(fiction) The Burning Ghat

25 Jan, 2019

As he sat on those ancient steps, slowly melting into the scene of an orange sun gallantly rising through the foggy and cold December morning, the hustle and bustle of a holy city with narrow lanes and of course the glorious Ganga gliding forth oblivious to this all, washing away all remnants of the past, his mind went back to the dream, whose sudden stumbling in to his householder’s life, led him on a train which ended up here. He dreamt that he was on a ghat like the one he was now sitting on, in the company of his beloved guru, the love and tranquility of it all brewing up slowly in his heart. What a wonderful way to start a day, one might think, but alas Maya, the Ms.Chief, was afoot. The trouble was, his guru had passed, and without a word like a haiku of the man he was. Since, his life barely faltered on, and even pushed him into the awkward space between jobs. And now, this dream. You see, one was not supposed to dream of the dead. Even if one thought of them to be beyond death. At least, according to the protagonist’s mother. All this led the poor man to write a letter to his wife detailing the dream, and his sudden urge to journey to somewhere, the whereabouts of which he, of course, kept from her. So here he was, running away, leaving it all behind. Yet this constant background of burning bodies, turning to ash and heating up those breathing ones which surrounded them, and his persistent meditations on the significance of the dream, and his hankering undercurrent of wanting something to finally happen in this insignificant life of his had slowly convinced him that his speculations of his own impending death were true and there was no time left for his final fantasy of sannyas. The sannyas for which he had reserved the best moments of his guru-given daily practice. And now there was no time left but to prepare himself for his death. And the busywork of this, kept his fears at bay. As the tangerine disk ascended and lost the redness of its youth, now surmounting the peak of a lukewarm noon, he proceeded to have his last meal, his favourite biriyani. The rice and the flavours mixed deliciously on his tongue, like Varuna and Assi. The noon gave way gradually to twilight and saw him give the last of his wealth, the paper currency, which one never knew when would turn into something more worthless than dry leaves, to a poor young woman and her little son, with his bandaged foot, whom he had found feeding on discarded food on the pavement. As twilight reigned, and people paid their respects to Ganga Maiyya, by waving golden lamps with their glittering little flames and floating palm leaf plates with vibrant flowers and little lamps in the centre illuminating them, he was proceeding towards one of the ghats while wondering if the Devi would come to greet him, on his transition from this life to the next, perhaps in the beautiful form of Shyama. And that’s exactly when he saw her.

He felt like something exploded where the second button of his office shirt would have been. His heart palpitated from the surprise. For a moment he was almost her, storming towards him. As she approached, now a stride or two between them, he was overcome by an overwhelming need to fall into her arms, cling to her. His hands naturally followed an enveloping trajectory but resenting hands collided into a surprised bosom. Taken literally aback, he fell.

Tears steamed off her fiery flushed cheeks. If now she decided to perform a tandava on his chest, her husband’s heart would provide the drumbeats.

“YOU! You coward!”

“But... How?”

“That letter and leaving even your phone and watch behind, You thought you were going to die, didn’t you? Not so easily, my beloved husband. And trying to die in Kasi to attain moksha ?” She almost chucked, scornfully. He, still on the floor, leaned forward and picked himself up and brushed the fingers of his hand gently over her feet, as if apologising. Now standing, he pulled close to her, looked down into her eyes, and said those magical words. No, not ‘I love you.’ That would’ve been stupid. After all this.

“I’m sorry”

And he really meant it. After all, what was he thinking? After a while for which he rested his eyes on hers, he must have looked to her like a poor, destitute puppy, for she skittled her eyes to his right, concealing a smile.

“Had your share of excitement?” She asked.

“Hmm”, he nodded, smiling guiltily. “There’s something that you must see.”

She raised her palm facing upwards and looked to him, either asking him to lead her or to have a reading of it. He, relieved that she no longer looked so mad at him, took her hand and proceeded to do the former as he knew not how the latter was done. Ganga, adorned with a hundred golden little lamps with flowers encircling them, was revealed to them. They went on to sit on the ghats as the Aarti proceeded. She looked at him and smiled, as she thought of how she too wanted a break from her work, to travel somewhere and spend some time, alone or with him by her side, as long as he plunged into silence, free of the cares of the world. As he observed the benign yellow light of purna chandra, the full moon, dancing on the alluring dark waters of Ganga, his mind went back to his guru’s words,

”Can we live each moment as if it is fresh? Born again, after dying to our past, our prejudices... all that clutters our mind and bogs us down?”