The Jatra

A slow influx began up the narrow winding road a few days before, an almost unnoticeable trickle, unless one kept a continuous watch. Slowly they arrived one by one, some carrying their goods in a basket balanced on their heads, some pushing their carts laden with delicious snacks, sweets, vividly hued handicrafts or bright trinkets. One evening as I stood outside in the lane looking for a rickshaw, a row of sweet meat sellers trundled their way heavily uphill with carts covered with big plastic bags full of bright orange sweet sev, pethas and other popular delights. These vendors of various goods were not the only ones, for hand worked merry go rounds with colourful dragon or elephant faces, various kinds of swings, and even a Ferris wheel had somehow wound their way through the constricted twisting road, that led to the village.

Unknown to the recently arrived settlers of the new apartment complexes around, something was afoot. There was a growing excitement in the village of Wadgaon Sheri, less than a kilometer away. As the day awaited for a year grew closer, the village took on a festive look. Not just the residents of Wadgaon Sheri but even those of other areas close by; Shastri Nagar, Yerwada and even outlying areas waited for the day of the jatra to honour the deity of the village.

I first heard about it from my maid. Eager to go to the Jatra, she asked to be let off early on Saturday and I agreed. I held my peace through that day but come Sunday curiosity got the better of me, and nothing would do but visiting the Jatra myself along with my close companion, the camera. It was to be a simple visit, I would take an auto rickshaw from the gate, look around, find a few photo opportunities and then get back home in the same rick. I did not plan on being away for more than thirty minutes. So we plan but reality is always different.

I felt their excitement right from the gate itself, as groups of people joyfully walked to the mela they left me with an impression of a medley of bright clothes, laughter, chatter, fragrances from flowers worn in the hair, floating on the cool February breeze, among others, as I waited for a rickshaw. The excitement continued as the rick made its way through the colourful stalls on either side. We stopped close to the rides. I had barely looked through my lens at the Ferris wheel etched against a cerulean sky, when a neatly dressed band of boys encircled me, insisting I take their picture. A voice piped up asking “Yahan shooting ho rahi hai kya?” Looking at the limitations of my Lumix I could only sigh and reply that “Nahin, is camera sey to nahin,”
The group was persistent about their pictures being taken and I happily obliged them, feeling for a moment not a bystander but one of the crowd, this was part of the fun I had come here to find. I was thinking of ordinary pictures but the boys certainly surprised and amused me by striking creative poses. Smiling to myself I could only conclude that they had been watching more than a few Bollywood thrillers.

I stepped on to the road and started drinking in the variegated sight. There wasn’t much traffic, as most of the people preferred keeping out of the way of the mela going crowds. An occasional motor bike passed by honking loudly. Laughter and chatter and some music were the loudest sounds. Strangely there were no street cries, the hawkers knowing that the people would come to them by themselves, sat around and waited. They sat on the dusty pavements, often only protected by the dust by bits of sack or some other cloth. Some sat, surrounded by litter, plastic bags and strewn newspapers - discarded by fair goers after their satisfying treat. There were others luckier, who had found cleaner spots.

There were stalls selling colourful plastic toys, others selling hats in pretty pastel shades, some selling vividly hued artificial flowers and some trinkets. Even the clothes were a riot of colours. Sarees, salwar kameezes and frocks in yellow, orange, green, red, and blue all added to the gaiety of the atmosphere. What really caught me though was the total enjoyment and joie de vivre here. The children were excited and interested in everything, the rides, the plastic toys, the ice golas and other goodies on sale, and everyone was enjoying everything with a fervour I do not often witness. Their sparkling eyes and lively faces certainly infused me with an equal exuberance. I watched as some kids caressed a ride almost reverentially. Others passed by slurping their ice golas with unmitigated enjoyment that made my mouth water as well. A girl longingly touched a plastic doll, delight shining in her eyes when her mother bought it for her. When, I wondered had I seen such delight in my own children’s eyes at a new acquisition? These children were also part of the urban milieu but economic limitations kept them from having too many possessions. The malls, multiplexes and fast food restaurants their more affluent but jaded counterparts frequented, were foreign to them. Yet they proved beyond doubt my theory that the more we give our children the more we take away from them the most important thing, the ability to enjoy what they have.

