Cheryl Snell's Blog, page 55

Golu

Dolls for Golu often represent major deities recreating mythological events, but the quotidian is also well-represented, often by Barbies dressed in native outfits,as I describe in Shiva's Arms. A doll-couple is often included --no,not like Barbie-and-Ken. My husband remembers a particular pair of wooden Marapachi dolls his mother used in the ceremony, carefully put away after Dusshera, for the next time.
The golu display stand is made up of an odd number of tiers, ideally nine, and the dolls are arranged thusly

Tiers 1-3: (Kalasam) Durga, Lakshmi, Saraswati, Shiva, Vishnu, Brahma and all other gods and goddesses are set here.

Tiers 4-6: Saints and national leaders like Mahatma Gandhi, Ramakrishna Paramahamsar, and Swami Vivekananda occupy this level.

Tier 7-9: Scenes depicting family, marriage,nature, and festivals go here, with the ornamented Marapachi dolls last

In my novel, Shiva's Arms, I use this celebration of female friendship as a way to get my warring women to come together.

It was late when Alice wandered downstairs. She expected that Amma would have gone to bed, but she was still at her task, busy with the display. She motioned to Alice to help her set up the rest of the dolls. There were brass and sandalwood gods and Malibu Barbies, an American bride doll and Japanese geishas collected one at a time, each one with a history.
"We will make kolam on the porch tomorrow," Amma said. "You have colored chalks. My son is keeping big lamp in Christmas trees?"
"In the box of Christmas decorations, yes."
By two in the morning the display was finished, Sam's toy trucks and metal sport cars tucked among the stuffed Santa, Russian stacking dolls and Marapachi dolls. The suitcase and Christmas box were hollowed out at last. "Very multi-culti," Alice said. She stood back from the creation and looked at it critically, squared off the crèche with both palms. She had somehow made Amma understand that sand made of lentils was no replacement for cotton-ball snow. She turned tiny white blinking lights on, and the sequins on the cotton glittered. Amma clasped her hands to her heart.
"Just a sec. One more thing," Alice said. She ran upstairs and returned with an angel from the back of her closet, the one relic from her childhood. She handed it carefully to Amma, blue felt skirt first. The wax face with the wistful smile, blonde curls and gold wire halo were miraculously untouched by time.
Amma reached up and put the little cherub right in the center of the top tier. The women stood in front of the rows of dolls, mesmerized for a long minute. Alice broke the spell first, yawned and stretched her tight lower back. She turned away, shuffled into the kitchen and warmed some milk, enough for two, on the stove. Amma followed her on bare feet, cut a banana in half and handed one part to Alice. "Take," she said. "Eat some." Alice received the fruit like a gift.

Navaratri

Today we celebrate Navaratri, which marks the period of nine nights when female divinity is celebrated all over India. The first three days are dedicated to the worship of Durga,the mother of the universe, the next three days to the worship of Lakshmi, giver of spiritual wealth, and the last three days to Saraswati, the goddess of learning. Women decorate with oil lamps, as seen below, and show off their displays of dolls to visitors. A sweet called shundal is made especially for this festival of female friendship. (There's a recipe in my book, btw)

Let's open the Navaratri festivities on Shiva's Arms with a poem from novelist Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, who paints this vivid picture of Navaratri in America:

The Garba

The nine sacred nights of Navaratri
we dance the Garba. Light glances
off the smooth wood floor of the gym
festooned with mango leaves
flown in from Florida. The drummers
have begun, and the old women
singing of Krishna and the milkmaids,
Their high keening is an electric net
pulling us in, girls who have never seen

the old land. This October night
we have shed our jeans
for long red skirts, pulled back
permed hair in plaits, stripped of
nailpolish and mascara, and pressed
henna onto hands, kohl
under the eyes. Our hips
move like water to the drums.
Thin as hibiscus petals, our skirts
swirl up as we swing and turn.
We ignore the men,

creaseless in bone-white kurtas.
In the bleachers, they smile behind their hands.
Whisper. Our anklets shine
in the black light from their eyes.
Soon they will join is in the Dandia dance.
The curve and incline, the slow arc
of the painted sticks meeting red on black
above our upraised arms. But for now
the women dance alone
a string of red anemones
flung forward and back
by an unseen tide. The old ones sing
of the ten-armed goddess.
The drums pound faster
in our belly. Our feet glide
on smooth wood, our arms are darts of light, Hair, silver-braided,
lashes the air like lightning.
The swirling is a red wind
around our thighs. Dance-sweat
burns sweet on our lips.
We clap hot palms like thunder. And

the mango branches grow into trees.
Under our flashing feet, the floor is packed black soil.
Damp faces gleam and flicker in torchlight.
The smell of harvest hay
is thick and narcotic
in our throat. We spin and spin
back to the villages of our mothers.
We leave behind

the men, a white blur
like moonlight on empty bajra fields
seen from a speeding train.

Belinda Subraman

Thanks to author, publisher, artist, and podcaster Belinda Subraman, who posted this today.

E-Zine Articles

I find myself on this top ten list of short fiction authors. I'm #6. Cuil.

Samsara

A goodly portion of Samsara, my Pudding House chap, is available for perusal on Google books.
As Johnny Carson used to say, "I did not know that!"

The Journal of Cultural Conversation

Read my guest post for The Journal of Cultural Conversation here. We'll be discussing the question of divided loyalties in immigration. I'd love it if you'd join us.

Baptism

This video was first pubbed by Sea Stories.

thandi hawa yeh chandni suhani ae mere dil.. film jhumroo

I was treated to this song along with my morning coffee today...

Essay at She Writes

I have an essay on the homepage of She Writes today. Anjuelle Floyd was kind enough to select it for her group, "Why Do I Write and What is My Process?" Thanks Anjuelle!

About my host: the author of Keeper of Secrets…Translations of an Incident(short stories) and a novel, The House, Anjuelle is a graduate of Duke University, where she received her MA in Counseling Psychology from The California Institute of Integral Studies. She has attended the Dominican Institute of Philosophy and Theology, Berkeley, California, and received a MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College, Port Townsend, Washington.

Anjuelle hosts the weekly blog talk radio show, Book Talk, Creativity and Family Matters at http://www.blogtalkradio.com/anjuelle.... Check out her informative personal website at here. My essay will appear there tomorrow.

Jerrold Marsden, RIP

Elegy for a Friend

He couldn't resist weather,
and called out the storm,
tried to make it show its face.
Air bulged with sound, and the wind
lashed debris from the trees.

The world grew still, and a dragonfly,
transparent wings on a blue-tinged stick,
hovered above a broken cricket
dragging through backyard thatch.

When it rose up, sudden as a mind changing,
we sagged with breath held
against the last thing we wanted to see:
a pair of wings escaping,
the world left out of reach.