TANGENTSBy Ihtisham Kabir
Rath <i>and</i> Rain
Getting ready to pull the Rath. Photo: Ihtisham Kabir
I spent my childhood in Sylhet where a torrential downpour can extend to days. But if monsoon made adults miserable, children had reasons to celebrate. The Fotang, a shooting toy fashioned from thin bamboo cylinders, appeared this season. It fired with a loud crack and the green spherical bullets - seeds, really - shot forth with great speed. Overflowing streams brought plenty of fish to be nailed with spears. Monsoon fruits, such as Lotkons and Luklukis, arrived with the rains. For me, though, monsoon had another attraction: Rath. These chariots were part of Rath Jatra, the Hindu festival associated with a journey taken by Lord Jagannath. Pulled by devotees through the town's roads, the chariots were accompanied by joyous crowds. Every child was thrilled when one passed through the neighbourhood. They converged at Rikabi Bazar square for prayers. A big mela also took place. I had a special fascination with the big wooden wheels of Raths. Perhaps I read too many stories, but watching them turn, my mind filled with visions of villains being squashed underneath them. So that was the ideal Rath day: stomach aching from Lotkons, buying useless trinkets from the mela, shooting unsuspecting pedestrians with my Fotang and watching the Raths while visualising the vanquished villains. At night, shivering from being wet, my only prayer was not to wake up sick the next morning. Fast forward a few decades to today's Dhaka. Monsoon has arrived with force. The city's initial delight at the rain has turned into a collective groan. The sky is a permanent dark grey. But there is a silver lining, because this is the season for Rath. Indeed, when I arrive at the ISKCON temple in Swamibagh on July 3rd to watch Rath Jatra, I immediately see three chariots. They are 18-20 feet tall, decorated in bright colours, ready to make their way to Dhakeshwari temple. I eagerly inspect the wheels. They are metallic and beautifully painted. But aren't they smaller than the imposing wooden wheels of my childhood? Then again, I am several feet taller now. Two long, fat ropes emerge from either side of each Rath. Hundreds of adults and kids grip the ropes, ready to pull. The festive mood is a part of my memory. But the huge crowds and the loud music from big loudspeakers are not. A man places chandan drops on peoples' foreheads for ten takas. But there are few vendors, and certainly no Fotang. It starts raining as the organisers are coordinating parade participants. That scarcely bothers the devotees but I have to take cover with my camera. As the Raths move, crowds line their path. Volunteers sweep away dirt from the road ahead as the faithful bow down and touch the ground. Some groups in the parade dance jubilantly, others pray quietly. At the destination, Dhakeswari temple, they are received with pomp and circumstance. Even without Lotkons or Fotangs, I am grateful for having re-lived a childhood day of Rath and rain.
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