In the year 2006, Rishi and I went on a short vacation to Benaras. Thereafter we picked up my mother from Delhi and visited Amritsar. I do not recall any specific reason for choosing these two cities in our itinerary. Coupling them, however, led the mind to observe, thoughts to meander and my travel diary to capture a monsoon week that was quite unique.
July 30, 2006
We are going to Benaras. The flight is delayed at the Delhi airport. I calm my restlessness with a glass of cold coffee and Istanbul. There is a familiar face at the next table. It takes me a while, however, to associate that face with the known name of the filmmaker Shyam Benegal. Even before the journey has started, the recognition brings with it a surge of nostalgia – of evenings at Lotikadi’s flat, Bappa, Manthan with Girish Karnad and Smita Patil and Preeti Sagar’s songs.
We fly over the flattest of Gangetic plains. My childhood perception of a plain was always in opposition to a plateau that I thought of as “a flat elevated land”. As Rishi pointed out, I must have always thought of a plateau towering over a plain across miles as a “step function” – black and white easy world of childhood…
“Are you Mr. Mark?” – it always happens to Rishi, getting mistaken for a foreigner in his own country. Well, may be he is! Turns out that Mr. Mark is also headed for the Taj Ganges just as Mr. Rishi and Mr. Shyam Benegal. The car finds its way first through cropped fields, and then through shops and houses in varying levels of dilapidation. Hoardings are mostly in Hindi except for the ubiquitous Pepsi Cola, Reliance and Hutch, advertisements announcing coaching classes for higher education programs, spoken English, and a brand of Su Kam invertors. We pass several saffron clad sadhus carrying two pots on either end of a long pole with beads and bells across their shoulders. Later, the travel desk at the hotel tells us that we are here in the midst of Naga Panchami (Snake God) celebrations.
The Taj Ganges located in the erstwhile Nadesar Palace grounds is a 40-acre lush affair in the middle of the holy mess that is Benaras. The main hotel is tucked cleverly behind a façade of tall thick foliage of stately trees drawing a sharp boundary between what lies inside and the reality outside.
In the afternoon, Jabbar drives us to Sarnath. The directions call it the “Buddhist Circuit’. Sarnath is simply a sea of humanity. Women dressed in bright and shiny chiffon saris, high-heeled, arched eyebrows, painted lips, often in their ghunghat (head covering often with the sari) ; men in their shirts and trousers, children in denims with a plethora of pockets and T-shirts – local tourists in Eastern UP dialect clearly spanning both Hindus and Muslims, all of them visiting Buddhist relics. Despite the humanity pounding on it, the trees and the grass are surprisingly green, the place sprawling – complete with the Dharma Stupa, ruins of Monastic towns and a deer park. In the well-archived museum of the Archaeological Society of India we see the Lion Emblem, a range of Bodhisatvas, other statues and sculptures dating back to the 3rd century BC all the way until the 12th century AD. The older Buddha temple at Sarnath is beautiful – the shades of the Bodhi tree is delightfully cool and the colorful frescoes lining the walls of the shrine built during the 1930’s by Buddhists from Sri Lanka with support from Buddhists from the world over in Thailand, Burma, Vietnam and the US reminiscent of the gray message in the possibility that religion can unite people of different nations.
Then the sky turns dark and the rains pour in – monsoon showers in the midst of history and in the warmth of a brimming India on that sultry Sunday afternoon. We wait under the shelter of the Bodhi until the rain comes to a halt. The evening sun starts to peep out through the blue skies. “This is Benaras” a man walking ahead of us turns to his friend and says, “This city stores nothing”!
Strange thing to say about a place that appears to be trapped in time. But, may be like the Ganges, the clouds melt and flow away.
July 31, 2006
The air is faintly perfumed in the pretty rose garden. Bright winged butterflies hover around. The friendly geese and peahens walk up to greet us. These are the Nadesar Palace Grounds.
The rickshaw man urges us to explore the palace. Vinay Singh, the security guard then takes over. Unlocking the front door of the old Palace, he ushers us in. Nadesar, a Rai Bahadur (British title) was the Rajah (King) of Ramgarh. He used this residence in Varanasi to entertain his British and Indian visitors. Room after room in the palace is filled with antique furniture – chairs, ornate wardrobes and mirrors, large bedsteads. On the walls hang old paintings and portraits of the king and members of his family, photographs of the Nehru, Lal Bahadur Shastry and the king with his many guests. We find out that some of the rooms are being used to store scores of Samsung’s flat screen televisions for the hotel rooms that are under renovation.
Vinay Singh proceeds to explain to us with great gusto about the times of the royalties and what had changed since then, peppered it with tales of the present and his own place in the scheme of things. The brocaded curtains on the windows are in tatters; the giant mechanical clock sits silently on the mantelpiece. Time stands still as we emerge out on another side facing an elegant old fountain and walk back to the front.
