ALONG THE GHATS OF MATA GANGA
Varanasi Kashi City of Light City of Shiva Benares single stretch of strand where Ganga reaches south to north Steep steps of Main Ghat, Dasasvamedh Ghat gateway to Ghatland the sweep of quasi-Biblical tableaus splashes of Renaissance pigment running the curved riverside rim round to Assi Ghat Namaste. Namaste! You are welcome to the lila of the universe, the play of God. Are you seeking for guru? Here you see infinite horizons. Ji han? No, not for spirits landlocked. The secret of life, my friend, is to accept. Seven days before Holi bonfires, on the far bank of Holy River dust swirls up like bursts of Delhi exhaust Which proves no bank but low-lying flats of scrubby, loose sand Pula Mela now a patch for water melons, a hamlet of tents yet during Magh Mela canvas city for nomadic sadhus and naked Jains Distant trees of that left bank a dark cylinder of steel wool or fog For another meagre monsoon has cheated the great Ganga half its former fluent self greywater at low ebb placid wrinkles drained of its brown complexion far from the silty, muscle-rippling torrent of a Himalayan salt-cave combing through the tangled hair of Shiva via the realm of kores of gods rushing with swagger and slap half-way up these ghats’ stone steps Namaste, sir. You want boat? I have boat, good boat.
Expectant boatmen lie in wait for the obligatory pre-dawn boat ride Show some respect Remember the ferryman’s status at Styx And when Rama was ferried across Ganga he took the low-born boatman to his bosom Don’t do that here! You die here in Varanasi and you go to heaven direct. You break the cycle of karma, so you no need come back. At water’s edge washermen in dhotis soaping washrags on stone slamming clouts against tilted boards another scrubbing his teeth with leaf of neem or tube of Kolghata? White-clothed faithful in prayer, seated in lotus position, palms open to the sun god, Surya, who slowly bathes them in pink tints to rose to harvest yellow Some youths swim out gleeful duck jet black hair spurt water from mouths No fears Goddess Ganga will save them from the effluvium of toxins Someone washing his face from a boat another lathering his hair with oodles of shampoo, not the genuine urine of holy cow yonder, o ye of great faith cups hands actually drinking the stuff! as if it were Maharashtra wine, the really good stuff: Hari om
Hari om
Hari om
Even-tempered now, Ganga for laid-back oarsmen in slow motion and two memsahibs who’d brought their own caseful of pure Perrier from New York ‘Yeah, electric cremation is more humane.’ Western couples in loose white gear, thongs, earrings Intrepid’s groups of twelve cautious intrepids with their navy Say No To Plastic bags of plastic bottles, mineral water double-sealed, apprehensive peering into those mysterious depths for uncremated corpses or poor underdone jobs slipped in that might bob up with a leer, charred scars And ready-to-board pirates sneaking up to your gunnels boats twirling sharp as hot mango chutney grappling with one fist, the other tensing to grasp, an armful of sheening saris to woo and wow or barter holy Ganga water with specks of genuine ash, even a bucket of seedy-looking river sprats for bewildered Japs
Ganga mata ki jai! Ganga mata ki jai! Mid-morning back at Main Ghat, about to amble south towards Assi Ghatrats come scampering like a pack of black-spotted leopards touts on commission for the boatmen Boat, sir? Boat? Would you like boat? Where you from, sir? You come. My brother has boat. You want coconut? Make puja? Buzzing postcard-wallahs test temper and shortsightedness cards flashed before one’s peepers You stare blankly into distance like a beaky owl and descend steep steps with chilling dignity Toffed-up touts’ ghatattack as aggro as Agra’s You seeking for moksha? You want the knowledge? Excuse me, sir. I know where is freedom. You come this way. Bare-chested Vijay and Gundappa bent busy over the skeleton of a narwhal. Or bleached ribs of a rowboat recalling a goat carcass chewed at by dogs in the bush, stray scruffs of dogs with growths the size of half-pomegranates Lavender-hulled row-boats moored in clove-hitched cluster Woman, eyes downcast, averted sari and pallu delicate pink as a crane’s leg No green-and-gold saris of Benares silk here with intricate zari or tracery on hennaed hands with gold bands Envy the unself-conscious man who squats to pee into a crack between paving stones on the main beat accurately, it so happens adding to the dubious streams leaking down brown-stained steps ‘Bah! All India is a toilet,’ mutters a grizzled mush-fakir padding by emitting disgust – a great guttural hawking and spittleball Space cake? Hashish? Sir, sir, you want bhang?
