The temple priests of Benares

           I’ve recently relocated from Jalandhar to Bangalore. After the hectic rounds of farewells, the packing at home (we faujis have yet to take the ‘brave & risky’ step of using packers and movers) and winding up at work, we found that we had 3 days to spare before we caught our flight from Delhi to Bangalore. Instead of preponing (yes the word exists) our departure, we decided to have a small holiday. Aparna has a predominantly religious bent of mind and I am partial to history and architecture and we finally zeroed in on Benares. Thankfully we were able to get tickets on Tatkal and off we were on our spiritual journey.

There was something always alluring about Benares, with it being steeped in history (it stakes claim to being the oldest living city on this planet!!), mythology (because of the Ganga and of course Shiva having resided here), gastronomics (Benarasi namkeen and paan) and of course the Benaras Silk Saree. It is one of the holiest of Hindu pilgrimage centres and a must visit to guarantee any access to heaven!!! Much against our comfort zone, we decided to not stay at the Air Force establishment (because it was 4 km away from the temple and the river) and chose to stay at a rather pretentious sounding ‘Palace on the Ganges’ ON the Assi Ghat. It was small, very well outfitted hotel with each room furnished in the style of a different state.

Having arrived in the evening, settled into the room and having freshened up we decided to try to make it to the evening Aarti on the Ganga at the Dashashwamedh Ghat. We were too late and just managed to catch the people as they were leaving. We were also very hungry by then and feasted on Kachoris and exceptionally hot and delicious Gulab Jamuns. As we were heading back to the hotel, we happened to chance on the road leading to the Kashi Vishwanath temple. Though we were in a bit of a dilemma since it was rather late in the night, the children were tired and we weren’t in the purest of states (I mean we weren’t freshly bathed and perfumed and fragrant!!) we decided to try our luck and headed towards the shrine. Serpentine gullies which are a hallmark of Benares and some serious security (there had been a bomb blast here a few years prior) led us to the rather non descript entrance to the temple.

Here I must mention my apprehension to Indian pilgrimage centres where I feel everybody is out to loot you. This was cemented at the Puri Jagannath temple and I was doubly apprehensive since I had heard lurid tales of the Pandas on the Ghats of the Ganga. To our surprise, when we entered, we found just a handful of people and a rather peaceful atmosphere. The Garba Griha or the sanctum sanctorum is rather small and squarish in shape. There are four doors and it is surrounded by a kind of an open air Aangan. Surrounding this are the covered edges of the temple housing various other deities. I had no previous knowledge of the temple and hence didn’t know what to expect except for a Shiva Linga. Unlike what I expected, the Linga in itself was rather small and was also installed in a rectangular well within the Garba Griha. The Linga itself was of black stone and the well was completely covered with silver sheets. At this time of the night, the Alankara or the adorning of the Lord was being undertaken. There was a father and son duo that sat at one of the doors and sonorously chanted Mantras which was also being repeated by the Pujaris. The rest of us devotees stood at the other three doors and watched the proceedings. To of the Pujaris within the Garba Griha were busy compressing the Malaas which would adorn the Lord, by critically inspecting them, removing either decaying or imperfect flowers and then bunching them closer. The Malaas themselves were beautiful, comprising pristine white and deep purple coloured flowers. The priests seemed absolutely engrossed in their act, not once wasting a movement or even a glance anywhere else.

The head priest who was in the Garba Griha, a fair well built persona of medium height with three stripes of sandalwood and vermillion on his forehead declaring him a Shiva Bhakta was dressed in a maroon Dhoti and was bare chested. He was on his knees leaning into the well and had just finished cleaning the immediate environs of the Linga. He then expertly applied sandal paste all over the Linga, smoothened it and then using the tips of his four fingers of the right hand, drew vertical lines up in the sandal from the base to the apex scraping out the sandal paste. He then inscribed the eyes of the Lord on it using vermillion. Having defined the visage of Shiva, he then proceeded to bedeck the Linga in a circular fashion with the Malaas which had been prepared by then. Row after row of purple and white Malaas adorned the Linga from halfway, looking simple, yet rich and stunning until he reached the apex. He then placed a Mukut on top, which appeared to have been made of silver and to which was attached a multi headed cobra forming a hood on top of the Mukut. Over the Lord, covering about half the well was a silver umbrella, intricately carved and bejewelled. The Alankara was completed by strewing carefully selected flowers and leaves within the well. The left over sandal paste was then distributed amongst the other priests and a few devotees. The entire Alankara took the better part of an hour, yet not once did I see a break in his rhythm or a wasted gesture or even a glance away from Shiva. He appeared to be so engrossed in the act as if his sole purpose in life was to dress up the Lord and make him beautiful. It appeared that his duty, in itself, was sacred. It was a living embodiment of pure devotion which I have only read about.

