Nabakalebara, the new bodies of the lord

Read along

Namaste. Let us begin with a quiet breath together. In. And out.

In our first sitting we heard that Jagannath came to Puri as daru, sacred wood, from the sea. In the second, we walked beside the chariots on the Bada Danda. Today we come to something that happens only rarely, and that is held with great reverence in Puri. It is called Nabakalebara. Naba means new, and kalebara means body. The new body.

Because the forms of Jagannath, Balabhadra, Subhadra and the Sudarshana are made of wood, they do not stay the same forever. From time to time, they are made anew from fresh trees, and the lord is understood to move from the old forms into the new ones.

I want to say at the start that much of this ceremony happens away from the public eye. Some parts are known only to the families who perform them, and they are not meant to be described in detail. We will speak only of what the temple and the tradition share openly, and we will leave the rest in its silence, as the tradition asks.

When does Nabakalebara happen?

It is linked to the lunar calendar. In some years, the Hindu calendar adds an extra month to keep the lunar and solar years in step. When that extra month is an Ashadha, so that the year has two Ashadhas, it is taken as the time for Nabakalebara. Such a year does not come often. It may be many years apart. The most recent Nabakalebara was in 2015, and the one before it was in 1996.

So for many people in Odisha, Nabakalebara is something seen once or twice in a lifetime. Grandparents tell children about the last one. Families plan pilgrimages around it. The whole of Odisha seems to hold its breath.

The ceremony begins with a search. It is called Banajaga Yatra, the journey to the forest.

A party sets out from the temple. At its heart are the Daitapatis, whom we have met in each sitting so far. You will remember that they are counted as descendants of Vishvavasu, the Sabara chief who first worshipped Nila Madhava in the forest. With them go other temple servants, each with an old, assigned duty.

The tradition says the party goes first to the temple of the goddess Mangala at Kakatpur, some distance from Puri. There they pray, and the tradition holds that the goddess guides the senior servitors, often in a dream, towards the places where the right trees stand.

Think again of the story in our first sitting. Vidyapati followed a path through the forest to find the lord. Here, many centuries later, the Daitapatis walk out into the villages and forests again, to find the lord in the form of a tree. The story is not only remembered. It is walked again.

The tree used is the neem, and not just any neem. The tradition describes signs by which the right tree is known. The lists differ a little from telling to telling, and I will share only the ones that are commonly spoken of.

For Jagannath, the tree should be dark in colour, as the lord is dark. For Balabhadra and Subhadra, lighter trees are sought. The tree should stand near water, such as a river or pond, and often near a hermitage, a cremation ground or a Shiva shrine. There may be an anthill or a snake's hole at its roots. It should have no nests of birds, and no broken or cut branches. And people say the marks of a conch or a discus may be seen on its bark.

When such a tree is found, it is not simply cut down. Worship is offered at the spot, with fire rituals and prayers, before the tree is touched. Then the wood is carried to Puri on new wooden carts, pulled by devotees, with singing along the way. Villages along the route come out to see it pass.

I find it moving that the tree is honoured before it is used. Whatever we believe, there is something here for all of us about how to take from the earth. We can take slowly, and we can say thank you first.

In Puri, the wood is brought inside the temple grounds. There, in an enclosure away from public view, hereditary carpenters, working with the Daitapatis, carve the new forms. The work is done with great discipline, over a set number of days, behind closed doors.

The carvers do not invent the forms. They follow measurements and methods handed down in their families, so that the new Jagannath has the same round eyes, the same wide smile and the same arms without finished hands that devotees have loved for centuries. The form is then covered with layers of cloth, resin and natural colours, and the painting of the great eyes is itself a sacred step, done with prayer.

And here you may remember Queen Gundicha, the old carpenter, and the doors that should not have been opened. In a way, the old story is present again.

When the new forms are ready, the most sacred part of the ceremony takes place. It is called Brahma Parivartana, the transfer. The tradition speaks of a sacred essence, held within the old form, which is moved into the new one. This is done at night, by the most senior Daitapatis. The tradition says their eyes and hands are covered, so that no one sees or touches this essence directly. The lights of the town are put out, and people wait in silence.

Nobody who has not done this work can tell us what happens in that room. The families who do it do not describe it. And I think it is right that we do not try to imagine it aloud. Some things in a tradition are meant to remain unspoken.

What happens to the old forms?

They are laid to rest with rites inside the temple complex, in a place called Koili Baikuntha. The Daitapatis, who are counted as the lord's own family, observe a period of mourning, as a family does when an elder has passed. There is great grief in this, and great tenderness.

Then, after a time, the new forms are seen by the public for the first time. People call it the darshan of youth, because the lord appears young and fresh again. And in that same season, the new forms go out on the chariots in the Rath Yatra, down the Bada Danda to the Gundicha temple, just as we heard in our last sitting.

Let us think for a moment about what this ceremony shows us.

Many traditions make their sacred images of stone or metal, to last. In Puri, the lord is worshipped in a form that is known to age, and that must be renewed. The tradition does not hide this. It honours it. Birth, ageing, passing and renewal are all part of the lord's life in Puri.

There is also a simple kind of comfort here for ordinary families. In Puri, people speak of the lord's illness after his bath, his rest, his journey to his aunt's house, his quarrel with Lakshmi, and now his passing and return. He shares every season of a human life. Devotees often say this is why they feel so close to him. He is not far away on a throne. He lives the same life we live.

And at the heart of it are the Daitapatis, a family remembered as coming from a forest community. At the most sacred moment of the lord's life, it is they who hold him. This says something about Puri that is worth carrying in our hearts.

Let us gather what we heard.

Nabakalebara, the new body, happens in years with an extra month of Ashadha, and the most recent was in 2015. The Daitapatis and other servitors set out on the Banajaga Yatra, pray to the goddess Mangala at Kakatpur, and look for neem trees with special signs. The tree is worshipped before it is cut, and brought to Puri with song. New forms are carved in secret, the sacred essence is moved in the dark of night, and the old forms are laid to rest with mourning.

One thing to take with you. In Puri, even the lord's body is allowed to grow old and be renewed. Think of one habit, belief or way of doing things in your life that has grown old and tired. You need not throw it away in anger. Thank it, and let something fresh take its place.

In the next sitting, we step into the temple kitchen, and hear about Mahaprasad, the food that is shared by all.

Keep going

• Listen: Nabakalebara, the new bodies of the lord
• Previous: Rath Yatra and the three on the chariots
• हिन्दी में पढ़ें
• All episodes of Jagannath: the lord of the world at Puri