A change of lens
For most broadcast journalists, getting out there and talking to people is always more fun than being confined to the studio, under the scrutiny of bright lights. So, when my coordinator asked me last month, if I would cover Teej from Pashupatinath, I jumped at the offer. Of course, it would have to be a yes! One, because the opportunity to be reporting is a rarity for those who work in the
English medium in Nepali broadcast sector. Two, I’d never been in the heart of Teej, which has become a thriving phenomenon on Nepali TV in recent years. Born
into a Buddhist family, and raised quite religion-less, I have never understood what the festival really means and wanted to experience it first hand.
On the morning of Teej, I arrived at Pashupatinath with the crew. The temple premise was dotted with red everywhere—women dressed in their red-best. As the day progressed, there was more red infused into the setting, longer queues of women waiting to do darshan and more women swaying to Teej songs, as the drizzle matted their hair. What did they care, while they had a chance to dance their cares away for a day? Everything about being amidst all that was exciting. Besides, beautiful women always add the glamour bit to festivals.
What surprised me while I watched the revelers was that nothing felt foreignto me, even though it was my very first time being in a Teej celebration. I knew exactly why. For several years, I’d seen the day unfold on TV channels. One of the things TV images do for you is to connect you to otherwise distance individuals and events on a personal level. I’d watched Teej on TV for so many years that there was virtually no novelty left when I came to witness it in person. Nevermind that I’d grown up wondering what the mark saying “Mahila bida” on the Bikram Sambat calendar meant.
Every year, even before the festival arrives, the stations are coloured red with women singing and dancing. Many find it annoying, especially those who have not grown up identifying with such a celebration. One of my colleagues always said she suffered headaches every year when Teej arrived because she saw so much red. Nevertheless, we’ve learnt to accept Teej. The same with Shivratri when all the TV cameras turn to Pashupatinath temple for a full 24-hour coverage.
Teej completely eclipses Eid, celebrated by a small but energetic community in Nepal, but which often falls in the same week as Teej. Sometimes, even on the same day. I have always been curious about how Eid is celebrated by the Muslims in Nepal. While all the TV channels are painted red, we only head a spot story saying Eid is being marked. Period. The Kathmandu Post of Sept. 1 was a redeemer. Instead of carrying Teej pictures from the previous day on the front page, it carried a picture of men in skull caps at prayer at the Jame masjid, which made it stand out.
At the heels of Teej arrived Indra Jatra, a weeklong celebrations marked by Newars in the Kathmandu valley. The festival is the most exciting event for the native residents of Kathmandu, because they chiseled the festival into society to make do for the lack of entertainment decades past. Every caste group in the valley has a role in the festival. If the Cheepas take on the daunting task of the Lakhey, the Sapoos race the jovial Pulukishi through the narrow alleyways. Other castes have an equal share is putting the festival together—some constructing the chariot, some bringing out the Dasavatar, some the Dageen, some the Sawabhaku. The italicised terms may sound alien to you, if you are not a Newar
from Kathmandu valley. Hence the need for TV cameras to focus on these events to help the audience appreciate the making of such a festival instead of politicising it. There are also festivals like Goonla (which celebrates Kathmandu monsoon) or Samyake (devoted to Dipankar Buddha) that help us understand Kathmandu better, but these never seem receive due coverage in Nepali media.
I mention these festivals because I’m familiar with them. I wish I could talk about Chaath or Sakela or Toranla or Ubhauli or Losar with equal ease. But I cannot because all I know about Chaath are the bagiyas and thekuwas my best friend’s mother made me during the festival. With Ram Baran Yadav assuming the country’s presidency, there has certainly been more coverage of Chaath as we’ve seen Tarains dip in Ranipokhari to offer their reverence to the Sun God. But what else do we know about it? And what do we know about anything celebrated by non-Hindus in Nepal?
When Christmas arrives, the media coverage turns to parties in Thamel and gift stores and sometimes to the Church of the Assumption. Wouldn’t we rather find out how Christians in Nepal celebrate the festival? Or perhaps learn how the festival has been localised in Nepal. There are rituals we are beginning to adopt—decorating trees and exchanging gifts.
The mainsteam media lives behind an assumption. Just because I am a Tuladhar, you assume I am Buddhist. Just because my friend is a Sharma, you think she’s Hindu. Religion, however, transcends names and castes and as such, it is a sensitive area to probe. Hence, the continuing debate on Nepal’s secular position, years since it was declared so by the parliament. Is it enough for a country to be declared secular and assume it will assume the role immediately? It is the responsibility and obligation of the media to help people understand each other’s cultures, religions and traditions and to promote harmony and understanding—the most important aspects of a multicultural, multi-religious state. If we are really dreaming of describing ourselves as a secular Nepal, it’s about time we changed our lens.
Posted on: 2011-09-27 09:18
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