There are some days that smell like childhood. For me, Govardhan Puja is one of them. The moment this day arrives, the air fills with memories of muddy courtyards, laughter, and the rhythmic sound of wooden pestles striking the ground — godhan kootna, as we fondly called it.
In our village, Bhai Dooj was for the townsfolk — they celebrated it with silver trays and sweets. But for us, Govardhan Puja was the real festival — earthy, emotional, and deeply connected to our land and faith.
Creating the Godhan on the Ground
Early in the morning, the courtyard would come alive. Wet cow dung was spread neatly on the ground, and with careful hands, squares were drawn — small fields within the courtyard. Inside those squares, we shaped two tiny human figures from the same cow dung — symbolic of our brothers and ourselves.
The Ritual Begins
Once the figures were ready, the ritual began. After offering dhoop, deep, and naivedyam to the godhan drawing, with wooden pestles (musal), we pounded the godhan, playfully calling names to our brothers — sometimes teasing, sometimes even saying mock insults. It was believed that by doing so, we drove away the evil eye and kept our brothers safe from harm.
Repentance and Ritual
After the pounding came the act of repentance. Because we had just spoken harshly to our brothers — even if only in jest — we had to atone for it. So, we pricked our tongue with a thorn, a tiny act of penance, as if saying, Let my pain protect my brother from all suffering.
That small sting carried a world of meaning — a symbol of love expressed not through words, but through ritual, devotion, and innocence.
Feeding Strength and Blessings
Later, when the rituals ended, sisters would offer their brothers chana (gram) and bajra (popularly called) — wishing them to be strong and steady like the grains they ate. There were no grand gifts, no shiny wrappers — just faith, laughter, and family warmth spread across the mud floor.
Those Were the Days...
But times have changed. Now, these simple traditions are slowly vanishing. The courtyards have turned into concrete floors, and the space where we once pounded the godhan no longer exists. So, gradually, we too shifted to celebrating Bhai Dooj.
These days, sisters get ready in the morning, put tilak on their brothers’ foreheads, and pray for their long life. The ritual is gentler, quieter — adapted to city life.
And for us grown-ups, sometimes a phone call or a WhatsApp message feels enough. No pounding of godhan, no laughter echoing in the courtyard — just memories that return once a year, wrapped in nostalgia.
The musal’s rhythm may have faded, but its echo still beats softly in memory — a reminder of a time when love wore the face of mischief.
Yes... those were the days. Days when love was handmade, and festivals smelled of the earth.
I’ll leave you with that memory of Godhan- scent of dhoop, the warmth of sibling banter, and the quiet strength of forgotten traditions.
Until next time — when another forgotten ritual finds its place in words.
....Anu
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