A Tale of Two Goddesses and Three-Gods-In-One
“Ammā, I’ll call Farhad; he’ll fix this!” Raghav Rao pleaded, as he walked backwards through the airport, led by his dog Damayanti and facing his mother Jaya, who marched along, flanked by his wife Pallavi and his sister Kirti.
“No, Raghav, it’s so rare that Farhad takes a day off; don’t interrupt his date with Mandar.” Jaya shook her head. “We can visit the Padmāvatī temple in Tiruchanur another time. Right now, we have an overnight flight to Nashik, to visit the Pārśva Padmāvatī temple in Makhmalabad. I admit, making travel arrangements online by myself caused an odd mix-up, but it’s a sign from Goddess Padmāvatī that this is where we should offer thanks for our happiness. Now that we have left home to visit this other Goddess Padmāvatī, we have to fulfil our commitment.”
“We’re not even Jain. I had chicken biryani for lunch,” Raghav muttered. Pallavi smiled at that, whereupon Raghav was suddenly enjoying this pilgrimage after all.
Nineteen hours later, their taxi reached the village of Makhmalabad. The Rao family’s four humans were tired, but Damayanti, having been caged on the plane, enjoyed poking her head through the open window to blink her eyes in the morning sunlight.
“Excuse me, Aunty,” Raghav said to a middle-aged lady who walked out of Lokanidhi Sahakari Bank, holding the end of her much-embroidered saree over her head. “Where’s Hambirrav’s Hotel?”
“Hey! Whom are you calling Aunty?” The shrill, whiny voice belonged to a portly, round-faced man, as Raghav discovered. “She is called Akkāsāheba!” the man scolded, frowning.
“Let it go, Sajjanrav,” Akkāsāheba smiled. “Guests, I am Sau. Taramati Sarjerav Nimbalkar, B.A. in Geography. Hambirrav’s daughter went into labour, so his hotel is closed today.”
“Geography, Ammā,” Raghav whispered, and Jaya pinched his side.
“Hambirrav arranged for you to stay with Vikya and his mother tonight. Vikya is waiting to meet you at my best friend’s house. It’s Datt’Ātreya Jayantī today, and Indu’s house is open to the whole village to celebrate the holiday.” Akkāsāheba paused, unable to forget recent history: her son Daulat had robbed Indumati’s family of their house and farmland, but Latika and Abhimanyu had proved the forgery and reclaimed the property just in time for the holiday. Noticing Damayanti, Akkāsāheba added, “Dogs are especially welcome, being companions of Datta Mahārāja.”
Today is the birthday of Datt’Ātreya, who is three Gods in one! Jaya took it as a sign from Goddess Padmāvatī that prayers offered to Pārśva Padmāvatī would reach Her too.
“Sounds like fun!” Kirti agreed.
“Just follow my car,” Akkāsāheba smiled, and soon they were there.
As Raghav set Damayanti on her feet, she bolted, pulling him by her leash and barking, answered by a larger dog running down the road.
“Gangi! Gently!” A stout young woman came swiftly out of the house and caught the running dog, just as Raghav bumped into her, throwing his arms around her to avoid falling.
“Sir! Please let go of me,” the woman said, while the two dogs made friends.
“Oh, hello Madam! You’re not some beautiful supermodel, that I would do hanky-panky with you!” Raghav retorted. Pallavi put her hand on his shoulder and pulled him back.
“Hey! Do you know who she is?” Sajjanrav objected. “She is Latika Dhumal, the model whose charming face is on every billboard in Makhmalabad! Our bank will rise from local to global because of her.” He giggled and simpered at Latika.
“Sorry,” Raghav said, prompted by a look from Pallavi. He wondered if Sajjanrav had celebrated the holiday with bhāṅga, or his behaviour was always so odd.