Shaking my head against this depressing reverie I once again joined into the fun and started taking pictures of everything as the crowds milled around me, both of us coming in each other’s way. Often deleting a few pics as suddenly an unexpected hand, face, or shadow obliterated my carefully thought out compositions. One of the things that puzzled me was that the offerings here were often to be found on the pavements and markets of Pune, where the vendors would wait for long periods for customers, yet here they had suddenly donned an undeniable magnetism that the buyers found irresistible.

Another mystery was that more than one person approached me and asked me to take their picture, or that of their wife and children. Though I was using a digital camera, not a single person asked to see the picture on the LCD screen. Why would they want a complete stranger to have their picture when they would never see it, is a question that continues to baffle me. In a time of growing internet crime and wariness against cameras among the urban populace, this behaviour endeared them to me even further. I had only traveled a kilometer at the most but it seemed I had stepped at least a decade back in time, when everything was much simpler, smiles were real, so was pleasure, people were genuine and children most of all were not bored, world weary and jaded.

As I was reflecting on all this, a young man came up to me and offered to show me the real mela. He pointed to some tents where a few ladies sat and children played. There was a genuine earnestness about him that made me follow him quite gladly, curious at what he was going to show me. We had to bend down to go through the barrier of a ride to where the fair folk lived. The girls and boys working with the fair immediately surrounded us, these were quite grubby and dressed in ragged clothes unlike the neat villagers, but this was in no way an impediment to their pleasure. Some of the excited boys climbed on the high swings of a ride and posed for a picture, while their mothers began shouting loudly at them to come down before they got hurt. A little girl, whose father owned that ride posed with one of the swings. What can I say? Just that despite her threadbare dress, the sun shone through her bright, sweet smile.

Then it was time to meet Pannalal, the wonder donkey. Nothing would satisfy the crowd but that I entered the raggedy tent where the show was held each evening and took pictures of Pannalal. To enter the enclosure the donkey was kept in, I had to pass by his legs and risk the swift kick that Pannalal usually meted out to strangers who came too close. Happily for me though, the smart donkey that he was, Pannalal sensed that this was his five minutes of fame, and held his peace. So I took pictures of Pannalal and the boy who worked with him, all the while wondering what was I doing here, taking pictures of a donkey, yet it all made sense. So what did Pannalal do that made him so popular? Well, they told me, he knew things; could tell colours, dates of birth, foretell the future, when given a choice he always chose the right thing. Impressive! That donkey knew more than I ever did. From Pannalal we moved to the puppeteer Hiralal or the ‘Man in the Lion’s mask’. Of course I had to take a picture of the face behind the mask as well. After that they introduced me to Pannalal’s owner, a Rajasthani lady who covered her head with her saree pallu for the picture.

Curiosity was aroused, the mela was held here for just two days, so who were these people, where did they come from and how did they earn a regular livelihood? Ramdas, the person who had originally offered to take me around told me that they lived in Pune itself, but they took their rides and shows from Jatra to Jatra in the outlying villages. There was always a Jatra or Urs held somewhere and these afforded them plenty of opportunities to earn a decent living all year long. They lived in proper homes, though during the Jatra they would manage with makeshift tents. He took me to a couple of these tents to get a glimpse of their life behind the colour and gaiety. The tent was a rather worn out, grimy one that had seen many such fetes in its extensive lifetime. There were two metal beds within one, without mattresses and some vessels and boxes. A woman sat on one and smiled obligingly as I took her picture with her daughter. A teenage girl got a wood fire going and placed a medium sized vessel on it with water for boiling, when queried if she was making tea she told me that it was their evening meal. I wondered what she would be adding to the water later, perhaps rice. It was a hard way to live and yet these people had accepted it as their way of life and carried on with a happy heart and a ready smile.

The sun was going down, the light was beginning to fade, it was time to head home. At the fair though, the bright lights were coming on, the crowds were growing, soon the rides would begin their exciting whirls, and in my imagination I could already hear the children’s shouts of joy. In their tents Pannalal and Hiralal would perform their respective shows to assemblies of thrilled villagers. I was glad to have been part of all this, as I returned home I knew I was carrying these sights and experiences away in more than the camera. These people with their exuberance and innocence had touched me. I would remember them and hoped that maybe some would remember me too.