The entire Darshan was peaceful and bereft of the jostling and the cacophony that one sees at most Hindu temples. The midnight atmosphere only added to the reverence that we felt for the Lord. Both Aparna and I felt blessed at the end of it and thankful that we didn’t turn away from the Lord’s doorstep at such a late hour. I have been to a number of temples all over the country and I have seen many instances of religious fervour, but of pure devotion that I felt, of the priests, especially the head priest, only once before. This was again at a Shiva temple of Tarakeshwar in Pune. That’s another anecdote for another time…

Vagabond

The other day we were driving to Jallandhar for an evening out in town and trying to keep the children entertained, Aparna was reading out the story of “the Hunchback of Notre Dame” to Taruni. Somewhere in the story when Esmeralda the gypsy was being described, Taruni turned around and asked ‘What’s a gypsy?’

Well we kind of explained it to her that they are wandering people with no permanent homes and that kind of stuff and it suddenly struck me that ‘we’ were pretty much the same… I mean (using me as an example) I belong to Bangalore, having been born and brought up there till NDA. After that it been Poona, Allahabad, Bidar, Tezpur, Ambala, Pune (the name changed somewhere in between), Jamnagar, Tambaram (Chennai), Hakimpet (Hyderabad), Bangalore, Adampur (Jallandhar) and finally Bengaluru (I guess we got scared of the tag ‘we’ve got bangalored’). Of course not counting the countless TDs at Jaisalmer and Naliya and Delhi, etc. So that’s 10 places in the last 20 years and believe me I’ve had it easy.

So, on an average every 2 years I have shifted my base all across our country from the blistering heat of Rajasthan and Punjab to the body melting humidity of the North East. From the pleasant year round climes of Bangalore to the abrasive mugginess of Chennai. Though I’ve lived in places so diverse, and being fairly accommodative of different cultures, I have not been able to imbibe any of the local culture. I have been a Bangalorean and will always be. Though today when I come home to Bengaluru, I am a stranger in my own town. Honest. I used to get into autos in Delhi, strike up a conversation with the driver and he’d ask me where I belonged to, and he’d be surprised that I was a South Indian and in an auto in Bangalore, speaking Kannada, he’d be surprised I belonged here…

I think we (I hope I am not being too presumptuous by speaking for all faujis) are comfortable everywhere but at home nowhere. We carry around our fauji environs from Srinagar to Tanjavur, from Naliya to Chabua impervious to the place, the local dialect, dress or food. There’s this book called ‘The train to Pakistan’. It’s a vivid rather gory account of the partition and Khushwant Singh sums up the reason for the blood thirst of the displaced Hindus and Muslims is because they are uprooted not just from their land but from their identity, their roots. If it’s such a strong, primordial feeling, then why doesn’t it affect us? I went on a holiday to Wellington (Ooty) and saw so many North Indians, Punjabis, Sardars, UPiites, Biharis, Bengalis all settled down in the heartland of TamilNadu it’s amazing and don’t they feel marooned? But they still tenaciously cling onto the Defence Services Staff College crowd and the Wellington Gymkhana club, possibly their only lifeline to people and a way of life they can identify with.

Many years ago, when I went on a holiday to the US (I actually joined Aparna who was there on work), I was supposed to find her waiting to receive me. But because of work she got delayed. Those days there were no cell phones and here I was, at the huge San Francisco Airport alone in the US, my first time, not knowing where to go, what’s happened of Aparna, I should have been in a panic right? When she came almost an hour later, she found me reading a magazine with a sandwich and a cup of coffee having bought a calling card looking unperturbed. I guess I would be comfortable walking around in the exclusive designer stores of UB City as I am in the bazaars of Charminar in Hyderabad yet I would be out of place in both these places. Maybe that’s why I find travel so alluring, I am trying to discover myself. But I’ve read somewhere that the journeys within are much more difficult compared to the journeys without….

Airports

     Just the other day, I was waiting for a flight at the new T-3 terminal at the IGI airport at Delhi and watching and observing people (my favourite pastime) and the scenes around me. I recollect my journeys through airports and I realize that they mirror the metamorphosis that our country has gone through as well the social changes that have evolved in the past few decades.

