Having previously described all the important circumstances and details, religious and social, connected with this popular festival, I will now give a short account of the Bhásán or Nirunjun which takes place on the tenth day of the new moon, or in the fourth day of the Poojah. It is also called Bíjoyá, because the end of a ceremonial is always attended with melancholy feelings. This is the day when the image is consigned to water either of a river or tank. Apart from its religious significance, the day is an important one to English and Native merchants alike. Although all the public offices, Government and mercantile, are absolutely closed for twelve days, agents of Manchester and Glasgow firms must open their places of business on this particular day, which to native merchants and dealers is an auspicious day when large bargains of Piece Goods for present and forward delivery are made. Ten to fifteen lakhs of Rupees worth of articles are sold this day in three or four hours, the general impression being that such bargains bring good luck both to the buyer and the seller.
About eight o'clock in the morning, the officiating priest begins the service, and in half an hour it is over. Music, the indispensable accompaniment of Hindoo Poojahs, must attend every such service. A small looking-glass is placed on a pan of Ganges water and every inmate of the family, male or female, is invited to see the shadow or rather the reflex of the goddess on its surface. Deeply imbued as the minds of the votaries are with religious ideas, every individual looks on the mirror with a sort of devotional feeling, and expresses his or her conviction as to the reality of the representation. The children, more from amusement than faith, hang about the place, but the females steadfastly cling to the panoramic view, quite unwilling to leave it. Though totally ignorant of the philosophical theory of the association or suggestion of ideas, the scene naturally presents to their mind's eye the emotions they feel when leaving the paternal roof for the father-in-law's house. "Ma Doorga is going to her father-in-law's and will not return for another twelve month," exclaims one. "Look at her eyes, her sorrowful countenance," ejaculates another. "The temple will look wild and desolate when Ma Doorga goes away," adds a third. To console them, the mistress of the house exhorts all to offer their prayers to the goddess, beseeching that she may continue to vouchsafe her blessings from year to year, and give prolonged life and happiness to all concerned. With this solemn invocation, they, each and every one, fall down on their knees before the goddess, whose spirit had departed on the day previous, and in a contemplative mood implore her benediction. Before retiring, however, every one takes with her some precious relic of the offerings (flowers or billaputtra) made to Doorga when her spirit was present, and preserves it with all the care of a divine gift, using it religiously in cases of sickness and calamity.
About three in the afternoon, after washing their bodies and putting on new clothes and ornaments, the females make preparations for performing the last and farewell ceremony in honor of the goddess. The sudder (main) door is closed, musicians are ordered to go out in the streets, the Doorga with all her satellites is brought out into the area of the temple, the barandálláh with all its sundries is produced, and the females whose husbands are alive begin to turn round the images and touch the forehead of each and every one of the deities with the barandálláh, repeating their prayers for lasting blessings on the family. To the inexpressible grief of the widows, who are present on the occasion, a cruel institution has long since debarred them from assisting in this holy work. These ill-fated creatures are doomed only to stare at the images, but are not permitted to take an active part in the ceremonial. Is it possible to conceive a more gloomy picture of society than that which absolutely expunges from a human breast all traces of a religious privilege the exercise of which, though under a mistaken faith, tends to sweeten a wretched life? The miserable widows of India are unhappily destined to pine away their existence until greater leaders of native reforms arise and deliver them from the galling fetters of superstition.
The epilogue which closes the parting ceremony is called the kanakánjally, which consists in a woman (not a widow) taking a small brass plate of paddy and doova grass with a Rupee dyed in red lead in it, and throwing it from the fore part of the image right over its head into the cloth of a man who stands behind for the purpose of receiving it. This last offering, it is needless to say, is preserved with the greatest care. The female who performs the rite is an object of envy. This rite being performed, the females take each a bit of the sweetmeat and betel which has been last offered to Ma Doorga. A sudden reaction of feeling takes place, all hearts are grieved, and some actually shed tears. Two sensations, though not exactly analogous, arise in their minds; first the religious part of the festival, and the consequent arousal of a devotional spirit, vividly reminding one of the unceasing round of ritualistic ceremonies as well as festivity and gaiety that the presence of the goddess naturally enough produced, and which are about to vanish and disappear in an hour by the immersion of the goddess in the river or pond; and second, a worldly one, the recurrence of the idea when a mother sends her daughter to the house of her father-in-law. In either case, the tender heart of a Hindoo female easily breaks down under the pressure of grief.
