Changing Colours of Narali Punav
Arun Kumar Shrivastav (2020)
Mumbai is celebrating its most intimate festival Narali Punav, which essentially comes from the island city’s aborigines, the Kolis. Displaced from Dongri where the city’s one of the three most important deities Mumba Devi sits, the Kolis lived in the city’s various Koliwadas. As per the legends, the three deities bless Mumbai with wealth, the reason why people flock to this city from all over the country. Literally translated, Koli means “one who spreads the net” and Koliwada means a human settlement that opens to the seas. Kolis were displaced from Dongri by the British to begin the development of Mumbai as a modern city. This precedes Kolis’ conversion into Christianity in large numbers by the Portuguese(1534–1665).
Like all Indian festivals, Narali Punav celebrates nature — coconut finding a special place — with men and women solemnly rededicating themselves to the almighty, and welcoming the new fishing season – the source of their livelihood. In the truly fluid cultural melting pot that Mumbai is, Narali Punav has dances, songs, DJs, and singers like what Falguni Pathak is to Dandia and Navratri.
As the weather has once again brought mountains of clouds and the sea waves are roaring against the shore, the thought of The Old Man And The Sea by Ernest Hemingway comes rolling down. A coastal village, a boat that the old man is riding, and the chase of the biggest catch of his life tell a fascinating story, especially for the language and the symbolism he uses.
But if you have read Nikos Kazantzakis’ Zorba The Greek, you would know how Mumbai must have been like those coastal villages and cities that he talks about in his books or that he has traveled in his life.
As the folk music on the occasion of Narali Punav makes the monsoon even more mesmerizing, I watch the fishermen cast their nets in the wide-open sea. It’s teamwork — the threads are the thinnest possible and the cast is the widest. There is bait. And, there is a wait. Then, the pulling of the net brings all the team members together.
How much humans have evolved! How much their skills have advanced!
But as the city of Mumbai is now the business and financial hub and a top-ranking city in the world, the fascinating journey of the Kolis into the open sea is on extinction. The Koliwadas are slums today, and they are on the margins of the city, where people hardly talk about landscapes but only about skylines.
On Narali Punav, lord of the sea Varuna is worshipped by offering the coconut and all else that make Indian festivals so bewitching, endearing, and uplifting.
Even though fishing as a profession has declined in Mumbai, the fishermen’s psyche seems to linger on: a wide net, a big catch, teamwork, and the big open sea. That’s what makes the businesses click.
But what fascinates me most today on the solemn occasion of the Narali Punav is the relationship of the sea with the shore. Irrespective of the size, the sea is bound by the coast. No matter how high and wild the waves are, they crash against the coastline and split into drops. That’s the power of the bank, or call it by whatever name you like – coast, shore.
In The Old Man And The Sea, by the time the old man returns to the coast, only the skeleton of the fish is left as he has successfully battled a bevy of sharks. In the end, Hemingway commits suicide despite all the positivity he exudes in his book.
Knowing the shore is as important as it is to know the frontiers.