At Buddha <i>Purnima </i>
Buddha Purnima is the most important religious day for Buddhists all over the world, including those in Bangladesh. It commemorates three important events in the life of Lord Buddha: his birth, his enlightenment and his death.
I have come to the Dharmarajika Buddhist Complex in Kamalapur to photograph the ceremony. On the street, I notice vendors selling candles and incense sticks, which I smell as I enter the compound. A band party is playing boisterously.
Devotees have started here early. Inside a single-story shelter built around a large Bodhi tree, they offer prayers and make maanot (requests) on subjects ranging from world peace to their personal health. The candles and incense sticks are lit while making the maanot.
In one corner a couple sits solemnly reading from a holy book. Parents teach their children rituals of the prayers.
Over in the main building, a large room has a stage with a statue of the Buddha. Every family has brought food this morning. This includes fruits, vegetables, rice, cookies, and cooked fish. It is arranged in several large platters, which are carried over to the statue in a ceremonial march. The food, called “swain”, is offered to the Buddha's statue, and eventually consumed by the attendees.
Inside the temple I watch an old woman worship with utter devotion. When she is done I ask her name. Suniti Borua Choudhury, over 80, lives in Dhaka with the younger of two sons. She hails from Patya, Chittagong.
“How long have you been coming here?” I ask.
“For at least ten or twelve years now,” she replies.
A young couple with two children hover around us. He is the son, Abhijit; she is his wife, Subarna.
I ask Suniti why she comes here. She is flustered. “They bring me here,” she points to her son. Avijit helps out. “It is our largest and most important religious occasion. And so we come here as a family,” he replies for her. They also attend other Buddhist festivals, often held during full moon (Purnima.)
The entire compound is dotted with monks wearing one-piece garments of yellow, orange, or red. They are all ages, and I am told that monks can start here at twelve. However, I am puzzled by the colour differences and wonder if the clothes have a colour code. I find three teenage monks, each wearing a different coloured sheet, sitting by the pond.
“So... do the different colours reflect seniority?” I ask them.
“No, no, we are all at the same level,” comes the reply.
I am not satisfied. “So there is no difference between the colours at all?”
They confer among themselves. Finally, one says, “The red ones are Burmese and the yellow and orange ones are Thai.” There, I had my answer!
In the afternoon, the crowd thins considerably. Children drag their parents to the mela in the street outside. I, too, take my leave, filled with wonder at the religious diversity of this nation.
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