Raksha Bandhan
Raksha Bandhan. It is a very sacred Hindu festival. Celebrating the relationship between brothers and sisters, it is birthed when the moon has a full round belly on the month of Shraavana. Sisters tie a rakhi, or holy thread, on their brother's wrists and in return, the sister receives a gift from her brother after he vows to look after her, to protect her. It is believed that when a woman ties a rakhi around the hand of a man it becomes obligatory for him to honour his religious duty and protect her.
Chandrika smiled wistfully as she looked at the rakhis she was going to return to devotees who had given them to her as she consecrated them in rice and blades of grass. Traditions change.
Now the Rakhi did not have to be given to a blood brother. Even friends gave them to one another and a number gave them to her, which made the older generations huff with indignation. Once, a long time ago, a time Chandrika remembered most vividly, the widowed Rajput princess Rani Karnavati was under attack by the Sultan of Gujarat. Realizing that she could not defend against the invasion, she sent a rakhi to the Mughal Emperor Humayun who was so touched by the gesture that he abandoned his military campaign to ride to her defense. That was the power behind the rakhi. Tonight, she would accept any that offered her their rakhi. The festive colorful strings would adorn her wrists and be worth more than the gold bangles that chimed on her wrists now. While the tradition says that the bond lasts a year, her bond lasted a lifetime. Hers. Her charges felt her presence not only through out this mortal lifetime, but the next, even if they no longer recognized her in their most dire times of need. That was ok, their souls did.
Rakhi--the thread of chaste love. The thread of protection.
Love. It is the fiber that creates the strongest bonds. Chandrika softly gazed over those gathered in the small square. A small pond was made ornate by the floating oil candles that were set upon it with sacred purpose, prayers and wishes carried upon the small waves as the candles were softly shooed forward into the pond like a small child being coaxed to join others. Giddy children shared sweets and stayed up passed their bedtime. And there, look at the trees, their strong barks were adorned by ribbons and chalk markings of protection, renewal and prosperity as another tree had a hamsa hanging from it. And perhaps that diversity was why this community was so truly, truly special.
Love. It held them together like silk fibers cacooning a caterpillar and spun threads of trust, loyalty, camaraderie, strength and friendship among them.
The sacred vermilion tilak adorned her third eye, made of ochre powder and sandalwood paste. There was a smattering of ash just below her hairline in the middle of her forehead which was streaked back into the part of her hair and stood a whitish-grey among her night colored tendrils. It was an honest representation of her thoughts--we all turn to ash. However, the revelers and devotees would not let her be modest this evening and they adored her in all the finery that they saw fit, as if by doing so they were strengthening a beckon of hope, a ray of light that cut through the dark. Gold chandelier earrings dotted with small peridots that dangled off the ends like teardrops swayed off her earlobes and dripped onto her shoulders that were cloaked in a pale sage and gold bordered sari. However--on these nights--like some idol of worship, like some goddess, they kept her at a distance, receiving her sacred boons, her blessings and guidance, but elevating her to something like a Deva. It was safer for her if they did that--keep her at a distance--but, she felt even the smallest gulf between them like it was an ocean.
Closing her eyes and placing her hands over the offerings, she muttered a few Vedic verses, allowing them to send her into a meditative trance as she chanted them over and over again, building her cone of power to its apex before allowing the energy to gently flow into the items like a serene river does down its bed.
She turned from the small alter on the gazebo she had been working on to the sound of applause and zagreets as she lpresented a plate of blessed rakhi to them and urged them to come forward to retrieve those that were theirs.
Weaving though the crowd she was stopped by three people before she even was able to reach the bench she wanted to sit on. Politely, with reverence, they asked whether they would honor them by letting them tie the colorful strands to her wrist. Sacred duty. She nodded and blessed their third eye with vermilion and bond herself to them through the threads of energy they offered her. Looking into their eyes, they felt their souls flutter. They did not know it, but they had come to her several lifetimes ago for this same thing.
Some would come, some would not. But she would turn no one away. Not even the homeless man that shuffled toward her and came to a stop a foot away, staring at her, confused. "It is good to see you again." She said gently, holding out her hand in expectation. For a moment his mind reeled to understand, grasping at memories he did not know were his own. But then, if only for a moment, something from within him lit up and he understood what Chandrika Kampala meant. He reached out and flicking his fingers, dropped a thin, dirty string that he had found around a discarded jewelry box in the trash. He did not know why he wanted to keep the string, there was no reason to but, he did. He kept it in his hand for several days because his pockets had holes in them.Trying the string around her wrist, she reached out and touched the man's forehead. Unsteady on his feet, he looked like he would swoon. Waxen lips parted in wonder and his eyes grew wide as something dawned on him--his own condition. Knowing that, he would no longer thirst for much. But a moment later, as his eyes flickered opened a light haze clouded his eyes and he turned back and started shuffling away through the crowds.