“Her name is Sau. Latika Abhimanyu Jahagirdar,” said a thin, middle-aged woman who had followed Latika down the steps of the front door. “And I am her mother-in-law, Sau. Indumati Uttamrav Jahagirdar.” Indumati’s name meant “moonlike,” but her face beamed like sunlight with gratitude to Datta Mahārāja. Her God’s birthday was the first holiday that Abhimanyu and Latika would celebrate together as a couple in love. “Welcome to the Jahagirdar house. Please come inside to eat the holiday prasāda that Lati made. She made - what’s that English word, I forget - cupcakes for the dogs too. You come in too, Tara!” The last sentence was addressed to Akkāsāheba. The history of cheating and beatings that Taramati’s husband Sarjerav and son Daulat had directed at Indumati’s husband Uttamrav and son Abhimanyu didn’t change the fact that the two women were longtime friends.
“Damayanti is diabetic,” Jaya said. “Is there somewhere that Raghav could give her breakfast and an insulin injection?”
“Of course, Kākū,” Latika smiled. “Let’s go upstairs to the terrace.” She led the way. “My cupcakes for dogs - pupcakes, they’re called - are sweetened with honey, not sugar. The icing is potato and yogurt. I’m sure your Damayanti already smells the peanut butter and banana, and she will want one.”
“We can make room for one pupcake with breakfast,” Pallavi replied. “Latika, my name is Sau. Pallavi Raghav Rao. I design hand-woven sarees, and I must say, you look as charming as Goddess Lakṣmī in that nine-yard paiṭhaṇī.”
“Thanks!” Latika smiled.
“Much more beautiful than that woman in the gaudy saree who bumped into us on purpose at the airport to tell us that she’s Miss Nashik,” Kirti commented.
Indumati put a gentle hand on Taramati's arm as she spoke, “So, you met Kamini. She just married Tara’s son Daulat, and Ābā - meaning Sarjerav Nimbalkar, our MLA - sent them to Dubai.” Indumati didn’t mention that Daulat’s elopement with Kamini - or “that Gunjal’s daughter” as Sarjerav and Taramati called her - had blown up Ābā’s hopes to rise in politics, and their honeymoon was a pretext to delay inevitable prosecution of Ābā’s and Daulat’s crimes. Indumati was the only person in the entire village who had anything nice to say about the Gunjal family, which was that they never interfered in their elder daughter Hema’s marriage to Indumati’s elder son Ashutosh. Ashutosh finally had his parents’ blessing to divorce Hema after catching her forgery of their thumbprints for Daulat, but considering Hema’s neglectful parents, Indumati would always treat Hema as family.
“Hey Sundarā!” Hey beautiful! A confident, deep voice rang out when Latika stepped onto the terrace. She put a finger to her lips, and her husband introduced himself to Damayanti and her family as Abhimanyu Jahagirdar.
“This prasāda is delicious,” Jaya remarked. “Latika, how many people are you expecting to feed today?”
“At least a hundred and fifty, as many as two hundred, and out of two dozen pupcakes, I still have nineteen left,” said Latika. “Most people don’t take time off for Datt’Ātreya Jayantī. But two months ago, right after Dasarā, we performed the Goddess’s mahāpūjā, and I made enough prasāda for the whole village.”
“Goddess, meaning Pārśva Padmāvatī?” Kirti asked, while Raghav gave Damayanti some breakfast to eat. “You worship a Jain deity as well as the Hindu deity Datt’Ātreya?”
“Yes, the Goddess whose temple is on the hill is just Devī Āī to the whole village,” Abhimanyu explained. “Whoever wins the yoke-pulling race each year, that family has the honour of mahāpūjā. This year, Lati won the race.”
“Abhya started the race; I only finished it for him,” Latika corrected him.
“But you pulled a yoke?” Pallavi asked, looking incredulously at Latika, who nodded.
Raghav wondered what sort of place this village was, where this heavyset woman could get a modeling job, pull a yoke, win a race, and be adored by her handsome husband and that Sajjanrav too.
Jaya noticed that the terrace was decorated with bodybuilding posters and gym equipment. “You enjoy fitness, Abhimanyu?”
“Yes, Kākū. I am building a sports academy for our village,” Abhimanyu said.
“That’s profitable,” Raghav commented. “What will you do with all the money?”
Kirti smiled; her brother was ready to lecture on his favourite subject.
“My goal is to send athletes from our village to competitions at all levels,” Abhimanyu answered. “How we allocate money is up to Lati. She makes sure I don't overspend.”