Eleven o’clock back at Dasaswamedh, Main Ghat Foetally tucked-up bodies of five sadhus dossed on steps sleeping amid goats’ pellets and cow shit and stains of blood a darker red, as if a sect of pilgrims has opened veins in sacrifice more likely, betel juice gobbed out from packed cheeks, paan just as monkeys store nuts in cheekpads Bearded weathered heads on swags, their sole personal possessions bones covered by thin, washed-out orange robe and turban and deeper orange shawl, wooden sandals in the shade of the pink-barrelled water filter that shouts down the grey-stoned Mughal stupa with its dome of inverted goats’ dugs You wait for some revelation or wise saw, sermon or tirade even a glaucous, penetrative stare into the mysteries in vain Just a sleepy-eyed, skinny-limbed itinerant expecting a scatter of subsistence coins A larki, eight or five, with basket of marigolds clingy as lati vine forefingers a circle in the other palm to hint one rupee, thanks Buy flower! Please buy flower! For puja. Make wish! O please! P l e a s e! A limping dog stops, sits, twists to bite fleas on its scabby rump but can’t. From the shadows, a kid goat suddenly wakes bleats a rattle of anxiety and trips up a step or two away from its mother, trembles and suddenly skipping down a flight of steps to comfort its black billy buck dad with chuck under the chin deserving a shower of rose petals the deepest red Beneath a concrete umbrella, a man lying on his side reading The Times of India, one leg forming a triangle on his thigh in yogic half-lotus two goats asleep by his grounded foot Working the steps a seller with huge wicker saucer of green grapes shading his head The karmas done here are not destroyed and remain forever (‘akshaya’) German Bread of Life Bakery, Restaurant and Info-Café Ayurvedic Massage Advertisement hoardings, several in tatty scrolls Astrologer explains your life line, mumbles astral configurations as if studying the form guide calculating the odds
May your life be shining the livelong day. But I see you trouble with the faith, isn’t it? So how far away is this peace and happiness? Three hundred rupees and a dip in the Ganga day and night. Ganga Mata washes all your sins away. Very cheap, eh. Ablutions absolve absolutely. (Sri Acton?) Five boys playing Tendulkar on the concrete concourse Kapil Dev is slinging the tennis ball in from wide outside the imagined crease, silly mid-on stationed on the ankle-twisting fifth step. Temples of cow dung piled like Pontefract doughnuts, patted and patterned on slope of stone Razzle of bangles, bracelets baubles, beads on stub of concrete pier Already your nose twitches at that odour that sickly sweet fragrance of Manikarnika Ghat Cremation Ceremony, sir? I show you. Come! Then may the fire ovens consume you! Soot-faced stupas in mugh grunge overlooking in sombre severity Piles of logs and faggots of varying quality and price stacked back up to upper steps Scented sandalwood for the rich; for the poor sticks as spindly as sinewy legs of old rickshaw riders Glittering clots of dirty gold tinsel and crumpled pale yellow-to-orange marigolds trail down to scurf the water’s edge, a slick of mud, ashclotted Cows still nosing for cud among the pyres one munching an orange garland Beyond the leaning temple of Shiva yaws before your eyes Spellbound, two trippers endhowed beneath shade-cloth drift closer to the daily ritual of death And do thy duty, even if it be humble, rather than another’s, even if it be great. To die in one’s duty is life: to live another’s is death. Bhagavad-Gita
The toll of a temple bell and a cadaver is briskly carried down on bamboo-framed palanquin by four Untouchables matter-of-fact fashion Death is their business these no-fuss doms the charnel-wallahs their livelihood They remove thin golden fabric that envelops the body lay the stiff on cross-stacked logs poke kindling sticks toss ghee, herbs and spices onto the flames Lords of the Dead; they own the franchise This is the first dead body, or its shrunken shape, mummified in grey cloth you have ever clapped eyes upon to face finally Please, uncle, I work at the hospice. It’s very hard work. I see you are interesting in our customs. I don’t want money for me, but