The goddess is afterwards brought out and placed on a Bamboo stage borne on the shoulders of a set of coolies, all the flowers and billáputtrá offered her during the past three days are also put in a basket and taken to the riverside. The procession moves slowly forward, preceded by bands of English and Native musicians, and the necessary retinue of servants and guards, while from within the house, the women, not satiated with the sight of the goddess for one long month, stretch their eyes as far as their visual organs can extend to catch a last farewell glimpse of her. The streets of Calcutta, the English part of the town excepted, become literally crammed and almost impassable on such a day. Groups of Police constables are posted here and there with a view to maintain peace and order, the streets become a pavement of heads. At the lowest calculation, there cannot be less than 100,000 sight-seers abroad. Men, women and children of all classes and ranks come from a great distance to have a sight of the image. The tops of houses, the verandahs, the main roads, nay the unfrequented corners present a thick mass of living creatures, all anxious to feast their eyes upon the matchless grandeur of the scene. A foreigner, unaccustomed to such a magnificent spectacle, is apt to overrate the wealth and prosperity of the people on such a day. The number of images, the dazzling and costly embellishments with which they are decorated, the rich livery of some of the servants, the bands of musicians preceding the procession, the letting off of red and blue lights at intervals, the gala dress of the multitude, and last but not least, the elegant carriages of the big "swells," and the still more elegant attire of their owners, who loll back on the cushion of the carriages, diffusing fragrant odours as they pass, cannot fail to produce an imposing effect. Here a gaily clad Baboo with his patent Japan leather shoes; there a Hindoosthanee dandy with his massive gold necklace and valuable pearls hanging down his ears; here a proud Mogul in all the bravery of cloth of gold; there a frowning Mussulman with his dazzling cap and gossamer chápkán (tunic), and ivory mounted stick, all combine to present a motley group of characters, national in their costumes, and unique in appearance. The poor country woman, her lord and children, though not favored by fortune, still cut a figure far above their normal condition.
Those Hindoos, who adorn their images without stint of cost, parade them through the most densely crowded streets till eight in the evening—vanity being the chief motive of action—while those who move in humbler spheres of life take them to boats on the river hired for the purpose, and throw them into the water amidst shouts of exultation. The mob of course sing obscene songs and dance indecently, all which is tolerated for the occasion. The growing sense of the people—the result of English education—has now-a-days greatly diminished the amount of indecency which was one of the distinguishing characteristics of former days on such an occasion.
Between seven and eight o'clock in the evening, the assembled crowd begins to disperse in joyous mood, talking all the way as to the respective superiority of such and such images. Amongst such a great number and variety, there is sure to be difference of opinion, but it is soon settled by the affirmation of a wise head that "the spirit of the goddess is the same in all the images; Ma Doorga, does not mind show."
When the worshippers and others return home, they go at once to the temple, where the officiating Brahmin waits for them to sprinkle on their bodies the sacred water; all are made to sit down on the floor with their feet covered with their clothes, lest a drop should fall upon them. The Brahmin with a small twig of mangoe leaves sprinkles the water, while repeating at the same time the usual incantation, the meaning of which is that health, wealth and prosperity may attend the votaries of Doorga, from year to year. After this they write on a piece of green plantain leaf the name of the goddess several times, and then clasp one another in their arms, and take the dust off the feet of all the seniors, with the mutual expression of good wishes for their worldly prosperity. An elderly man thus blesses a boy; "may you have long life, gold inkstand and gold pen, acquire profound learning and immense wealth, and support lakhs of men"; If a girl, he thus pronounces his benediction (there being no clasping of arms between man and woman nor between woman and woman), "may you enjoy all the blessings of a married life (i. e., never become a widow) become the mother of a rajah (king), use vermillion on your grey head, continue to wear the iron bangle, get seven male children, and never know want." It is well known that no blessing is more acceptable to a Hindoo female than that she may never become a widow, because the intolerable miseries of widowhood are most piercing to her heart; nor can it be otherwise so long as human nature remains unaltered. This social institution of the Hindoos of cordially embracing each other and expressing all manner of good wishes on a particular day of the year, when all hearts are more or less affected with grief at the departure of the goddess, is a very commendable one. It has an excellent tendency to promote social reunion, good fellowship and brotherhood. Not only all the absent friends, relatives, acquaintances and neighbours, male and female, join in this annual greeting, but even strangers and the most menial servants are not forgotten on the occasion. Every heart rejoices, every tongue blesses, every acrimonious feeling is consigned to oblivion. This is a "quiet interval at least between storm and storm; interspaces of sunlight between the breadths of gloom, a glad voice on summer holidays, happy in unselfish friendships, in generous impulses, in strong health, in the freedom from all cares, in the confidence of all hopes." During such a happy period "it is a luxury to breathe the breath of life."
