First of all, thanks to my employer, Indian Railways, which is on
the verge of choking down under the weight of its own enormous system, for
cancelling my train from Kanpur to Kolkata. This led me to travel by bus from
Lucknow to Banares and then to Kolkata by train. And I utilised this
opportunity for ‘moksha prapti’ at the holiest of the Hindu towns, the Banares.
The start was the least perfect. After being jerked in every
possible angle for eight and a half hours on a UP state transport bus, I was
staring at a long jam just outside Banares. The time was three fifty five am. I
was sleep deprived due to multidimensional bone exercise at the second last row
of seat on a shock-absorber less bus. The sound of constant clattering of fiber
windows throughout the journey was still echoing in my mind.
My train was at eight forty am. I saw auto wallas around the jam
scene. They were shouting ‘station...station’. I dragged out my backpack from
beneath the seat and got down to take one of the autos. As soon as I stepped
down, the first thing I saw was this rickshaw wala staring at the bus door. I
turned around in the other direction towards autos. But a black and white image
of Bhagat Singh, with his hairs folded as ‘judda’, sitting on a cot, from old
NCERT history book crossed through my mind. This rickshaw wala looked exactly
like him. Taking it as a divine sign, I turned back towards this rickshaw wala.
He was old, around fifty five years of age. He had pulled up his
long hairs and tied them on the top of his head in the form of ‘judda’. Most of
his hairs were white. But his face was clean shaven , long and thin. The
stature was short. “Station jana hai, kitna dur hai?” I enquired. “2 km hoga”.
“Chaliye”, I climbed up on his rickshaw. “Jam mein kaise jayenge?” “Galiyon se chalenge,
road pe jane ka kya jarwat hai!”, he replied. It was still four and a half
hours for my train. I was in Banares and the temptation to visit the famous
ghats was always there. “Ganga ghat yanha se kitna dur hai?” “5 km hoga”.
“Wanha ja kar darshan karne aur wapis aane mein train na nikal jaye”, I put
forward a genuine worry. “Kitne baje ki hai train?” “Aath challis” “Ho jayega
darshan”.
So, this undersized rickshaw wala wearing a yellowish-white old
football jersey and a blue lungi peddled the way through the galis of Banares. His
feet clad in socks and torn sports shoes were reaching the pedals with
difficulty. His shoulders and hips of
one side went down as he pushed the pedal on one side and in the rhythmic
movement from one side to another.
It was still dark. The shops along the narrow galis were closed. The
creaking sound of rickshaw and the occasional barking of dogs were the only
noises noticeable. The yellow street lights casted interesting shadows of
rickshaw on street. The shadows near the lights were small and they elongated
along the street as we moved away from light and then slowly it faded into
another small shadow. And on the top of shadows, rickshaw walla’s judda was
always present.
To break the monotony of the situation and to keep myself awake, I
started a conversation. “Judda to sanyasi rekhte hain?” He took off one hand
from the handle and kept the palm on his judda and laughed. “Bhaiyajee, hum bhi
sanyasi hain”. He was happy that someone has noticed. “Naga baba hain hum” he added.
Imagining this man whom I will refer as “riksa baba”, completely nude smeared
in ashes and running down in a kumbh mela disturbed me. It may be noted that
naga babas are nude ‘sadhus’ who lead a difficult life in Himalayas, which can
be imagined considering sub zero temperatures and no clothes on body! They
descend to Allahabad during kumbh mela attracting a huge contingent of national
and international ‘bakhts’ eagerly awaiting their holy ‘darshans’. But this
little ‘bhagat singh’ look alike man was not in the Himalayas! I was confused.
“Aap rickshaw chalate hain per...” I left out an open ended
question. It’s not that I consider rickshaw pulling lowly, but the whole
concept of naga sadhus is based upon leaving behind materialism. “Bhaiyajee” he
took a turn into a relatively wider road, “ hindutva kya hai?”. It was a tough
question for any person at any time, but with whole night of sleep deprivation,
I was really not prepared for this.
Sensing my inability to comprehend the subject, his small hands
pointed out to small groups of women and men heading towards the ghats. The
darkness had died out and the sky was greyish orange. Small groups of devotees,
which have diverged into this wide road leading to ghats, were carrying small
plastic bags containing the change over clothes. “ Ye log kyun aaye hain
yanha?”. “Ganga ghat mein nahane ke liye”, I replied. “Bhaiyajee, aur gahrayee
se sochein”, he insisted. “punya prapt karenge naha ke, sare pap dhul jayenge”,
I stretched my answer. “Sahi kaha aapne, pap dhone aate hain log, ghaton pe,
mandiro mein, pahadon pe, har jagah”, riksa baba added with emphasis “pap
dhone”. So, what was he trying to tell, that sin is the mother of all
religion!! I was in no mood to contest and we were nearing the ghats as the numbers
of temples were increasing, and the typical smell of flowers lying in water
along with incense stick was becoming stronger.