The exploits of the Shikari (hunter) king hang on the walls of the main entrance overlooking a small quiet shrine of Shiva and Parvati. Outsiders are allowed access into this small temple through a small side gate to the palace during the day. A young woman is sitting cross-legged and performing elaborate rituals at the lingam.
Vinay Singh shows us his copy of the Bhagwat Gita, complete with translations from the original Sanskrit and explanations. He speaks rationally about the relationship between religion and progress. “Bangalore to bahut achha hein” – a constant refrain wherever we go. “Kaise maloom”, we ask “aap wahaan gayen hein”. “Nahi, par sab kahte hein.” Deve Gowda, are you listening?
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Our tryst with the Ganga starts late afternoon after 4.00 pm. We decide to walk to Dashashvamedh Ghat – a six-kilometer long trudge through chaotic and pot-holed streets. There are shops lined up all along and policemen dot every intersection so that we can actually find our way to our destination without getting lost. As we get close to the ghat, I see glimpses of Bengal in Benaras – Jalajog, shops selling jarda, multiple Vastralayaas. Someone prompts us to take a winding path down to a jetty that overlooks the river.
At the first glimpse, Ganga looks like narrow muddy stream and hardly inspires. However, Mahavir, the boatman finds us soon after. He entices us with the numerous possibilities in a Rs. 650 boat ride. Rishi is carrying little money and he has already spent a part of it in buying a towel to wipe the profuse sweat on his head and face. Mahavir sticks to Rishi until they settle on a ride worth Rs.150. The evening sun is slowly inching towards the horizon as we climb gingerly into the boat. In the meantime, the ghat is beginning to fill up. Amongst the crowd are bathers, devotees, curious onlookers, foreigners, priests, pilgrims, sellers of flowers, incense, pots and jars of various shapes and sizes to carry Ganga-jal, little lamps to set afloat in the waters as an offering to Goddess Ganga. Elaborate arrangements are being made for the evening aarti. A Bollywood strain of holy music is blaring from the loud speakers.
Three boatmen are rowing our boat upstream. The flow is swift and they struggle. Most of the boats that line the Dashashvamedha ghat are oar boats. There a few large motorized boats that are noisy and look for many more people to cart at one go. The boatmen are ferrying people today – apparently they are on strike tomorrow. I wonder how strikes affect their livelihood. We find out soon.
As we set sail against the current and the boatmen work their way furiously through the waters, I take a closer look at the river. The water is muddy alright. Mahavir tells us that beneath the river stand more temples and ghat already inundated by monsoon rains. He also points us to greater heights and shows us how high the water rose sometime in the early 1990’s when boats plied in a flooded city and boatmen like him helped keep the flow of food, water and life.
I am pleased to see that water is indeed flowing and there is little inorganic flotsam. The boatmen urge us to touch and be blessed by the waters forever. Rishi had wished to see the beautiful architecture along the ghat (edge of the river or flight of steps to the river) of Benaras that he thought he had seen in films – Benaras, Apur Sansar and Chokher Baali. The structures looked similar. Though reality was not as romantic as filmed in silhouettes – yet they bore the grace and elegance of their age and wisdom specially as we drifted past them on the river – ghat after ghat from Prayag to Harishchandra.
In the meantime, we realise that the boatmen are not quintessential majhis in the strictest sense; that they do not own this boat. This is what they do for a living for nine months during the year and in the months when the water rises too high they become weavers in a Banarasi sari factory. They are impressed that we live and work in Bangalore. “Bangalore to bahut achhi jagah hein.”. “Kaise maloom?” “Ji sab bolte hein.” They say they associate Bangalore with knowledge and teachers (adhyapak); I tell them that Rishi is one of those teachers! Mahavir tells us that Benaras is a beautiful ancient city that has been seized and destroyed by the Brahman Pandas. The caste lines are drawn in blood in this part of the country. In many ways, Vinay Singh and Mahavir both through their enterprise and worldly wisdom symbolize to us the opportunity cost of tradition without change that Varanasi appears to be so proud of. That would well explain the elaborate aarti ritual that starts some time after we return to the jetty. Half a dozen beautiful priests donned in saffron and yellow finery initiate and perform the aarti while music and dhak (an Indian percussion instrument) play in the background. Dozens of foreigners are mounted on the boats atop the Ganges; excitement-hungry non-resident Indians are clicking away the digital signatures of contemporary forms of ancient rituals to worship the Ganga. We are amazing people, we touch the feet of our elders and have the freedom to mount over our Gods and Goddesses.
