EL LENGUAJE TELEVISIVO

Reconstructing the Split Goddess as ÷akti in a Tamil Village

Elaine Craddock

It was another hot, sultry afternoon in July; the overcast sky seemed to press down on me along with the heavy air, and the grey light made the temple area feel even more desolate. There is a proverb in Tamil that declares that MÅriyammaË, the smallpox goddess, should not reside where she can hear the sound of the grinding stone that women use to grind flour and spices; in other words, people should not build their houses too close to MÅriyammaË’s temples because it is too dangerous for people to live near her. Therefore, this famous pilgrimage temple in PeriyapŬaiyam, a small village near Madras, stands by itself on a desolate stretch of land at the edge of the village. The goddess of PeriyapŬaiyam is called BavÅËiyammaË, but she is considered a form of MÅriyammaË. Stories and praise songs about MÅriyammaË are told about BavÅËiyammaË as well, along with the stories that are specifi-cally about BavÅËiyammaË and the village of PeriyapŬaiyam. Devo-tees use MÅriyammaË and BavÅËiyammaË interchangeably.

I was sitting with my research associate, Mr. G. Stephen,¹ under a huge thatch canopy held up by bamboo poles talking to Selvam, an ardent devotee of BavÅËiyammaË. Selvam is a member of the barber caste, and underneath this canopy is where he and his coworkers shave the heads of people who have given their hair as a vow to BavÅËiyammaË. Devotees shave their heads in return for BavÅËi-yammaË’s grace and blessings: for the birth of a child, recovery from illness, prosperity in business, even doing well on an exam. People bring other offerings to the goddess, but hair is a special symbol of

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personal sacrifice and devotion, particularly for women, who are ex-pected to keep their hair long as a mark of beauty and traditional femininity. Selvam was telling us how BavÅËiyammaË’s grace had converted him from a life of petty crime to one of devotion to her, how he had crept into her temple one night to steal money from the offering box, but when he looked up at her face a divine light ema-nated from her eyes and penetrated his soul. He now lived near the temple and worked to support his family, doing much of his business during the busy annual festival that takes place from July through September.

By the time I met Selvam, I had visited more MÅriyammaË temples in South India than I could remember. I had seen enough to know that the European missionaries’ accounts of a cruel MÅriyammaË, who demanded unspeakable atrocities of her devotees, were severely at odds with devotees’ own fervent praise and love of MÅriyammaË.

But I was not expecting Selvam, the barber, to break spontaneously into a song he had written to BavÅËiyammaË. As I listened to him sing passionately of his devotion to her, I saw that she was not just a fearful deity but the object of intense love. Selvam’s description of seeing the light emanating from BavÅËiyammaË’s eyes connects the sacred experience of dar±an, the exchange of vision between the deity and the devotee, with the contemporary world of Tamil goddess films, in which a favorite dramatic element is showing the beams of light emanating from the goddess’s eyes to guide the hero or heroine back to the devotional fold. She may have many arms holding weapons, and sometimes fangs dripping blood, but she is also a loving mother to her devotees. After all, the “ammaË” in BavÅËiyammaË means

“mother” or “woman” in Tamil, as well as “goddess.”

MÅriyammaË is traditionally the goddess of smallpox; she has the power to afflict with pox, as well as to take it away. Smallpox is a sign of the goddess’s favor, a manifestation of her dwelling in the body of the devotee. Pox is also a reminder not to stray from ever-mindful devotion to her. In the past, whenever an outbreak of small-pox would occur—usually at least once a year—a clay image of MÅriyammaË would be made, or a clay pot would be used to call her down. Blood offerings would be made to her, she would be taken around the boundary of the village, and then her image would be thrown into the river. If she were satisfied with the devotions, she would take the pox away from the village. Since the eradication of smallpox MÅriyammaË continues to function as both a destructive and healing force, a mother whose children are her devotees, whom she punishes and rewards as she sees fit. She is often pictured as a fierce, angry goddess with a voracious appetite for blood sacrifice and

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a capricious character, a vivid manifestation of ambivalent power.

Originally a low-caste goddess, emerging from the agricultural milieu in which the majority of Indians still live, she now draws devotees from urban as well as rural areas and across caste lines. Some high-caste Hindus, however—influenced both by the British Raj and by indigenous forces of elite reform—denounce MÅriyammaË and her ilk as pre-enlightened, irrational superstition.

Devotees consider BavÅËiyammaË to be one of the Seven Sisters, a group of goddesses related to each other partly by their efficacious responses to human need. They are probably related to the Seven Mothers, the saptamÅtŸkÅ in Sanskritic mythology, and are widely rep-resented iconographically (Erndl 1993, 11–12, 26–28, 37–38, passim).

Many of the village temples in Tamilnadu have seven stones that are frequently interpreted as the Seven Sisters or the Seven Mothers. The particular names of the seven goddesses differ widely; most of the goddesses named are responsible for disease and healing. BavÅËi-yammaË devotees most often named Ellamma and GaÙgamma as her sister goddesses; several also named KÅlç as a sister goddess. Some devotees told us that what differentiated BavÅËiyammaË from DurgÅ or KÅlç is that she is born in an anthill, but ultimately all three god-desses are really the same goddess. What seems important is that the goddesses are linked, and their identities and functions overlap and intersect.

In fact, devotees consider all of the many village goddesses to be one Goddess, one ÷akti. ÷akti is the female, primordial force that per-vades the universe, that brings the universe into being. ÷akti is anthro-pomorphized as the Supreme Goddess, the creator of the cosmos as well as the cosmos itself, and devotees use the epithets “÷akti” and

“AmmaË” interchangeably to refer to this one divine female. Particu-lar goddesses are recognized as distinct, yet they are also multiple forms of the same, unified ÷akti.² To her devotees, BavÅËiyammaË is the Goddess, ÷akti, whom they perceive to be a protective mother.

BavÅËiyammaË is also connected to her devotees through other kin-ship roles, as is evident in the annual festival at PeriyapŬaiyam.

There is, however, another side to her identity, for this protective mother is also a bloodthirsty deity who traditionally requires blood sacrifices from her devotees. Both explicit and implicit themes of sac-rifice, suffering, and death pervade the myths, songs, and ritual activi-ties associated with BavÅËiyammaË/MÅriyammaË. These themes are closely tied to the Goddess’s nature as ÷akti, power. As ÷akti, the Goddess embodies the power of life and death that pervades and sustains the created world (safisÅra). Such power is associated also with the act of sacrifice, especially blood sacrifice, along with the act

of killing that it entails and the physical suffering that comes with sacrificial death. It is especially the transformative nature of this power that is emphasized in myths and rituals associated with the Goddess in this context.