Why I observe the Karwa Chauth Fast

It was in the mid-1990s that I first fasted—once a week, every week. Well ... to be honest, it was kind of forced on me.

In Kargil, on the Indo-Pak Line of Control, my unit, 1/9 GORKHA RIFLES, was taking over the defended area from 26 MADRAS, which was de-inducting from the sector. As a young Captain—a Company Commander, no less—I was taking over charge of the company complex that would eventually be manned by my Delta Company. Lined up right behind the operational brief, area familiarisation, intelligence brief, command/control/communications brief and logistics brief, the MADRAS Company Commander added a snippet about a curious tradition prevalent in the sector. Company Commanders observed a vrat (fast) on Tuesdays for "the well-being of their troops".

I hoped that this last part of the classified, for-your-eyes-and-ears-only briefing wouldn't filter down to the troops. Not the faintest intention did I have of fasting. I had reckoned without the pervasiveness of langar gup—the unit grapevine that runs through the rank and file in every Indian Army unit—through which our Gorkhas learnt about the "tradition" from the Madrasis, and a mild hint of a suggestion that I might "consider" continuing the tradition came soon enough from none less than the Company Senior JCO—in a tone that suggested that failure to comply would constitute a grave tactical error.

Now, soldiers have always been a superstitious lot, especially so in combat zones. We were "eyeball to eyeball" with the enemy in an operational area where troops were armed to the teeth and occasionally a little too eager to use them. Tensions could escalate at any time because of geopolitical factors as well as local tactical factors. It was an area which had changed hands several times in the wars of 1947–48, 1965 and 1971. Each side had laid minefields, and neither had access to the other's minefield layout charts. A soldier on patrol could quite literally stumble upon a buried explosive device, with consequences that hardly bore thinking about. Fat chance I had of turning down the senior JCO's suggestion that I observe the vrat. A single casualty could send unit morale plummeting. I could almost hear the whispers of "Company Commander Saheb le vrat basnu bhayena ra aba yesto bhayo" (The Company Commander did not fast, and look what has happened) racing around the langar gup. A Court of Inquiry would certainly not list divine displeasure amongst the reasons for the casualty, but I suspect the court of regimental opinion would arrive at a rather less ambiguous verdict. Observing the vrat was thus a Hobson's choice for me.

As it turned out, the vrat was not quite the ordeal I had expected it to be. High-altitude conditions at Kargil—temperatures well below zero and considerably reduced oxygen levels—meant that the Supply Depot kept us adequately stocked with special rations, which included plenty of tins of condensed milk and cases of dry fruits. The Company Quartermaster Havildar (CQMH), probably feeling sorry for the piety enforced on me, would ensure that vrat day commenced with a bowl of rich, condensed-milk-soaked dry-fruit pudding. This was followed up by rabri with peanut and jaggery chikki (more special rations) around lunchtime. The langar sent up the usual dinner in the evening. So the fasting Company Commander ended up better fed on vrat day than on others.

Years later, by when I had exchanged the uncertainties of the Kargil combat zone for the supposedly predictable hazards of married life, I found that the Institution of the Vrat had followed me home. My newlywed, Delhi-bred wife now threatened to starve for my long life. I had come face to face with the redoubtable Karwa Chauth vrat—something alien to my own Keralite sensibilities. My arguments about the patriarchal roots of the tradition and gender asymmetry were unceremoniously brushed aside. My lines of attack—scientific, feminist and logical—were all repulsed with a single, devastating rejoinder: "It's a tradition my mother followed, and I want to do it." The redoubtable MIL line, when invoked, presented a far more volatile operational situation than the Line of Control.

Now, there may exist brave, adventurous husbands who have won arguments against their wives. I found that I was definitely not one of those tigers among men.

The enemy was too formidable, the terrain too unfavourable, and the prospects of victory too remote. Like a good military leader, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and changed the operational strategy to "If you cannot fight her, join her."

And that, my friends, is how I came to observe the Karwa Chauth vrat with my wife, year after year, while continuing to regard the tradition as rooted in patriarchy. I had changed sides, if not my views, and discovered the joys of solidarity.

Asiya's Jinn

 (A story inspired by a classroom discussion with my school students about ghosts and jinns)

Asiya had always looked forward to her summer vacations in Shivamogga.

The village where her maternal grandparents and her aunt lived had an earthy charm that her hometown, Bangalore, simply couldn’t match. With paddy fields around the ancestral house, a forest on the edge of the village, from which blew a cool breeze in the evenings, Shivamogga felt like stepping into a world apart. It was a place where the hustle of city life slowed down, replaced by the rhythm of nature and the hum of village life. The visits to the village were also made fun by her cousin, Altaf. Altaf had just turned thirteen, and was the same age as her. The two had always been close, and she had always enjoyed exploring the countryside with him. Little did she know, however, that this time, she would have an entirely different kind of adventure.

 

On her third evening in Shivamogga, after a long day of exploring a nearby stream and watching tadpoles, Asiya and Altaf sat on the verandah, munching on freshly roasted corn. The sky above them was a swirl of pink and orange as the sun set, casting long shadows across the fields.

 

“So, what else is there to see around here?” Asiya asked, leaning back and stretching her legs. “I’ve seen the fields, the stream, and that old well. Isn’t there anything… mysterious around here?”

 

Altaf smirked, his dark eyes flashing with excitement. “Well, there is something. But it’s a place no one goes to.”

 

Asiya raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And what’s that?”

 

Altaf leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There’s an isolated thicket a bit removed from the village. No one goes there. People say it’s haunted by the Sare.”

 

Asiya blinked. “Sare? What’s that?”

 

He gave her a strange look that seemed to express surprise at her ignorance. “A type of jinn. People say it’s a spirit that guards the thicket. They say it appears only after dark, a huge, horned figure with glowing eyes that watches anyone who dares to enter its territory.”