August 1, 2006
May be it was inevitable – we are up at 4.15 am and at 5.00 am we are weaving our way through the by now familiar road towards the ghat – in the car this time. It has rained at night, in the early morning light, the streets look dirtier, the shops and establishments sadder than they did last evening. The ghat now stinks – the odor of fresh excreta of animal and human fills the air – here the bathers are brushing their teeth, washing and performing their morning ablutions. The rains have washed the fragrance of the flowers and the incense away and the magic of the dusk and lamps have faded away with the awakening of the dawn. Strangely, the river looks wider and bathed in the morning mist Ramgarh appeared further away. Assi and Varuna are distant bridges. We stand watching the vista briefly and then walk back to the car.
Soon we are walking into the archway that would lead us to the old famed Kashi Vishwanath Temple. Destroyed and rebuilt several times, this is a place that evokes love and faith; pilgrims come from far to seek solace and blessing. And we the skeptics are walking into the narrow alley paved with a blend of mud and holy shit, the little shops on either side mostly unopened in the early hours. Beyond the shops stand high walls of old houses that keep the alley dim and damp. A few people who look like they have been trapped in the alley for decades are half asleep in the open courtyards. They keep company with enormous buffaloes who look ageless as stones until they bellow loud and lock their horns appearing Nandi-like (Hindu deity) and divine to those who walk ahead of us while filling me with apprehension and an intense urge to turn back to where we started. Perhaps it is Rishi who keeps us moving on passing through several security checkpoints until we are accosted by a shopkeeper who catches us unawares asking us to leave our sandals. Before we know, he has assembled two boxes of offerings, berating me for refusing to take more saying that we cannot go in empty handed and thrusts into both our hands boxes for the Lord and his consort. I vaguely figure that the sindoor distinguishes one from the other but firmly realize that we have been thoroughly duped. After leaving our footwear, we tread gingerly along the slippery alley, our feet caked with mud and dung and after what seems like a long time reach a temple complex. In the confusion of the thronging crowd, we are swept in and out of a tiny room where people are jostling to pour out their Ganga jal (water of River Ganges considered holy) onto a stone lingam. Our feet are now completely damp with water that is being used to clean the temple with a broom. We look around and find a whole bunch of smaller temples dedicated to each deity. Annapurna’s (Hindu Mother Goddess) smiling demeanor beckons Rishi who walks into the priest’s parlor as the bee to the spider. In the encounter that follows, he grabs one box from Rishi’s hands and both from mine, we are asked whether we are man and wife and whether we have a son whereupon the priest makes us bow our heads, all the while chanting and placing our hands on the offerings, he pronounces a blessing for us “Putra hogaa” (A son shall be born to you) says he and commands us to come back here with a son by the next ‘sawaan’ (monsoon season), puts a garland of yellow sunflowers around our necks and demands two hundred rupees from Rishi and a hundred from me as a price for his prayers to Goddess Annapurna on our behalf. Rishi has little money to start with and offers a hundred. I have a small change in my hand and tell the priest indignantly that is all I can offer. A mass of sandalwood, vermillion and sunflower crushed by the piety of priesthood, we practically flee from Kashi Vishwanath. Rishi leaves his second box of offerings before a neglected sculpture of an unidentifiable entity that stands against a wall. On our way back, the shop owner who has kept our footwear attempts to fleece us further but by now our senses have adapted to the organized harassment of the blind alley and we refuse to give him any more. The temples are undoubtedly old and beautiful but the obsessive passion of the devotees and the dirt of the institution of priesthood mars the sanctity that can be. We emerge out of the archway wiser and sadder. By now I have decided that I am not visiting any more temples in Benaras.
However, that is not to be. And perhaps what is to be is the raison de’etre for the resilience of the Hindu faith. Rishi takes me to the Banaras Hindu University (BHU) Campus. As Jabbar drives the car through pot-holed roads badly in need of repair and maintenance, handsome looking residential locales on either side of the road, a chaotic commercial hub right outside the gates of BHU, I am struck by the contrasts that constitute India. They have a euphemism for it – “diversity” which makes it sound so exotic and interesting, picture perfect for images and media. The contrast, however, is stark and real and somehow irrational. The incongruity of the external with the interior of the large beautiful campus with old stately buildings of elegance and dignity is sharp and amazing. We get out of the car and walk past several science, engineering and social sciences departments in the now warm morning sun soothed by the large green trees and the moist promise of monsoon rain. Reassured by the walk, we gather the courage we need to enter the new Kashi Vishwanath temple located in the campus. “What’s indeed in a name?” Neat, clean, gardens on either side, no middle man in sight, we walk into the cool, serene temple, surprisingly airy and sun-lit. The lingam stands quietly as the priests chant prayers in unison. The devotees sit in silent prayer around the sanctum. Tears well up in my eyes as we climb to the upper floor and read the verses that are inscribed on the walls from the Gita, dohas (couplets) of Kabir, teachings of the Buddha and Jain Tirthankaras (incarnations). The chanting, and verses mingle with the chime of the temple bell in the rays of the morning sun and for a few moments perhaps I sense a silence – deep and penetrating.
It happens again in Amritsar.
(To be concluded)
Unfold the Wings 