When faith walked the streets at dawn

Dhanur Masa rituals once bound an entire village together

We moved to Marandahalli in the early nineties, in the quiet month of November, soon after my father retired. It is a small village of barely a thousand souls in Mulbagal taluk, where life moves at an unhurried pace and time seems to pause.

Until my grandmother was alive, the village had been a place of holidays and brief visits. Living there was different. Slowly, almost shyly, we began to understand its silences, its sounds, and its simple rhythms. What once felt unfamiliar soon began to feel like home.

December arrived, and with it came Dhanur Masa. The first morning startled us awake in a way we had never known before. At our doorstep stood an elderly man leading a group of 20 children, a torch flickering in his hand and casting light on their eager faces. In their hands were a tabla, harmonium and other musical instruments; in their voices, devotion. They sang in chorus, offering their early-morning prayers to Lord Rama. 

We opened the door unsure, unprepared, and slightly bewildered. We stood there silently, watching this sacred little procession unfold. It was our house help who gently guided us, reminding us of tradition—to offer rice and a few coins.

This ritual marked the celebration of the newly arrived crop, a season of gratitude when the very first share of the harvest was offered to the lord before it reached any home or hearth. 

The next morning, they returned. This time, we were ready. Rice, a few coins, groundnuts and whatever else our farm had yielded were kept aside the night before. As the days passed, the group grew larger and their voices stronger. My mother, moved by their sincerity, began adding chocolates and homemade snacks to our offering. We waited eagerly for those dawn visits—listening, watching, and once the singing faded down the street, slipping back under our blankets, carrying the warmth of those moments into sleep.

For an entire month, those songs became the rhythm of our mornings.

On the final day of Dhanur Masa, all that had been collected—rice, lentils, grains, and offerings from every home—was brought together. A single meal was cooked and shared as prasada, binding the village once again in devotion and gratitude.

Recently, I returned to Marandahalli during the same season. The change was unmistakable. Only a handful of children came, and even they arrived only when requested. Once, every house had opened its doors willingly. Rangolis bloomed at thresholds, coffee simmered on stoves, and freshly cooked food awaited these young messengers of faith.

Today, village life too has begun its drift towards urbanisation, leaving behind age-old traditions. What once bound the entire village together now survives largely in memory and story. Yet, in some quiet corner of the heart, the echo of those early-morning bhajans still lingers—soft, sincere, and full of devotion—reminding us of a time when faith was simple, doors were always open, and togetherness was a way of life.