Natural Fibre Lamp Wicks 1: Vazhai naar or Banana pith

This is the first installment in a set of four, on extracting natural plant fibres to fashion lamp wicks. The next two will be on lotus silk and wiry panampazham fibres; after that giant milkweed/madar or erukku thiri.

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It was my job as a child to light the lamps at 6pm sharp, every evening, for years. I would pick flowers from the garden, arrange them on the small shelf in my parents’ bedroom that doubled as a puja corner, settle the lamp’s thiri or wick, fill oil and light a match. On Fridays, the lamps would get washed and the whole shelf cleaned. Then I’d pull a new thiri from a small box my mother kept for such things, and thread it into the lamp’s stem. We lived in Nigeria at the time, so the wicks were always cotton, but back in India I would hear of other thiri in places where my parents went to obtain “pooja saman”: prayer things. I remember these things well enough—the different lamp types (which my father thoughtfully supplied me with), the different oils, the different wicks—but didn’t become curious about them until much later in life, at which point I became aware of something I’d known from the start: as with most things in our incredibly precise cultural traditions, nothing is incidental. The choice of lamp, oil, wick, flowers—all these have specific purposes and they drive towards specific outcomes.

Last year, I made wicks from the fibres of the panampazham or toddy palm—not a traditional use, but my father’s health was in decline and the fruit in its multiple stages had become for me something of a symbol of life itself. The lamp wick symbolizes the material body and the ego, after all; it was only fitting that the fibres should burn.

A few days ago, finally I sat with a banana stem and a crushing headache. I’d wanted to do this for a very long time–sit with the rather forbidding banana stem, spend time with it, get to know it. Vazhai thandu or banana stems are one of those hyper-local foods which everyone swears by [“good for kidney”] and yet are a chore to clean, prep, and prepare. This is largely because of their very very fibrous quality. It takes effort and patience, even with the most tender stems, to rid them of all fibres [நார்/naar] and ready them for cooking and consumption. Once cut, the pieces oxidize very fast, so they’ve to be worked through right quick and submerged in buttermilk. Think of it this way in the midst of your already-too-busy-mornings and the fibres are nothing short of an impediment and the banana stem falls out of favor in the kitchen.

But, in the ingenious hands of our grandmothers or others who ever spent time with the vazhai thandu pulling out all that naar, those very troublesome fibres were quickly recognized for what they were or, more like it, what they could so easily become: lamp wicks.

The tougher outer strings pulled from banana stems have multiple, known uses. Most commonly, they’re used in place of string and rubber bands to tie bunches of greens and other vegetables in the markets. Finer ones are used to tie flowers together to make garlands for home worship, ceremonies, and temple use. The finest of the lot these days get made into “banana pith saris.” And then for home use, there are the wicks.

You can call this “zero waste” living if you like, and it’s true, most of our traditional kitchen practices have been economical to a fault, finding creative uses for every last piece of vegetable skin or seed. Zero-waste and so-called sustainability were part of the economy of existence rather than a “lifestyle” that needed to be chosen and supported with products and rationale. Some of it was plainly economics and poverty. Some of it was also the economics of living amidst poverty: it is a crime to waste food when there are so many suffering, was an axiom of my own childhood. Some of it was just the ethics of not-wasting born of scarcity, the hardship of getting things and the need to maximize utility.

But reducing the production of lamp wicks from banana stem “waste” to economics misses both the bigger picture and the poetry of such creations. There’s a lot more than a commitment to not-wasting that’s at stake here. There is, for one, the desire to light a puja lamp–the so-called ‘zero-waste’ life not only included that, but in fact centered on it.

I recall once having a batch of milk cream that had soured and spoiled beyond redemption; there was no way to churn it to butter and what fats could be extracted would likely not be fit for consumption. “I’ll take it if you don’t want it,” said the lady who helps me to cook. I raised my eyebrow and looked at her askance but this was not about hunger and poverty in any straightforward sense. “I’ll get enough fat out of it to light the lamp for 2 days,” she said, “that is a big thing for me.”

Lamp oil costs money; wicks add to that expense. Special oils for lamps like iluppai yennai [Madhuca Indica, mahua seed oil] or ghee or panchadeepa yennai made of 5 oils [coconut, castor, neem, iluppai, and cow’s ghee], may be around for special occasions, but most will buy a lower grade sesame oil for daily use. It’s a simple way to economize but still continue the all important routine of lamp-lighting and daily prayer. Similarly, lamp wicks were for long never purchased but rolled out of balls of fresh cotton (parutthi). Kerosene lamp wicks were made from old cotton clothes torn into shreds; some may even have been used for puja lamps. Running out of oils and wicks created a sense of urgency, it couldn’t happen: lighting a puja lamp wasn’t just an option, it was a need.

From there far more than from the economics of not-wasting comes the lore. Girls grown up in the southern states may remember being delegated the task of cleaning the banana stems with mothers and aunts and grandmothers and fashioning the extracted fibres into delicate wicks. Or they’ll remember the techniques used by a mother or a grandmother in an old home: a neem stick used to pull, twist and wind. It was time spent together, the “company of women,” as Sara Suleri said once in the longing opening lines to Meatless Days, all lost to time, distance, old age and death.

Beyond all this is the large symbolism of the lamp as dispeller of darkness and guide to spiritual light– तमसो मा ज्योतिर्गमय, lead me from tamas to light, as that Shanti mantra line goes–and the specifically orchestrated order of everything. The oil, the wick material, the number of wicks, and the direction of the flame all are believed to affect outcomes. Parutthi thiri/ பருத்தி திரி or cotton fibre wicks are the most commonly used all-purpose wick; all others are far more specialized. Vazhai naar thiri or banana fibre wicks may be lit to seek pardon for mistakes committed in this and prior births, and to keep homes ailment-free. Red cloth wicks are dedicated to prayers for a strong marriage buttressed by the birth of children; yellow ones seek the grace of Goddess Parvathi.

