The Blazing Son
At the foothills of the unrelenting Himalayas, lies a city which discovers notice in old Hindu sacred texts and is believed to have come into existence when king Bhagirath brought the ancient river from paradise to Earth, to give salvation to his predecessors. Being one of Hinduism's holy sites, it welcomes you to the sounds of the Ganges gushing in the distance. It is the month of Sravana, the monsoon is at its peak, dark clouds loom all over the sky and the river is ferocious. Haridwar at this time is packed with tens of thousands of devotees, some of whom have travelled tens of thousands of miles to offer their prayers to Lord Shiva, and others who have reached their final resting place.
With these thoughts in mind, I arrive at the ghats, hoping to catch the evening aarti. I make a run for the tail of the long human chain of Bol-Bam and other devotees. We cross a large imposing bridge with elephant sculptures on its pillars, and slowly, I make my way through the traffic. On reaching the other side, the first image that greets me is of the soft green hills overlooking the river, now golden, almost reddish from the setting sun. Far away in the distance, one could discern the minute hand of the Raja Birla Clock Tower, reminiscent of the long gone British days. That is where the main ghat is.
Two friends walking hand in hand, smile at me with an assortment of flowers; a kid approaches, hoping to sell his colorful balloons, swaying in the twilight sky. Another lady is seen arranging marigolds, hibiscus and jasmine along with earthen lamps, sweets and incense sticks, all of which wrapped in palm leaves will eventually find their way into the river, perhaps later, perhaps tomorrow. A man holding an aarti Diya and sporting a yellow tilak walks around offering worshippers blessings in exchange for money. There are thousands of such godmen on these Ghats. I walk past vendors selling mounds of vermillion, potpourri and street food; sadhus high on pipeweed and Bol-Bams arranging their Kānvars; all by the river.
Crossing over the iron suspension bridge, I set foot on Har ki Pauri. To my utter dismay, I realize that the aarti has gotten over about ten minutes ago. I start walking back ruing a missed opportunity, all thanks to my late afternoon nap. The hundreds of temples dotted around no longer hold my interest. The night setting in, reflects my mood. Jaded. Over the loudspeakers, I hear 'lost and found' announcements, but I am lost now, lost somewhere else. Suddenly a boy of about 12-13 with a Brass-plated thali of burning camphor appears out of nowhere. As he holds out the thali to incoming pilgrims, one side of his innocent face turns golden, the other still behind shadows. His eyes, sparkling with an abnormal gleam and dull clothes tell two different stories. Constant pain and suffering has carried him to this day, fearless and upright. As I wave my hand over the flame in the thali held unbalanced by the tip of his fingers, and exchange a few words with him, the blaze hypnotizes me, pierces my soul. The temple bells have stopped chiming, the river behind has ceased its flow and time has called it a day.
Steadily, I come back to my senses. The night lights flicker to life and I finally make my way back through the narrow, dingy lanes, buzzing with the commotion of roadside shops selling handicrafts, jute bags, shivlingas, tiny replicas of god, ornaments, utensils and a whole lot of souvenirs. Crowded restaurants offer sweets, thandai, faluda and delicious vegetarian food. Oh, how nice it smells! Not even Sharma Ji Ki Chai can tempt me tonight.
Aghori Baba and the Main Market
Seven months later, I revisit the city, expecting nothing new, and almost drained from the endless travel. But Haridwar never fails to surprise you.
March. A late afternoon. At the entry of Har Ki Pauri, several eateries line the road (so do several vagabonds, ragged and disabled and hungry and old). One of them, Mathura Waale Ki Pracheen Dukan sells the legendary Thandai. Anxious of missing the Ganga aarti again, I quickly drain my glass and cross over to the other side. From a distance, a man of strange undertakings piques my curiosity. A crimson turban sits atop his head, a scarlet garland and a saffron dupatta draped around his shoulders over a grey and black garment, a grandfather's umbrella tucked under his armpit, a Shiv Lota held around his arm and exhibiting numerous finger rings. He sports a huge beard, a face resplendent with sacred ash, and vermilion dividing his forehead. It seems he hasn't bathed in a long-long time. An Aghori Baba. Alarms begin blaring in my head and yet as I close in, I find him pestering pilgrims on the steps of the ghat. At this very instant, his eyes fall on me. In the background, men, women and children take a dip in the holy waters. The Aghori Baba gives me a cold glare and approaches me with long steps, a wicked smirk appearing across his face - enough to give one the chills. I hesitate, retract and run; as fast as I can until I can no longer see him.
Presently, I find myself on Market Road, the way leading to the Haridwar Railway Station. On both sides, there are hotels vociferously hawking for possible customers, partly constructed establishments and dilapidated buildings interspersed with modern dwellings. There are carts selling vegetables and fruits, shops selling religious paraphernalia and all sorts of fancy items, electrical wires hanging from all directions, motorcycles honking and rickshaws swerving across their paths, stopping here, stopping there. This creates enough ruckus to attract the endless tourists who throng to the city in search of spirituality.
The sun is still shining high, but a few clouds have crawled in. A sole tanga (horse-driven carriage) stands by the side of the road; it's driver - a man with a grey beard and a grey outlook, sitting cross-legged, clinging on to the horse (his last real possession) and pondering about the days gone by. His smile, although fading, is fulfilling enough to let go of all gloom-ridden sentiments.
The irony could not be clearer.
A note about the author:
Souvik is an undergrad Physics major at IISER Kolkata. He loves travelling, quizzing, reading and music. He is an avid follower of football and F1.
Souvik bhai sotti lekha ta khub khub bhalo hoyeche 👍. Porer lekhar opekhhai thaklam.