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….