from Howrah station at 6.45 a.m., and Sandy’s elder sister with family joined us at Bhubaneswar. Around 5.30 p.m., we reached our destination Palasa, where Uncle (Sandy’s dad) and some other villagers had come to greet us, excited that someone from other part of India had come to their village to witness the festival.

A local tempo (a bigger version of the auto rickshaw) took us over a rough, red-soiled road to Chen-wanka, about half an hour away, a small town of around 40 families. We stopped at a tall Hanuman idol, and we were told (Sandy interpreting for me, making it easy for us to converse) that this was the mukhya dwar (main entrance) to the village, protected by the deity.

The three day festival was to start the next day. There were decorative lights everywhere. That evening, we went to the main temple at the heart of the village, where the whole village seemed to have gathered. Sandy’s dad introduced me to the main members of the village panchayat, including theMukhia – the headman, who was delegating festival responsibilities to the villagers. Every panchayat member was wearing around the neck an Assamese fulam gamcha, a hand-woven towel. Immediately my heart was overwhelmed with an unknown emotion. I asked the Mukhia whether he had ever visited Assam. He had not.

“How do you know about this tradition of gamcha?” I asked.

“I know it’s from Assam & that it’s given as a sign of respect and honour. So adopted this custom in the 1940s, and get these from Assam for these festivals!” he replied.

On the way to Sandy’s home I asked Uncle what the festival was about. He answered, “During this festival the girls from each home are invited to their father’s home along with family. They are given new dresses and fed with their favourite food.”

“Why?” I asked. “You see,” he answered, “Usually married daughters did not get enough rest at their in-laws’ place, they could not spend much time with their parents and siblings. Although nowadays it might not be so, this is just a tradition which we villagers have tried to keep alive. It’s a get together of family members every year.”

“Why is it called a festival of thanks-giving for the village?” I asked.

Uncle answered, “We believe our village is like our daughter who does so much for her family. We build homes over her, plough her to sow the grains and reap the fruits. She always is on our side and bears with us. At times of need we sell her but still she remains silent and sacrifices herself. Just like a girl is uprooted from her family, gets married into an unknown family, and bears all the responsibilities for the next generation. So we started this festival where we pay homage to the Devi of our village.”

Interesting! I asked about the rituals of the festival. “Every village has their own Devi who protects them. She is summoned asAmmoru. Amma means mother. Every girl is called Amma. You’ll see when it starts tonight,” I was told.http://www.womensweb.in/2015/12/samralu-the-experience-of-a-festival-for-daughters-in-a-seemandhra-village/

I waited with barely suppressed excitement. Around midnight a blowing of horns and beating of drums filled the air, startling me. We rushed outside where a great gathering was passing by holding large baskets of flowers and gas lanterns. At the front was the main pandit (priest) of the village dressed in red dhoti, accompanied by a red-saree-draped lady representing the deity. The gathering reached the temple of the Devi. “Inside the temple, only after a flower from the idol falls on the lap of the lady dressed in red, is it considered that the Devi has accepted the invitation of entering the village for three days,” Sandy told me.

“Does this really happen?” I asked. “What if the flower doesn’t fall?”

“Then there won’t be any Samralu celebration,” answered Sandy’s father, above the din of the beating drums.

At this point, the flower must have fallen, for a large crowd of women pushed past me and ran towards the red-clad lady who was holding a large basket above her head, walking towards the main temple. They spread their saree pallus in front of her to walk on – she was now the deity, and must not put her feet on land. Some of them dancing – the celebrations had started.

On reaching the temple, she was welcomed by some other ladies, who washed her feet with water and touched them. She went within the temple and placed the flower over a podium. Thus, the deity came within the village to celebrate Samralu along with the villagers, everyone of who were there to welcome their daughter home.

We were up early at 4 a.m. the next day. Most of the family were already up and dressed in their finest. As we finished a quick breakfast, we heard the rolling of drums outside. A gathering stood in-front of Sandy’s house, headed by another lady dressed in red, holding a pot on her left side of the waist and a bunch of neem leaves in her right hand. Aunty (Sandy’s mother) rushed outside drenched the lady with a bucket of water although she was already wet. Next, she placed some of last night’s cooked rice in her pot. The lady mixed the rice with the ingredients within the pot, ate some of it and placed the left-overs on the plate brought by aunty. She brushed everybody with the bunch of the neem leaves she was holding, as a sign of blessing, and everyone touched her feet.

I was curious at this exchange and asked Uncle why Aunty put left-over rice in her pot. Surely, we should offer fresh food asprasad for a deity? Uncle smiled. “She the Devi, who is supposed to be a part of the family, even if a guest. If breakfast is finished, a family member will happily have yesterday’s left-overs. So she is happy with what we give her, and something has to be given, as we cannot have a guest leave without eating something.” I nodded.

After that, we went visiting some of Sandy’s relatives, whom we too, invited over to her place for lunch the next day. A special invitation came for both of us from every home of the village for lunch or dinner. I felt as if I were the daughter of the village whom they wanted to show their love for her.

At sunset, we visited the main temple where the ladies of the village got together to perform the next ritual. There a large boat had been decorated beautifully. All the ladies were offering bangles, kumkum, whole grains within it. Aunty explained, “In the evening this boat will be sailed to our deity’s home. It’s a representation of showing gratitude to her for the protection she gives us. The Mukhia will offer clothes to her tomorrow.”