make a contribution. Just make a contribution! More tender-loving and dignified, the family farewell Body wrapped in white cloth brocaded and laced with spun gold bound to the palanquin strewn with garlands of marigolds The two-by-two procession winds through the din of choked chowks and galis the womenfolk singing laments to tabas and flutes Male family and friends straggle back from the pyre to render last respects from discreet distance Pockets of tourists mute and solemn gaze from galleries above black plumes of smoke or at side barriers forced to consider the doms’ consolation Death of the body is more than the great leveller; do your duty and the next incarnation can take you closer to nirvana. When the flames kick, start licking you think crackling of sticks or hair Or legs? Not so, but the smashing of the brain for the spirit’s flight And slope away downwind, feeling ghoulish suddenly From Mir Ghat, the whop of a batsman slogging a defiant six Good sir, you give donation, please. Poor people want wood to die.
Dusk at Assi Ghat, light palpably falling, ripples darken, soften Boatmen row out toward the left bank from spits of sand in spasmic glide aiming for some mysterious metaphysical centre of Holy Ganga Kites, yellow, green, pink, in dog-fight above the ghats dart like swallows Reflections of amber and white light on stolid walls dark with jut and rib, crockets and crescents Above the ziqqurat of deckle-edged towers, minarets, empty multi-deckered boarding houses with blind sockets red-bottomed monkeys with tails upright as walking sticks lope the crenellations like slack guards or loop the banyans Greased-up wrestlers in briefs enjoy a rub wade thick thighs thwacking water at one another hard of hand Dipping into the silence, the gentle plash strategic stilling of boat mid-stream one oar deep held coming to rest amid reflections a-shimmering Anchored the boatman lights the wicks soaked in ghee with reverence one hundred and fifty candles in leaf-boats, passes them round to bemused night-owls who lean over the side, fuss their little craft on the still dark make wishes for family, friends, self mesmerized as the leaf-boats bob toward one another miniature squadrons starboard and larboard wish-makers caught quiescent in the circle of candlelight This wick we say is ego. And the oil, ghee, is our negative aspects. After the orgy of wishing the motherboat glides in hushed dabs towards theatre Dasasvamedh Ghat now bathed in an aura of angel-white light From its platform abutting the lowest steps water-steeped shadowy devotees four or five fully clothed dunk themselves under cover of dusky shadows billow wallow in ecstasy
In distance retreating the flotilla of leaf-boats wish-laden signal still a glow of burning eardrops against the darkness a line broken at times by the prow of another tourist craft.nudging toward Main Ghat for the lighting of the sacred flame dedication Mata Ganga Surya Lord Shiva Agni the Universe Ganga cha, Yamune cha, aiva! Five young Brahmin priests in long, white robes one with flowing, shoulder-length, Christ-like locks pray to the river goddess in melodic lilt chanting their Vedic hymns amplified bells clanging, cymbals clash, a clarion of horns, clapping hesitant then rhythmic by spectators glued to steps mingling of thick, dolce aromatic other-worldly camphor incense sticks flowers earthen lamps In unison, the priests swing their censers flaming with swish of flamboyance turning to the four points of the compass O Ganga! O Yamuna! Godavari, Saraswati! Narmada, Indus, Kaveri, Be manifest in these waters. Somewhere toward the black sleek of middle river the long line of sparkles has vanished Light has succumbed to darkness the candlewicks are dead
Michael Small March 12-April 6, 2009