“Hindutva to pap dhona hai, magar aap naga sadhu kaise?” I was hell
bent to get an answer. “Bhaiyajee, hum hindutva ke wahak hain.” Wahak means
bearer. “Kitne hi logon ko ganga ghat ke darshan karaye apne jivan mein aur
logon ne apne pap bhi dho liye, magar humme kya mila?”. He continued, “ hum to
das rupyee savari pe riksa kichte reh gaye”. His voice exhausted from pulling
rickshaw also sounded choked in sadness. It turned into that of guilt, “Magar,
jyun humne nangi daud lagayi Allahabad ke sangam mein, logon ne mujpe aise
paise bahaye”, he enacted the throwing of money using his one hand. “naga sadhu
ko log bhagwan mante, humne paise ke liye kumbh mein naga sadhu banna shuru kar
diya”.
Well, religion is a twisted concept. It doesn’t follow normal economic
theories; it mixes mass psychology with anthropological myths and is served as
a power centre to bend customary social theories. It was no doubt the ‘riksa
baba’ has realised that working day and night to carry passenger was no match
to smearing ashes and pretending to be a sadhu once every four years.
We were at the ghat. Riksa baba showed me the big mast having dozens
of halogen lights towering over ancient temple structures. He told me that I
will get stairs leading to ghats from there. I thanked him for the wonderful
company and handed him over a hundred rupee note. I convinced him that extra
ninety rupees were for an excellent narrative he had provided.
I moved towards the big mast. Even though the day was about to
break, hundreds of devotees were already present. As I made my way through
groups of people on the stairs, I got the first look of the Ganges. It was not
beautiful. A large portion of the river width was silted. The side of river
along the ghat was occupied with small boats, from which the boatmen were
shouting for the ride. I moved further down the stairs which was crammed with
people, their shoes and chappals, flowers, incense sticks, red sindoor, broken
diyas, ghee, dirt, hope and prayers. I reached at the bottom where silty,
polluted waters of the holy Ganges were touching the concrete stairs.
There I met ‘firangi pataka’. She was what I will humbly put as
“smoking hot”.
Banares attracts large number of foreign tourists. This town sells
Hinduism and ganja(marijuana), and foreigners make a bee line for both. I had a
lot of questions for them, and here was an opportunity.
She, the firangi pataka, was sitting alone on the stairs. And like
most places in India, here too in this holy place, were a bunch of perverts
happy to see hundreds of women take dip in the Ganges and then change clothes.
But these ‘dudes’ standing near me, were not interested in those ‘brown skinned
fatties’. Their gaze was fixed at the ‘firangi pataka’. I got this name from
their conversations. Firangi means Foreigner and pataka means cracker. “Abe
nadi kya dekh rahi hai, naha le janeman” commented one of the dudes.
The level of pervertedness may differ, but my gaze too was fixed on
her. She was clad in clothes from head to toe. She was wearing a cream coloured
kurta and a white pyjama. Her head was covered with stole. Her white socks were
adorned in red floaters.
I moved closer to her and stood at a little distance in front of
her. The first rays of rising Sun were falling on her face. It was radiant. The
greenish brown eyes were looking divine staring at the yellowish orange rays of
the Sun. She was gorgeous, poised, and full of elegance and of course “smoking
hot”. She didn’t notice me. And why would she? When the beauty of nature and
the beauty in nature were appreciating each other, where did I stand?
Still, persistence pays. Her eyebrows and lips in smile raised in
unison as she noticed me as if questioning ‘what’? And I raised my lips in
smile and shoulders in unison as if saying ‘I don’t know’. She signalled me
with her hands to come near her. Quickly remembering all the attributes of a
‘cool dude’, I approached casually towards her. “Hey”, I tried to sound as
foreign as possible. “Namaste”, she responded in a tone that was neither
English nor American, but was deep and gentle at the same time. Feeling foolish for acting too cool, I sat
beside her on the stairs. She reverted back at staring into the rising Sun. I
relooked at the scene before me, but this time I couldn’t feel the ugliness. I
was wondering how our kids would look like.