To drown their sorrows in forgetfulness, the Hindoos use a slight intoxicating beverage made of hemp leaves on this particular occasion. Every one that comes to visit—and there must be a social gathering—or is present, is treated with this diluted beverage and sweets. Even the most innocent and simple females for once in a year are tacitly allowed to use it, but very sparingly. One farthing's worth of hemp leaves, or about one ounce, suffices for fifty persons or more, so that it becomes almost harmless when so copiously diluted. But those who have imbibed a taste for English wines and spirits always indulge freely on this occasion, giving little heed to temperance rules and lectures. It is "Bijoya" and drinking to excess is justifiable.
It would not be proper to close this subject without saying a few words about the national excitement which the approach of this festival produces, and the powerful impetus it gives to trade in general. It has been roughly estimated that upwards of a crore of Rupees (£10,000,000) is spent every year in Bengal on account of this festival. Every family, from the aristocracy to the peasant, must have new clothes, new shoes, new every thing. Men, women, children, relatives, poor acquaintances and neighbours, nay beggars must have their holiday dress. Persons in straitened circumstances, who actually live from hand to mouth, deposit their hard-earned savings for a twelvemonth to be spent on this grand festival. Famished beggars who drag a miserable existence all their lives, and depend on precarious alms to keep their body and soul together all the year round, hopefully look forward to the return of this anniversary for at least a temporary change in their rags and tatters. Hungry Brahmins, whose daily avocation brings them only a scanty allowance of rice and plantain, cheerfully welcome the advent of "Ma Doorga" and gratefully watch the day when their empty coffer shall be replenished. Cloth merchants, weavers, braziers, goldsmiths, embroiderers, lace-makers, mercers, haberdashers, carpenters, potters, basket-makers, painters, house-builders, English, Chinese and Native shoemakers, ghee, sugar and corn merchants, grocers, confectioners, dealers in silver and tinsel ware, songsters, songstresses, musicians, hackney carriage keepers, Oorya bearers, hawkers, pedlars and such dealers in miscellaneous wares, all look forward to the busy season when their whole year's hopes shall be realised by bringing lots of Rupees into the till. To a man of practical experience in business matters, as far as the metropolis of British India is concerned, it is perhaps well known that the "Trades" because of the Doorga Poojah make more in one month than they can possibly make in the remaining eleven months. From the first week in September to the middle of October, when the Poojah preparations are being actually made by the Hindoos, when they, frugal as they assuredly are, once in a twelvemonth, loosen their purse strings, when the accumulated interest on Government securities is drawn, when all the arrears of house rent are peremptorily demanded, when remittance from the distant parts of the country arrives, when in short, rupees, annas and pice, are the "Go" of the inhabitants, the shopkeepers make a display of their goods as best they can. From sunrise to ten o'clock at night the influx of customers continues unabated, extra shops are opened and extra assistants employed, the shopkeepers themselves have scarcely leisure enough to take a hasty meal a day, and each day's sales swell the heart of the owner. The thrifty and economical Provincial, who loves money as dearly as the blood that runs through his veins, leisurely makes his sundry purchases before the regular rush of customers begins to pour in. He has not only the choice of a large assortment, and the "pick," of a new investment, but gets the benefit of a reasonable price, because the shopkeeper is not hard and tenacious in the early stage of the Poojah sale. As each day passes, and novelties are exposed for public inspection, the shopkeeper raises his prices according to increasing demand. The effeminate and extravagant Baboo of the City, who does not worship Mammon half so devoutly as his country brother, does not mind paying a little too much for his "whistle," because he is large hearted and liberal minded. His more frequent intercourse with Englishmen has taught him to look upon money as "filthy lucre." He is not calculating, and hence he defers making his purchases till the eleventh hour, when, to use a native expression, "the shopkeeper cuts the neck with one stroke."