Varanasi Kashi City of Light City of Shiva Benares single stretch of strand where Ganga reaches south to north Steep steps of Main Ghat, Dasasvamedh Ghat gateway to Ghatland the sweep of quasi-Biblical tableaus splashes of Renaissance pigment running the curved riverside rim round to Assi Ghat Namaste. Namaste! You are welcome to the lila of the universe, the play of God. Are you seeking for guru? Here you see infinite horizons. Ji han? No, not for spirits landlocked. The secret of life, my friend, is to accept. Seven days before Holi bonfires, on the far bank of Holy River dust swirls up like bursts of Delhi exhaust Which proves no bank but low-lying flats of scrubby, loose sand Pula Mela now a patch for water melons, a hamlet of tents yet during Magh Mela canvas city for nomadic sadhus and naked Jains Distant trees of that left bank a dark cylinder of steel wool or fog For another meagre monsoon has cheated the great Ganga half its former fluent self greywater at low ebb placid wrinkles drained of its brown complexion far from the silty, muscle-rippling torrent of a Himalayan salt-cave combing through the tangled hair of Shiva via the realm of kores of gods rushing with swagger and slap half-way up these ghats’ stone steps Namaste, sir. You want boat? I have boat, good boat. Expectant boatmen lie in wait for the obligatory pre-dawn boat
ride Show some respect Remember the ferryman’s status at Styx And when Rama was ferried across Ganga he took the low-born boatman to his bosom Don’t do that here! You die here in Varanasi and you go to heaven direct. You break the cycle of karma, so you no need come back. At water’s edge washermen in dhotis soaping washrags on stone slamming clouts against tilted boards another scrubbing his teeth with leaf of neem or tube of Kolghata? White-clothed faithful in prayer, seated in lotus position, palms open to the sun god, Surya, who slowly bathes them in pink tints to rose to harvest yellow Some youths swim out gleeful duck jet black hair spurt water from mouths No fears Goddess Ganga will save them from the effluvium of toxins Someone washing his face from a boat another lathering his hair with oodles of shampoo, not the genuine urine of holy cow yonder, o ye of great faith cups hands actually drinking the stuff! as if it were Maharashtra wine, the really good stuff: Hari om
Hari om
Hari om
Even-tempered now, Ganga for laid-back oarsmen in slow motion and two memsahibs who’d brought their own caseful of pure Perrier from New York ‘Yeah, electric cremation is more humane.’ Western couples in loose white gear, thongs, earrings Intrepid’s groups of twelve cautious intrepids with their navy Say No To Plastic bags of plastic bottles, mineral water double-sealed, apprehensive peering into those mysterious depths for uncremated corpses or poor underdone jobs slipped in that might bob up with a leer, charred scars And ready-to-board pirates sneaking up to your gunnels boats twirling sharp as hot mango chutney grappling with one fist, the other tensing to grasp, an armful of sheening saris to woo and wow or barter holy Ganga water with specks of genuine ash, even a bucket of seedy-looking river sprats for bewildered Japs Ganga mata ki jai! Ganga mata ki jai!
Mid-morning back at Main Ghat, about to amble south towards Assi Ghatrats come scampering like a pack of black-spotted leopards touts on commission for the boatmen Boat, sir? Boat? Would you like boat? Where you from, sir? You come. My brother has boat. You want coconut? Make puja? Buzzing postcard-wallahs test temper and shortsightedness cards flashed before one’s peepers You stare blankly into distance like a beaky owl and descend steep steps with chilling dignity Toffed-up touts’ ghatattack as aggro as Agra’s You seeking for moksha? You want the knowledge? Excuse me, sir. I know where is freedom. You come this way. Bare-chested Vijay and Gundappa bent busy over the skeleton of a narwhal. Or bleached ribs of a rowboat recalling a goat carcass chewed at by dogs in the bush, stray scruffs of dogs with growths the size of half-pomegranates Lavender-hulled row-boats moored in clove-hitched cluster Woman, eyes downcast, averted sari and pallu delicate pink as a crane’s leg No green-and-gold saris of Benares silk here with intricate zari or tracery on hennaed hands with gold bands Envy the unself-conscious man who squats to pee into a crack between paving stones on the main beat accurately, it so happens adding to the dubious streams leaking down brown-stained steps ‘Bah! All India is a toilet,’ mutters a grizzled mush-fakir padding by emitting disgust – a great guttural hawking and spittleball Space cake? Hashish? Sir, sir, you want bhang?