 

Asiya giggled. “A jinn? Really? Come on, Altaf, you don’t believe in that nonsense, do you?”

 

His face turned serious. “This isn’t nonsense, Asiya. Even the adults warn us about it. Ramaiyah Ajja  says that anyone who’s seen it has run out of that place screaming. They say it has a scream that sounds like it comes from the depths of hell itself.”

 

Asiya smirked, not buying it. “Have you seen it?. Or has Ramaiah Ajja?”

“N-no” Altaf admitted a bit embarrassed.

“Then we must go there and meet it tonight” Asiya said mockingly.

 

Altaf’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious?”

 

She shrugged, acting casual. “Don’t come if you are scared! Just point it out to me and wait for me at the old well.”

 

He hesitated, glancing toward the house where their grandparents were bustling around, getting dinner ready. “But if they find out…”

 

“Oh, come on, Altaf. We’ll be careful. We’ll sneak out, go there, take a look, and be back before anyone even knows we were gone.”

 

Altaf frowned, still uncertain. But then, Asiya gave him a mischievous smile and whispered, “You’re not scared, are you?”

 

That did it. His face turned resolute, and he nodded. “Fine. But if anything happens, remember, this was your idea.”

 

They waited impatiently for bedtime. Each tick of the clock felt like an eternity. Finally, the lights in the house dimmed, and they could hear the sounds of their family settling into sleep. Quietly, Asiya and Altaf slipped out of bed, grabbed their flashlights, and tiptoed toward the back door. Asiya’s heart raced with excitement as she imagined the mystery they were about to uncover.

 

The path to the thicket was a little over a mile away, but in the dark, every step felt like they were entering another world. The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, and the chorus of crickets echoed all around them. Asiya could see shadows dancing on the ground, cast by the trees, which seemed to sway ominously under the moonlight.

 

The closer they got, the quieter Altaf became. His earlier bravado seemed to melt away, replaced by an anxious silence. Asiya, however, felt a thrill that overcame her nerves. She turned to him and grinned, hoping to keep his spirits up.

 

“See? Nothing so far,” she whispered.

 

He nodded but didn’t reply, his eyes fixed on the ground ahead. When they finally reached the edge of the thicket, they turned off their flashlights. The darkness felt heavier here, almost as if the air was thicker, pressing in around them.

 

Asiya peered into the dense cluster of trees. The shadows were deep, making it hard to see anything beyond a few feet. “So, this is the place?” she asked softly.

 

Altaf nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. This is where people say the Sare appears.”

 

They stood there, waiting, listening to the sounds around them. At first, all they heard was the rustling of leaves. But as the minutes passed, they noticed an eerie silence settle over the forest, as if even the crickets had decided to stay quiet.

 

Just as Asiya was about to make a joke about the “big scary jinn,” something in the shadows caught her eye. Her breath hitched as she squinted, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

 

It was a head- an enormous, elongated horned head, that seemed to be at least a foot across and two feet high. The horns twisted up from the sides, and its eyes… they glowed an unsettling red, cutting through the darkness like beacons. Asiya felt her mouth go dry.

 

Altaf grabbed her arm, his grip painfully tight. “Do you… do you see that?” he whispered, his voice trembling.

 

Asiya nodded, unable to speak. The head seemed to float, suspended in mid-air, unblinking and silent, as if studying them. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, loud enough that she was sure it would give them away.

 

For a moment, they stood there, frozen in fear, neither daring to move. But then, without warning, the “head” began to move. Slowly, almost gracefully, it lifted off the ground, sprouting what looked like massive, silent wings. The wings unfurled, casting long, shadowy shapes across the ground.

 

And then it screamed—a piercing, bone-chilling scream that seemed to rise and fall in waves, filling the forest with an otherworldly sound. It was enough to break their paralysis.

 

“Run!” Altaf whispered, but Asiya was already moving. They turned and sprinted back the way they had come, stumbling over roots and branches, their breaths coming in panicked gasps.

 

After what felt like an eternity, they ducked behind a large tree, crouching down and trying to catch their breath. Asiya peeked around the trunk, her heart still racing.

 

To her horror, the “head” was still visible through the trees. It seemed to hover in the distance, the red glow of its eyes peering through the branches. They watched as it tilted its head, almost as if it was listening, before gliding silently away.

 

Asiya and Altaf exchanged a look of pure terror. “That… was a Sare,” Altaf whispered, his voice barely audible.

 

She wanted to argue, to say it couldn’t be, but the memory of that scream echoed in her mind, and she found herself at a loss for words. Instead, they remained silent, listening to the sounds around them, hoping that whatever they had seen was truly gone.

 

But just as they started to stand, the creature let out another sound. This time, however, it wasn’t a scream. It was a deep, rhythmic hoot, echoing through the trees with a strange, haunting beauty. Each hoot was followed by a pause, exactly two seconds apart, creating an almost hypnotic effect.

 

Asiya blinked, a strange thought forming in her mind. “Wait… do you hear that?”

 

Altaf frowned. “Yeah, it’s… hooting?”

 

They looked back toward the thicket, where the “Sare” had disappeared. A shape moved among the trees, large and ominous, but now, in the dim moonlight, they could make out more details.

Asiya’s face flushed, half from embarrassment and half from relief. She couldn’t help but laugh, a soft, nervous sound that bubbled up as she realized how easily they had been fooled.

“An owl, Altaf! All that… was just an owl!”

 

Altaf’s face turned red. “You’d better not tell anyone about this, Asiya. I mean it!”

 

Asiya just grinned, nudging him playfully. “Your big, scary jinn was a bird, Altaf. Don’t worry - I won’t tell. But I’ll always remember it!”