Mangalagaur: In Shravan, women perform dances that celebrate their everyday lives, foster community

Editor’s note: This article is the fourth in a five-part series documenting the folk dances of Maharashtra. Read more from the series  here . *** Rain drums against rooftops, thunder rumbles in the grey skies, lightning flashes, gusts of wind raise whirlpools of dust. But just moments later, the sunlight is back, cutting through the clouds, wiping away all traces of the showers: Such is the arrival of Shravan, the month of festivals, in Maharashtra. From Konkan to Vidharbha, fierce winds and intermittent-yet-torrential showers lash the earth during this month; rivers fill up with brown water, a lush foliage covers the soil, and the fragrance of petrichor fills the spirit. These are the weeks between the scorching heat of summer and the approaching winter, a relaxing time for farmers, fisher folk, and tillers, when food and produce is in abundance. Every day of the week in Shravan is considered auspicious and involves the worship of one of several deities. Shravan is also the month for women to organise the mangalagaur — a ritual made up of song, dance and amusing games. The caveat: no men allowed. Mangalagaur is a festival of women, celebrated in a household for the first five years after a wedding. On every Tuesday of this month, the newly wedded bride prays to the Goddess Annapurna for a happy marriage and her husband’s longevity. Traditionally, the bride performs the ritual in her own home on the first and last Tuesday of the month and visits other households on those falling in-between. [caption id=“attachment_7688101” align=“alignnone” width=“825”]  Phugdi is one of the most popular games played during the mangalagaur. Illustration by Rini Joseph/ Firstpost[/caption] Tests of strength and stamina, there are over 50 varieties of short, swift mangalagaur dances, performed to rhyming couplets and often executed without any accompanying music. Today, women occasionally invite a tabla or harmonium player during the programme to give rhythm to the lyric. Some games are performed without verses, such as the phugdi. Generally performed in twos, the formation can, however, include up to eight pairs of entwined hands, depending on the size of the room. Sometimes, instead of clasping each other’s hands, women hold their partner’s arms, playing the dand (arm) phugdi. In another version, one woman sits on her knees while the other stands, and they spin around while alternating positions. Yet another type is when one woman stands on either her right or left leg, and holding the other, spins until they are exhausted. In a dance with more than two women, the steps are short and sideward in the anticlockwise direction. In a group it is crucial to match with the speed in which the circle moves so as not to topple the formation. The phugdi played in pairs is a clear favourite. Traditionally, a mangalagaur would be fiercely competitive. The number of attendees on the first Tuesday at a bride’s home established the family’s prominence in society. But more than that, when new brides would be daunted by the prospect of living in a new household, with new relatives and friends to meet, the mangalagaur presented an opportunity to make acquaintances, form friendships and bond with the family. For the older women, it meant shedding their cares for at least a day of the week and immersing themselves in the fun. In the cities of Pune, Mumbai, Satara and Aurangabad, today, there are groups of women who teach and conduct mangalagaur. The ritual takes place in the afternoon and the dances begin as more and more women gather. The women’s ornaments include a wedding necklace that reaches the torso, a nath (nose-ring), earrings that cascade from the hair to the ear lobes, and bangles in hues of green, red and maroon. The ensemble is brought together by a festive zari nauvari (nine-yard) sari. Hair is braided or coiffed in an updo, and adorned with fresh jasmine or champa flowers. All the neighbours, the fragrance of the flowers in their braids filling the air, gather in an elongated courtyard in the house of one of the brides for the mangalagaur. The dances carry on through the night and stop only when the first rays of the sun signal a new day. One of the sequences involves a woman feigning refusal to dance while the others persuade her to participate. This group routine — ‘N_ach ga Ghuma’_ — is choreographed to beseeching couplets. The woman stands at the centre of a circle surrounded by the others, holding a sup (winnowing pan). She refuses to dance, saying she has no jewellery or clothes to appear in front of an audience. Her friends, however, call upon her to do away with her sadness and join the fun. Nach ga ghuma (dance maid), they say Nachu me kashi (how can I dance), she responds. Hya gaav cha tya gaav cha shimpi nahi ala, choli nahi mala, kashi me nachu (Tailors from this village and that never arrived to stitch me a sari, how do I dance?) As her litany of complaints continues, she lowers and raises the sup in mock dejection, stepping to one side and then the other as the other women continue convincing her to join them, stepping sideways in the circle. The dances of the mangalagaur were also a commentary on the everyday. Some, such as ‘Nach ga Ghuma’, emphasise dressing, while others — like the poem ‘Kis bai kis, dodka kis (Grate girl, grate the ridge gourd)’ discuss daily chores. Some are a dialogue between two friends talking of marriage or the conversation between a woman and her mother-in-law. Certain songs like the ‘Kathokana’ touch upon subjects like pregnancy and labour. During the evening, women participate in the sequence of the strenuous ‘Pinga’. Chanting “Pinga ga pori pinga”, they place their hands on their hips, bend downwards and rotate their upper bodies. The ‘_Zimma’ i_s danced to song and music, a depiction of the raas-leela Lord Krishna plays with the gopis in Vrindavan. Singing the couplet, “Latya bai latya, chanderi latya, mama ni anlya mala sarangi petya”, and dancing in pairs while facing each other with a latna (rolling pin), women perform a dance that closely resembles the dandiya of north-western India. Oral traditions have handed down the dances from generation to generation, yet it would appear that the mangalagaur is reduced to a much smaller-scale ritual with only a few songs that have trickled down through the years or through popular Marathi features. But while many dances have faded into oblivion, the ‘Ukhana’ has still retained its presence. Where the phugdi and ‘Pinga’ are tests of stamina, the ‘Ukhana’ is a test of wit. It is not an exacting import of the traditional into the contemporary but has evolved over time. Now-a-days, this rhyming couplet, into which is woven the name of the husband or wife, includes references to everything from the gods, rivers and seasons, to computers, robots and television. Every new bride is called upon to deliver an ‘Ukhana’ at several occasions, especially during the mangalagaur, such as — Shankarachi pooja Parvati karte khali vakun, —ravanche naav ghete, saravancha maan rakhun (As Parvati bows down to pray to Lord Shiva, so do I take —’s name, paying obeisance to everyone gathered) The mangalagaur as a ritual would bring the women of the entire community together and strengthen their bonds. The popularity and intricacies of the dance may be a thing of the bygone past, but its vibrancy is evident even in the scaled down versions that are performed today. References — Folk Dances of Maharashtra by AJ Agarkar