Eleven o’clock back at Dasaswamedh, Main Ghat Foetally tucked-up bodies of five sadhus dossed on steps sleeping amid goats’ pellets and cow shit and stains of blood
a darker red, as if a sect of pilgrims has opened veins in sacrifice more likely, betel juice gobbed out from packed cheeks, paan just as monkeys store nuts in cheekpads Bearded weathered heads on swags, their sole personal possessions bones covered by thin, washed-out orange robe and turban and deeper orange shawl, wooden sandals in the shade of the pink-barrelled water filter that shouts down the grey-stoned Mughal stupa with its dome of inverted goats’ dugs You wait for some revelation or wise saw, sermon or tirade even a glaucous, penetrative stare into the mysteries in vain Just a sleepy-eyed, skinny-limbed itinerant expecting a scatter of subsistence coins A larki, eight or five, with basket of marigolds clingy as lati vine forefingers a circle in the other palm to hint one rupee, thanks Buy flower! Please buy flower! For puja. Make wish! O please! P l e a s e! A limping dog stops, sits, twists to bite fleas on its scabby rump but can’t. From the shadows, a kid goat suddenly wakes bleats a rattle of anxiety and trips up a step or two away from its mother, trembles and suddenly skipping down a flight of steps to comfort its black billy buck dad with chuck under the chin deserving a shower of rose petals the deepest red Beneath a concrete umbrella, a man lying on his side reading The Times of India, one leg forming a triangle on his thigh in yogic half-lotus two goats asleep by his grounded foot Working the steps a seller with huge wicker saucer of green grapes shading his head The karmas done here are not destroyed and remain forever (‘akshaya’) German Bread of Life Bakery, Restaurant and Info-Café Ayurvedic Massage Advertisement hoardings, several in tatty scrolls Astrologer explains your life line, mumbles astral configurations as if studying the form guide calculating the odds
May your life be shining the livelong day. But I see you trouble with the faith, isn’t it?
So how far away is this peace and happiness? Three hundred rupees and a dip in the Ganga day and night. Ganga Mata washes all your sins away. Very cheap, eh. Ablutions absolve absolutely. (Sri Acton?) Five boys playing Tendulkar on the concrete concourse Kapil Dev is slinging the tennis ball in from wide outside the imagined crease, silly mid-on stationed on the ankle-twisting fifth step. Temples of cow dung piled like Pontefract doughnuts, patted and patterned on slope of stone Razzle of bangles, bracelets baubles, beads on stub of concrete pier Already your nose twitches at that odour that sickly sweet fragrance of Manikarnika Ghat Cremation Ceremony, sir? I show you. Come! Then may the fire ovens consume you! Soot-faced stupas in mugh grunge overlooking in sombre severity Piles of logs and faggots of varying quality and price stacked back up to upper steps Scented sandalwood for the rich; for the poor sticks as spindly as sinewy legs of old rickshaw riders Glittering clots of dirty gold tinsel and crumpled pale yellow-to-orange marigolds trail down to scurf the water’s edge, a slick of mud, ashclotted Cows still nosing for cud among the pyres one munching an orange garland Beyond the leaning temple of Shiva yaws before your eyes Spellbound, two trippers endhowed beneath shade-cloth drift closer to the daily ritual of death And do thy duty, even if it be humble, rather than another’s, even if it be great. To die in one’s duty is life: to live another’s is death. Bhagavad-Gita
The toll of a temple bell and a cadaver is briskly carried down on bamboo-framed palanquin by four Untouchables matter-of-fact fashion Death is their business