“Abhya is a civil engineer,” Latika said, handing a pupcake to Pallavi for Damayanti. “There is a lot that we can build for our village, and for our neighbours. For example, there’s a village nearby where girls don’t have access to college. We want to build a college for them.”
“Daulat wanted to open a bar on my academy’s site, and encourage bad habits in our village,” Abhimanyu shared. “You know, exercise and alcohol can’t co-exist.”
Raghav scowled at that assertion, but Pallavi was impressed. Her own ambition was to expand her family’s saree business, and Raghav’s ventures made him enough money to share with sick and destitute people, but Latika and Abhimanyu had ideas for health and happiness to flourish in their community, and worked as a team to plan and build.
“What about a mall to help the local economy?” Raghav asked idly, as he gave an insulin injection to Damayanti. Of course, his business, Jayati Jewels, wouldn’t open a showroom in a farming village, where no one could afford diamonds. “On holidays, every man needs a Sārī kā Dukāna.” Raghav looked up at his wife and winked as he said her nickname.
Pallavi patted her sly husband’s shoulder. The word Dukāna was feminine in Hindi, and neuter in Pallavi’s native Marathi, but Raghav’s native tongue being Telugu, he always adopted the masculine, even in his nickname for his wife.
“I’m building a mall right now for M. K. Construction,” Abhimanyu answered. “That’s why they agreed to invest in the academy. Lati wrote the partnership proposal and won the deal.”
A tall and broad-shouldered middle-aged man wearing a white dhotara stepped onto the terrace. “Guests, I am Uttamrav Jahagirdar. My Mrs. Indumati has beds ready for you on the second floor. Before you climb the hill to the Goddess’s temple, rest for a while.”
As the Rao family started to climb down the stairs, Abhimanyu said to his wife, “Wait, Lati,” and Latika did.
“Ammā, I don’t understand,” Raghav whispered in Telugu. “Latika looks like that; how can she have two men chasing her like some heroine?”
Jaya smiled. “Raghav, do you remember, I told you the story of Damayantī from Mahābhārata? She was one of India’s earliest romantic heroines, and two men desired her. Nala, who appreciated Damayantī’s discernment, resourcefulness, endurance, and loyalty, is called Puṇyaśloka - famous for merit. On the other hand, Ṛtuparṇa, who only knew Damayantī as a beautiful princess, is called Bhāṅgasvari.”
“Bhāṅgasvari - you mean, he took bhāṅga and rode horses?” Raghav guessed.
“No, but today's a holiday, so I must remind you: never operate any vehicle while intoxicated!” Jaya laughed. “More likely, Bhāṅgasvari means, a man of broken vocal tone. Someone who ruins the mood with his voice - like that Sajjanrav. Go, Raghav, take a nap, and when you wake up, we'll climb that hill covered in greenery.”
On the terrace, Latika sat down among the potted plants, across from Abhimanyu. The way he was looking at her, with contentment and longing mixed in his eyes … in a moment, he had blown her a kiss!
“Abhya, you’re in a rare romantic mood, why?”
Abhimanyu replied by looking into Latika’s eyes and singing a couple of lines from the Marathi musical play, Saṃśaya-kalloḷa (Suspicion’s Whirlpool, 1916). The Marathi song by G. B. Deval was set to Rāga Sāraṅga of Hindustani classical music, oscillating between triumphant high notes on long syllables and meditative low notes on short syllables.
Dhanya ānanda-dina, pūrṇa mama kāmanā
Mudita kula-devatā, saphala ārādhanā
Blessed day of joy; my desire is fulfilled!
Family deities are pleased; worship is fruitful!
Latika silently absorbed what Abhimanyu was telling her. It was their first holiday in love. Abhimanyu closed his eyes and sang the remaining lines of the song.
Lābha vhāvā jiçā lobha dharilā mahā
Prāpta maza hoya tī yuvati madhur’ānanā
Whom to obtain I craved enormously
She became mine - the girl with the sweetest mouth!
“Open your eyes, Abhya,” Latika said, and Abhimanyu did. “We’re all alone up here. You can kiss me for real, if you like.”
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