Chandrika watched him go. The old soul was doing so well. Created as a King, his lusts for material wealth had known no stop. Now look at him. Perfect. He was coming along so, so, so, well. She was still lost in her thoughts when she heard someone from behind her ask, "why aren't you offering any of those to anyone?"
Turning around, her eyes wandered over the person who had spoken.
Chandrika smiled wistfully as she looked at the rakhis she was going to return to devotees who had given them to her as she consecrated them in rice and blades of grass. Traditions change.
Now the Rakhi did not have to be given to a blood brother. Even friends gave them to one another and a number gave them to her, which made the older generations huff with indignation. Once, a long time ago, a time Chandrika remembered most vividly, the widowed Rajput princess Rani Karnavati was under attack by the Sultan of Gujarat. Realizing that she could not defend against the invasion, she sent a rakhi to the Mughal Emperor Humayun who was so touched by the gesture that he abandoned his military campaign to ride to her defense. That was the power behind the rakhi. Tonight, she would accept any that offered her their rakhi. The festive colorful strings would adorn her wrists and be worth more than the gold bangles that chimed on her wrists now. While the tradition says that the bond lasts a year, her bond lasted a lifetime. Hers. Her charges felt her presence not only through out this mortal lifetime, but the next, even if they no longer recognized her in their most dire times of need. That was ok, their souls did.
Rakhi--the thread of chaste love. The thread of protection.
Love. It is the fiber that creates the strongest bonds. Chandrika softly gazed over those gathered in the small square. A small pond was made ornate by the floating oil candles that were set upon it with sacred purpose, prayers and wishes carried upon the small waves as the candles were softly shooed forward into the pond like a small child being coaxed to join others. Giddy children shared sweets and stayed up passed their bedtime. And there, look at the trees, their strong barks were adorned by ribbons and chalk markings of protection, renewal and prosperity as another tree had a hamsa hanging from it. And perhaps that diversity was why this community was so truly, truly special.
Love. It held them together like silk fibers cacooning a caterpillar and spun threads of trust, loyalty, camaraderie, strength and friendship among them.
The sacred vermilion tilak adorned her third eye, made of ochre powder and sandalwood paste. There was a smattering of ash just below her hairline in the middle of her forehead which was streaked back into the part of her hair and stood a whitish-grey among her night colored tendrils. It was an honest representation of her thoughts--we all turn to ash. However, the revelers and devotees would not let her be modest this evening and they adored her in all the finery that they saw fit, as if by doing so they were strengthening a beckon of hope, a ray of light that cut through the dark. Gold chandelier earrings dotted with small peridots that dangled off the ends like teardrops swayed off her earlobes and dripped onto her shoulders that were cloaked in a pale sage and gold bordered sari. However--on these nights--like some idol of worship, like some goddess, they kept her at a distance, receiving her sacred boons, her blessings and guidance, but elevating her to something like a Deva. It was safer for her if they did that--keep her at a distance--but, she felt even the smallest gulf between them like it was an ocean.
Closing her eyes and placing her hands over the offerings, she muttered a few Vedic verses, allowing them to send her into a meditative trance as she chanted them over and over again, building her cone of power to its apex before allowing the energy to gently flow into the items like a serene river does down its bed.
She turned from the small alter on the gazebo she had been working on to the sound of applause and zagreets as she lpresented a plate of blessed rakhi to them and urged them to come forward to retrieve those that were theirs.
Weaving though the crowd she was stopped by three people before she even was able to reach the bench she wanted to sit on. Politely, with reverence, they asked whether they would honor them by letting them tie the colorful strands to her wrist. Sacred duty. She nodded and blessed their third eye with vermilion and bond herself to them through the threads of energy they offered her. Looking into their eyes, they felt their souls flutter. They did not know it, but they had come to her several lifetimes ago for this same thing.
Some would come, some would not. But she would turn no one away. Not even the homeless man that shuffled toward her and came to a stop a foot away, staring at her, confused. "It is good to see you again." She said gently, holding out her hand in expectation. For a moment his mind reeled to understand, grasping at memories he did not know were his own. But then, if only for a moment, something from within him lit up and he understood what Chandrika Kampala meant. He reached out and flicking his fingers, dropped a thin, dirty string that he had found around a discarded jewelry box in the trash. He did not know why he wanted to keep the string, there was no reason to but, he did. He kept it in his hand for several days because his pockets had holes in them.Trying the string around her wrist, she reached out and touched the man's forehead. Unsteady on his feet, he looked like he would swoon. Waxen lips parted in wonder and his eyes grew wide as something dawned on him--his own condition. Knowing that, he would no longer thirst for much. But a moment later, as his eyes flickered opened a light haze clouded his eyes and he turned back and started shuffling away through the crowds.
Chandrika watched him go. The old soul was doing so well. Created as a King, his lusts for material wealth had known no stop. Now look at him. Perfect. He was coming along so, so, so, well. She was still lost in her thoughts when she heard someone from behind her ask, "why aren't you offering any of those to anyone?"
Turning around, her eyes wandered over the person who had spoken.