these no-fuss doms the charnel-wallahs their livelihood They remove thin golden fabric that envelops the body lay the stiff on cross-stacked logs poke kindling sticks toss ghee, herbs and spices onto the flames Lords of the Dead; they own the franchise This is the first dead body, or its shrunken shape, mummified in grey cloth you have ever clapped eyes upon to face finally Please, uncle, I work at the hospice. It’s very hard work. I see you are interesting in our customs. I don’t want money for me, but make a contribution. Just make a contribution! More tender-loving and dignified, the family farewell Body wrapped in white cloth brocaded and laced with spun gold bound to the palanquin strewn with garlands of marigolds The two-by-two procession winds through the din of choked chowks and galis the womenfolk singing laments to tabas and flutes Male family and friends straggle back from the pyre to render last respects from discreet distance Pockets of tourists mute and solemn gaze from galleries above black plumes of smoke or at side barriers forced to consider the doms’ consolation Death of the body is more than the great leveller; do your duty and the next incarnation can take you closer to nirvana. When the flames kick, start licking you think crackling of sticks or hair Or legs? Not so, but the smashing of the brain for the spirit’s flight And slope away downwind, feeling ghoulish suddenly From Mir Ghat, the whop of a batsman slogging a defiant six Good sir, you give donation, please. Poor people want wood to die.
Dusk at Assi Ghat, light palpably falling, ripples darken, soften Boatmen row out toward the left bank from spits of sand in spasmic glide
aiming for some mysterious metaphysical centre of Holy Ganga Kites, yellow, green, pink, in dog-fight above the ghats dart like swallows Reflections of amber and white light on stolid walls dark with jut and rib, crockets and crescents Above the ziqqurat of deckle-edged towers, minarets, empty multi-deckered boarding houses with blind sockets red-bottomed monkeys with tails upright as walking sticks lope the crenellations like slack guards or loop the banyans Greased-up wrestlers in briefs enjoy a rub wade thick thighs thwacking water at one another hard of hand Dipping into the silence, the gentle plash strategic stilling of boat mid-stream one oar deep held coming to rest amid reflections a-shimmering Anchored the boatman lights the wicks soaked in ghee with reverence one hundred and fifty candles in leaf-boats, passes them round to bemused night-owls who lean over the side, fuss their little craft on the still dark make wishes for family, friends, self mesmerized as the leaf-boats bob toward one another miniature squadrons starboard and larboard wish-makers caught quiescent in the circle of candlelight This wick we say is ego. And the oil, ghee, is our negative aspects. After the orgy of wishing the motherboat glides in hushed dabs towards theatre Dasasvamedh Ghat now bathed in an aura of angel-white light From its platform abutting the lowest steps water-steeped shadowy devotees four or five fully clothed dunk themselves under cover of dusky shadows billow wallow in ecstasy
In distance retreating the flotilla of leaf-boats wish-laden signal still
a glow of burning eardrops against the darkness a line broken at times by the prow of another tourist craft.nudging toward Main Ghat for the lighting of the sacred flame dedication Mata Ganga Surya Lord Shiva Agni the Universe Ganga cha, Yamune cha, aiva! Five young Brahmin priests in long, white robes one with flowing, shoulder-length, Christ-like locks pray to the river goddess in melodic lilt chanting their Vedic hymns amplified bells clanging, cymbals clash, a clarion of horns, clapping hesitant then rhythmic by spectators glued to steps mingling of thick, dolce aromatic other-worldly camphor incense sticks flowers earthen lamps In unison, the priests swing their censers flaming with swish of flamboyance turning to the four points of the compass O Ganga! O Yamuna! Godavari, Saraswati! Narmada, Indus, Kaveri, Be manifest in these waters. Somewhere toward the black sleek of middle river the long line of sparkles has vanished Light has succumbed to darkness the candlewicks are dead
Michael Small March 12-April 6, 2009