In the evening, there was a song and dance programme put up by the local performers. Epics were sung, along with a Radha-Krishna dance, a fisherman dance, and a warrior dance – this was very interesting, where skilled dancers showed off moves for self-protection. The dancers were all boys, some of them disguised as girls.

The next day, too, started before the break of dawn. The men of the village set out to the nearby forest to cut five big trees, among them banyan and neem, to make a huge chariot to be used for the final ceremony on the third day of the festival. Each tree was worshipped and apologized to, before it was cut down.

Sandy and I were given haldi paste to apply to our bodies. We were told that this was a natural sunscreen and antiseptic, and also a sign of good health and prosperity. I remembered something told by my grandmother in my childhood, “Every festive ritual has got a scientific reason behind it which has been transformed into some-sort of misconceptions by some orthodox people who want to show their power over the others.” Soon, guests began to arrive and were greeted by Sandy’s family. By now I, too, had become a part of their family, and every guest interacted with me, too. I was overwhelmed by their simplicity, and the affection they showed towards me, and I could easily speak to them thanks to my interpreter.

For lunch, garelu was served with chicken at the very beginning of the feast, followed by rice, dal, vegetable and fish curry, ending with sweets. Every one sat on floor to eat irrespective of who they were, and ate with pleasure. Gifts of clothes with haldi, kumkum, and bangles were distributed to the daughters. After that, Sandy and I visited every home to which we had been invited. We refused any food offered there, but were pressed upon to eat with a lot of love and affection. By the time we returned to Sandy’s home our tummies were so full!

Evening skipped in quite fast, and again the local performers came to give their performances. But, today I noticed a new thing. The boys who were disguised as girls were wooing some girls of the village, interacting in a 1950s fashion. I was quite surprised by this and asked one of Sandy’s elder brothers about this. “In ancient times the girls weren’t allowed to get out much except for drawing water from well, or farm related work. So there wasn’t much chance of boys and girls meeting,” he answered. “During this festival every year the boys disguised as girls come to the village for this programmes, looking for girls on the first day. The next day they would have an interaction among themselves. If they liked each other, then their families would interact and get them engaged. Nowadays although there are no such restrictions, this ritual is maintained to remember that.” So this was a way to get married in the old days!

When we returned home, there was a large group of villagers waiting to meet us. Here I came to know Sandy was the first post-graduate student from their village and the villagers were really proud of her achievement. It was wonderful to see their pride in her!

By the time we could go to bed, it was almost 3 in the morning. After a scant two hours of sleep we had to get up and get ready. Sandy’s mother and elder sisters had already prepared food and yummy sweets. I was surprised by their stamina, as my body was already protesting with tiredness. The family then went to their paddy field, surrounded by large cashew-nut trees, where there were rituals thanking their ancestors.

Soon, guests started to arrive, but today they consisted of the elders of the village. While serving food to them I found that interestingly, there was no special arrangements for the widows. They all ate together, and were even given the same gifts accept the kumkum.

I was curious about the practice, which seemed to be very different from what I had generally seen. I asked Uncle, “In orthodox Hindu family the widows are meant to lead a life of severe perseverance which sometimes seems like hell. They are disallowed to eat non-veg foods. But are those rules not applicable here?”

Uncle smiled and answered, “Widows, or not widows, they are all Amma, right? In our village if a man whose wife dies can re-marry and enjoy life then why can’t the widows? Here many poor people struggle to survive a single day and are happy to eat whatever they get. Such rules will just make life worse for them. This day is dedicated to thanking our ancestors. So let’s thank all of them.”

I was really impressed by this. “If these villagers have such upgraded thinking then how come even today in educated society such rituals persist,” I thought.

After lunch we spoke to the elderly ladies, Sandy acting as the interpreter. They blessed both of us, and kissed us several times as if they had known me for such a long time. I was so touched by their simplicity. It never really felt that I was a guest, feeling completely at home among these strangers.

In the evening it was the time for the Devi to return. The huge chariot came amidst the beating of the drums & bellowing of couches. It was mounted by the Mukhia, accompanied by 5 kids below 10 years. They were dressed in traditional silk dhotis & head turbans. The chariot stopped in front of every home. The family members washed the feet of the Mukhia and made offerings of new sarees/dresses which were hung on the chariot. The belief was that through Mukhia the gifts would reach the deity. It was with mixed emotions that the deity was led back to her temple, sadness for the end of the festivities. The ladies were crying, pleading to the goddess to safeguard their village and come back soon next year. There was a hush in the air as the deity was kept back in her temple. Soon, it was all over, and everyone went home.

Back at Sandy’s home we had dinner went early to bed. The next day, we were to take the train back to Kolkata. Almost the whole village came to see us off, many ladies with tears in their eyes. The daughters were going back. As our tempo left, leaving behind the gathering I felt a drop escape my eyes. I shall miss them all too. “Love you and thank you all for giving such an incredible experience in my life.”

http://www.womensweb.in/2015/12/samralu-the-experience-of-a-festival-for-daughters-in-a-seemandhra-village/

Cover image via Shutterstock