The late Shri Parashuram Gode–Sanskrit scholar and inaugural curator of the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute (1916-1941) with one of the largest collections of ancient texts in South Asia–notes the use of such cloth wicks in medieval India, called कांकडा/kakada in Marathi, and the waving of these before temple or household shrines “kakada aarathi.” He writes:

I can’t quite say when, historically, banana fibres became an acceptable substitute for lotus silk, only that these are far more available and easy to fashion wicks from, even if their symbolism in lamp-lighting is not as multi-dimensional as it is for the lotus.

Lest I take any of it too seriously: “it’s about time,” chortled the boys, “You’re a Deepa [lamp] after all…”

Here is the process, mostly in photos and with some words.

Step 1: Gather what you will need

• A foot or more of tender banana stem, suitable for cooking [this got me about 5 thick wicks, each about 5″ in length]
• A bowl of thin buttermilk to save the cut banana stem pieces after extracting fibres
• Two cutting boards–one on which to work, and one (very clean or new one) to set aside the fibres and roll the wicks
• A sharp knife
• A pinch of vibhuti (any ash will technically do, but these wicks are for puja lamps, so vibhuti it is).
• A small, clean box in which to store the prepared wicks

Step 2: Extract fibres & roll wicks

Make sure your hands are very clean through this process, both because you’ll be processing the banana stem for consumption and also because the fibres extracted are white and will catch any dirt you bring to them with your fingers.

Score the banana stem about 2-3″ away from the edge of one end. You want to be able to break off a piece, so it needs to be long enough to handle. Do not cut it through, just score it–and break. If the stem is tender enough, it will snap easily, and as you pull the pieces apart, you will start to see all the fibres emerge.

Pull the fibres away from the smaller cut piece first. You can twist as you go, or simply pull. Once the piece has released, repeat the process with the longer end.

Some women use a small neem stick to pull and twist the fibres, so that you’re not left with a length of unruly fibre that just wants to blow away in the wind. Whether you use a stick or simply pull and collect the fibres is up to you–whatever is easier, whatever works is fine.

Lay the fibres out on the second, cleaner cutting board. You may want to roll them together, but be very gentle and roll them loosely. Compacting them too much serves no particular purpose and only lengthens the time it will take to obtain a full wick.

The fibres will, of course, be of varying lengths. Eventually, you will want to use shorter lengths to thicken the thinner ends of the emerging wick, or you can simply fold those to make them more even with the rest.

Once the fibres from one section have been released–repeat the process for the remainder of the stem, working in 2-3″ segments each time: score, break, extract.

I got about 5 thick wicks from the roughly 12″ of banana stem I used.

Remember to drop the “used” pieces of stem into the waiting pot of buttermilk. This will keep them fresh and prevent oxidation. You can chop them right away and then dunk them in the buttermilk, or simply keep the pieces in the buttermilk until you are ready to cook with them later.

Step 3: Prepare the wicks for storage

Once you’ve worked through the length of the banana stem, set the wicks aside and put a pinch or two of vibhuti on the same surface. Spread it with your fingers, and then gently roll each wick in the ash until it is well coated.

The vibhuti will help reduce the slight tackiness of the wicks, plus it acts as something of a preservative [I had sugar ants coming for my banana stems and fibres right quick]. Sans this, the banana fibres will harden as they dry, so the vibhuti also keeps them reasonably pliable until you are ready to use them.

If you are making these wicks for any other purpose, you can use any clean ash; even cooking ash works. For puja lamp-lighting, use vibhuti.

And that’s it really. Leave the wicks out to dry overnight and then store in a clean, dry box. If they’ve been well-enough coated with vibhuti, they should last several weeks or longer. If they harden a little, that’s ok–they’ll soften once again once you soak them in oil in preparation for lighting lamps.

Finale: Lighting Lamps

“And what became of the wicks in the story, Amma?” asked the boy who had, just yesterday, it felt like, posed an existential question to his parents: “Where was I before I was here?” and himself hypothesized the answer: “I was in the universe,” he said, “and it was big and dark and I was alone but I was not scared…”

“And what of the wicks, Amma? Did they burn blazingly? Did they barely light at all? Where did you put them?”

“I placed the banana fibre wicks in two lamps filled with the oil of sesamum,” came the mother’s answer, “and set them before the Lord of the Caves who wore a ring of thumba flowers on his head like a tribal chieftain.”

“Tell me the story of the Lord of the Caves, the one about the little bird,” said the boy, chirping rather like a bird himself.

“Was a time when Parvati asked Shiva: what is this mala of skulls you wear? One for each of your births, he answers. She is furious. Birth upon birth only for me, not for you? So, Siva promises to tell Parvathi the secret of immortality, but only in a soundless, airless cave where nobody else is present and even whispers cannot escape. Siva narrates and Parvati listens, making such regular, repetitive sounds of understanding that Siva peers and realizes she’s asleep! Who’s been making the sounds but a baby parrot just hatched from a lone egg left behind in that cave and not found, a baby just like you, who has heard everything! And that parrot flew out of the cave, was born later as Shukacharya, the one with the purest of hearts. He wrote a treatise on .. can you guess? Immortality!”

“What are those secrets, Amma?” asked my one who came from the big, dark universe where he was alone but not scared.

“I don’t know them, babu. But we light these lamps with fibres from the banana stem to the crystalline form of the Lord of the Caves bedecked with thumba, and we sit in soundless, airless rooms where the lamps burn small and bright and steadfast—and we hope we can hear the echoes of those old conversations, too.”