     My first memories of airports are of Bangalore. Infact, the first photograph that I have with Aparna (my wife) is one when we were 4 & 5 years old in front of the Bangalore airport and incidentally she has her arm around another boy!!!! I remember going to the airport a couple of times to see off my dad or when my father had to receive some important dignitary from his office. We (my brother and I) would pester him to take us to the viewing gallery from where we could see the aeroplanes (May be that’s where my love for aeroplanes started) and to reach the gallery we had to go through the arrival / departure lounge.

     I remember Bangalore airport to be a modern, reasonably large, high roofed building with a huge, monstrous parking lot in front which was never even half full. The departure lounge was large with a few check in counters of Indian Airlines and a sprinkling of seats and shops. The atmosphere used to be rather sombre with well heeled gentlemen in suits or very fashionable clothing and of course the women were impeccably attired as well. It was definitely the upper crust of society travelling either on work or for pleasure. Just being in that environment was extremely intimidating I remember.  And it didn’t really change much even till I got married which was in 1998. Bangalore airport was still the same, just that there were a few more airlines like Modiluft, etc. I was still apprehensive of the people and the prohibitively expensive shops. It appeared that time had stood still.

     Now I take you to IGI airport at Delhi in 2000 when I had gone to drop Aparna off, she was off to Germany on some official work. Of course, one couldn’t enter the airport because it was international and all that, but the scenes I witnessed spoke a thousand words. It was rather late in the night and yet there were a sea of people, some going to the middle east or gulf as we call it, in search of a better life I guess, with hope in their faces and sadness in the eyes of their families. You could also spot the occasional student, some with trepidation writ all over and some expectant of a new future, worrying mothers giving last minute instructions. And of course there were the new brides and grooms who were accompanied by a retinue of family and well wishers. The grooms invariably looked harried or bored, waiting to get inside while the brides were either emotional, fearful of the future and sad to let go of comforting environs and family or the ones with shiny eyes eager to break free from the frustrating bonds of being middle class and looking forward to a new life in the West, all that they dreamed of and saw in the movies. I’ve seen a few airports around the world but this varied an emotional scene and all the drama I guess is only possible in India.

     In the period from 2007-09, I had to travel a lot on work to Delhi. This was the time when Delhi was gearing herself up for the now infamous Commonwealth Games and in the list of infrastructure works was also the modernization / renovation of the airport. In those days, the New Delhi airport especially the departure lounge 1B had taken on the look of a railway station. There were huge crowds of people, loud intrusive announcements so endemic to Indian railway stations and the chaos and bedlam that ensued the moment boarding for any flight was announced. The scenes were reminiscent of any railway station, a young boy, inconsolably crying, I am not sure for what, maybe his mama did not buy him an ice cream from CCD (Café Coffee Day). In between the strident announcements by budget airlines desperately trying to get Mr Thakkar and Mr & Mrs Jawa to board the plane are the soft and mellifluous announcements of a King Fisher ground staff requesting all their ‘Guests’ to please proceed for boarding.

     In all this melange of people consisting of miniskirted and fabulously fragrant air hostesses to the nervous and intrepid first timers looking a little out of place, I spy a saffron robed gentleman with stripes of vermilion and ash smeared on his  forehead, a devotee of Shiva, a mendicant maybe, looking at peace with the world. I try to observe him for a few minutes but my focus is repeatedly broken by the pretty, mini skirted air hostesses of various airlines carrying not just their smart Loius Vuitton bags but literally a physical space enveloped in their heavy perfumes. My reverie is suddenly broken by the harsh announcement of my name being called to board my flight and gets me out of my day dream.

     And today if you visit the T3, it’s a modern marvel of glass and steel and marble, lofty arches and pretentious designs. It has a multitude of shops selling overpriced designerware from clothes to camera to chocolates and watches. It represents the new India and its double figure GDP and its buying power. And thankfully the toilets are sparkling clean. It is efficient, immaculate and soulless. Even the people who frequent it are rather cold and aloof, most either animatedly chattering away on their cell phones, furiously clicking away on their laptops or doing something on their cell phones or i-pads and stuff. You don’t see people talking to one another anymore. I don’t know what the truth of it is, the internet and the ‘flat world’ was supposed to have made it a ‘global village’ but it seems to be more like we’ve created billions of islands of ourselves, more comfortable in our ‘social networks’ than our real lives. Of course the icing on the cake are the matronly ‘air grandmothers’ I prefer to call them, on the Indian Airlines flight. Ah but then that’s a different thought altogether.