Regaining my senses from fictional thoughts, I focussed on reality. “Do
you find this beautiful?”. All I could see, in front of me, was an over
polluted river and the Sun rising above it would be too hot too soon. “It’s the
way you look”. I couldn’t grasp the concept; she on one hand couldn’t look any
less dazzling from whatever way we look, but this river? “I am confused”, I
blurted out. She turned and her eyes seemed to peek directly into my soul. This
particular moment will remain etched into my heart forever, those extraordinary
divine eyes with the depths of an ocean looking directly into mine, and I could
sense the Sun’s rays refracting into her eyes and reflecting back into mine. I
stood bare in admiration.
“What’s your name?”, I think she had repeated this question. I
searched for my name with my mind and gaze completely transfixed into her face.
“Aaa..aa..Abhinav”. “Aa.a..Avinow, my name is Evelina” and she smiled broadly.
I felt ashamed of stammering and staring. I lowered my gaze onto the stairs.
“And as for your question, let’s go to the boats” and she started walking
towards the river. I followed her in disbelief, anticipation and with
obedience.
I could feel the jealous looks of the ‘dudes’ piercing the back of
my head. But, who cared? I was walking with the ‘firangi pataka’. There was uproar
among boatmen to get the ‘madame’ on their boat. The men on the ‘darshan’ of
Goddess were truly blessed. The ‘brown fatties’ were irrelevant as usual. She
ignored them all and along the sides of Ganges, she walked pulling herself away
from the crowd and the ghat. I followed, feeling at times to wave at the crowd
as superstars do, but I was just the personal assistant to a superstar
here.
We made our way along the
ghat towards one end, where large numbers of boats were tied up along the
shoreline. The concrete stairs were not present here. I saw a little boy
relieving himself near one of the boats. She looked at him and smiled at me.
God, did I mention she was beautiful?! “What’s your age?” I went direct for the
jugular. She pulled herself up on one of the boats and shouted, “What?”. I
shouted back, “your age?” “Forty two”, she emphasised by showing fingers on her
hand, four on one hand and two fingers on another. I went into a shock. Here I
was wondering what our kids would look like and she was forty two! “ Do you need
a hand, boy?” Never before had I been hurt like this by someone calling me a
boy. I gave her a hand and she helped me to get up on the boat.
“You were confused what I find beautiful here, look for yourself”.
She pointed out towards the ghat. It was not for the rising Sun over a river
that she was interested in. It was not the view from the ghat, but the view of
the ghat that was magnificent. There were old temples with red and yellow
pieces of clothes hanging around, the sound of bells in the temples getting
lost somewhere in the murmur and prayers of a devoted crowd, thousands of
people concentrated on a small stretch of concrete stairs finding their way
half naked towards the holy Ganges, those who reached the waters stood in
content with folded hands facing the Sun, the small diyas floated into the
Ganges making a twinkling effect, men and women devoid of material possession
stood dipped in the faith of the unknown.
“You have similar scenes at Rome and Mecca, religion does have such
effect on masses?” I questioned. “Christianity and Islam, and by that matter
even Jainism, Buddhism and Sikhism, were propagated and started by some people
at some point of recorded history. They are religions. This is civilization,
the oldest surviving mass culture. No one started it. It is the masses that
have created a religion.”
I wished I had more time with her and with the ghats. I had a train
to catch at 8.30 am. “You won’t take a dip?” She queried as we got down from
the tied boat. “Will you?” I replied. And in the exchanged smile the meanings
of physical dip were exhumed. We exchanged goodbyes.
As I moved up on the stairs away from the human miracle of God, I
searched for the correct word of this “human miracle”. Was it religion or was
it faith. Was it civilization or was it hope economics. Why for so many people
taking a dip in the Ganges at Varanasi is the single most important thing they
have done in their life? For riksa baba, this was his survival mechanism.
Religion was a thing to earn livelihood, a thing that brought money. For
firangi pataka, this was a subject of study, a research paper. A topic of
fascination and romanticisation.
But for millions of other people religion is a hope of new start. A
place where old sins are washed and blessings are taken for a fresh start. A
mechanism to refuel yourself spiritually, emotionally and psychologically.
Amen.
PS –
1.
Smoking hot is used for someone
before whom you seem to lose control of your senses.
2.
“Brown skinned fatties” used
for Indian women devotees is just an expression to bring out the contrast,
viewing from the eyes of common ‘dudes’. It is not meant for generalisation and
disrespect in any ways.
3.
Offense, if any, to Hinduism or
the holy town is unintentional, and may be excused.
