Dashavatar at Mochemad

In early January, I spent my first night in Aarvli. I walked around the rice fields before dark. The silence was so calming and the sensation of night far away from civilization carried me straight to sleep. No traffic, horns or blaring televisions.  Around 3 AM drums, bells and celebrations came crashing through my peaceful haze and I was puzzled to discover the village temple roaring to life. The event carried on right through the night while I wrapped the pillow around my head in attempt to salvage some rest. I had absolutely no idea I was missing out on the regional tradition of Dashavatar – a dramatization of the ten incarnations of Lord Vishnu. My next opportunity to witness this folk art form was on Mahashivratri and I was intent on attending.

 Mochemad Mandir was decked with lights inside and out, and even at midnight it was evident that the main event was still hours away. This left me free to walk and stare and generally blend out, but I was enjoying my relatively obscure cultural experience in my own way. The area surrounding the temple had been converted into a mela, mostly filled with stalls making and selling sweet, fried & forbidden treats few would resist: sesame ladoos, peanut ladoos, jalebi and mountains of khaja along with other eye-catching, waist expanding nibbles. 

Alternating between the sweet shops were toy shops – packed with rows of bargaining customers and their bouncing offspring. Lining one length of the temple were tea shops which kept everyone awake and fueled with hot chai, onion bhajjis and vada pao. In the inner row and closer to the temple, one could buy flowers or bananas as offerings. I will take this opportunity to admit that I have developed a preference for temple fruit over the store bought kind. These are home-grown and not on a commercial scale so I believe their taste is original. Or maybe it’s just the magic of faith and being thankful for blessed bananas. 

The priests gathered around the chariot and they were enveloped instantly by a small crowd. Most people didn’t make any effort to move or find alternate seating because the priests had organized a big screen and the proceedings were being projected live to the amazement of all present. I noticed that another crowd was gathering in the fields and with the bang of the first set of fireworks of the, most of the customers in the tea shops flew off their seats. Flights of rockets lit up the sky as the chariot set off around the temple five times. The cameraman was running along the roof of the temple trying to catch the events below for the screen. The temple area was filled with a seated audience, mostly children, their mothers and the elderly – unofficially categorized. I found another mostly male crowd assembling at the opposite end of the ground and here discovered the open dressing room for the dashavatar actors. 

In this form of theater, males play female roles as well so I think part of the fascination lies in watching a few of them ready themselves in saris, elaborate makeup and props. All actors do their own make-up and wardrobe over a two hour period. Arranged in a line, each behind a mirror, they are on display with this pre-performance ritual. 

The chariot returns to its original place and this time was absorbed into the standing crowd as I tried to walk past. One of the younger priests was chanting with a raised finger and drawing rapid breaths, in preparation for something. People added to the crowd this time and I felt myself locked in place in less than a minute. The bright lights turned on overhead, the cameraman leaned off one edge of the roof (his assistant harnessed him by the collar) and our young priest began to rain coconuts against the wheels of the chariot. In rapid-fire bursts he moved clockwise around the chariot until (at least) one hundred coconuts were broken. The coconut was swiftly collected in sacks and the trembling priest was hauled away to the inner chambers by the mankaris. The energy surrounding me climbed a few levels and the crowd shuffled between the tea shops and the sweet stalls. The atmosphere was very light and social. In the absence of movie theaters and other meeting places that we are accustomed to in cities, events like this become social occasions as well. The youngsters walk around arm in arm, exchanging songs on their cellphones. The elderly gentle men sit around the tree in dignified silence. A few people made for the exit, content with having been part of most of the celebrations of the event.

I walked back to the dressing room to view the actors applying their final touches of makeup and jewellery. A band of three started tuning their instruments and warming their voices by the temple entrance. I was lucky to steer myself through the proceedings, without any understanding of the sequence of events. Questions were met mostly with a friendly shrug and a smile. The Dashavatar began with songs in devotion to Ganesh and then characters emerged one by one. It is now close to 3 AM and the little ones are staring through their sleepy eyes. Actors interact with the audience, extending dialogue and improvising the script at their pleasure. This builds interest and is almost a vital technique to hold audience attention after many many hours of celebration. I left before the second half as I had to be functional in a few hours. It would be six or seven AM until the theater concluded and the priests would take over the closing rites. The night left me feeling like in my short time travel, I had just experienced life pre-mall and Cineplex. Even though my comprehension was very limited, partly owing to the Malwani language, it felt good to be in a space where people gathered and shared and everyone had as much fun as they made.