The Hill of Devi by E. M. Forster

Author:E. M. Forster
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: RosettaBooks
Published: 1953-03-04T16:00:00+00:00

GOKUL ASHTAMI

The following letters on the Gokul Ashtami Festival are the most important of my letters home, for they describe (if too facetiously) rites in which a European can seldom have shared.

August 3rd

This month is to be devoted, not to say abandoned, to religion, and we move down to the Old Palace in the heart of the town, to be stung by mosquitoes and bitten by bugs. I have already helped to choose the “Lord of the Universe” some new clothes. He is fortunately only six inches high, but he had to have eight suits, and he has several companions who must also be dressed, and the bill for this alone will be not far short of £30. The costume is simple in its cut—two bell-shaped pieces joined by two tabs, the doll’s head going through the hole between the tabs and the stuff hanging in front and behind. Each suit is embroidered with pearls. There is also an outer garment, hanging negligee fashion over the shoulders.

We went down to the Old Palace the other day for a preliminary canter. At the end of the long narrow temple hall stood the Dewan with a wreath of roses round his neck, singing, and supported by the Doctor, the Minister of Public Works, and other notables. They faced the shrine, which was at the other end and looked like a flower show on the last day, just before the people come to take away their exhibits. Dolly was there, smothered in the rubbish, lost in the scuffle in fact; and the hall itself, which has architectural beauty, was likewise smothered in mess and appallingness. I squatted against one of the pillars, occasionally smiling at the singers, which seemed the proper thing to do. I wonder what it is all about. It is certainly the most important thing in these people’s lives. His Highness will also sing. Electric light (£100 this) will be specially installed, and Dolly must also have a new bed and a new mosquito net.

August 10th

No news, except of a most local nature. Religion approaches, to me in a very tangible form, as I have been hit on the head by an iron bar belonging to a sacred swing. Ladies and children like to swing at this season, and although our palace is so modern there are rings in the drawing-room ceiling on which the apparatus can be fixed. We hung the bars up—they take the place of ropes, so imagine their length—and then one of our half-witted menials brightly lifted one of them from below so that the hook came out of the ring. I was not the least hurt—a miracle why. My skull must be pretty thick. His Highness was horrified and transfixed, and began massaging my head, which did not seem the proper treatment to me. A car rushed off for the doctor—but nothing wrong, no pain either at the time or afterwards, the menial was fined two rupees and there it ended.

Collision with this holy article seems to have made me active.

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