A Spicy Slice of Cucumber

 

From Ramjhoola, a street moves up north, along the eastern bank, bordered with numbered kutis for the resting babas on the right. There are iron benches and cast iron open pavilions overlooking the Ganges on the left. The holy river, in this stretch, has a few little beaches dotted with massive, beaten, smothered, rounded boulders. The beaches are in fact the sand banks formed by the sediment deposits during the flooded monsoon season. The people love to have an oceanic experience on these tiny sand bars.

It’s the second week of April at about half past three in the afternoon. The sun is mercilessly beating very hard right over the valley. The sunrays sting and bite. The waters of the holy river appear mossy green. Steady streams of rafts glide down from Shivpuri. The sadhus are sitting lazily, consumed by a strange, pleasant ennui which full time devotion brings in its wake. Even in this strong heat, some foreigners are sunbathing on the beach.

There are many Yoga and Ayurvedic massage centres along the boulevard. Here one can enter the portals of spirituality and well being either by enrolling in a Yoga course or getting an aromatic massage with scented herbal oils and pastes. 

You can expect as many sadhus as the trees around. The rains of the last three or four days seem to have vanished completely, leaving hardly any trace behind. It’s as hot as you can expect at this point of the season. The mornings have strong gusts of cool wind blowing down the valley, carrying the message of divinity from the Himalayas. The noons but proclaim the hot, sweaty, worldly authority of the plains down south.

‘Kheera khao Bhole, Kheera khao’ she preens. The intonation then shifts to ‘Cucumber, cucumber!’

The linguistic shift stands out as a little milestone on some iron bench. She is a tiny, petite woman selling cucumber slices for rupees 10 and 5. She must be about 70 years in age. Most importantly, her features give a clue to the fact that she has learnt to smile over minor irritants. Life turns very easy with this kind of temperament.

Her family stays in Delhi. They even own a little shop at a slum in Adarsh Nagar. Once her sons got married, she took sanyas. However, it was with a condition—she won’t beg to survive. She gets something or the other to sell over the changing seasons—peanuts and gazak during winters, fruit chats during summers. All this helps her to manage a lodging for which she pays 1,500 rupees per month.

She has a gentle smile and an effective laughter. ‘When I came here, I requested Ganga Maiya to give me that much luck to earn my own bread as long as my hands and legs allow it.’

She seems very peaceful with her non-begging sanyas. Her little enterprise allows her to stay on the banks of Ma Ganga. This is the biggest blessing to her.  

‘It’s a blessing itself to stay near Ganga Maiya!’ she is saturated with gratitude.

‘I do think about my family sometimes. I know they are doing what makes them happy, like staying here makes me happy. There is no need to walk forever. Just walk only that much as it takes you to the place that makes you feel really happy,’ her philosophy looks very lucid on her peaceful face.

She has her reservations about begging by those who have renounced the world. ‘In my opinion, one should keep working for one’s bread till the hands allow. Begging should be the last recourse,’ she looks at a rotund sadhu who seems well fed at countless community langars. 

The sadhu clears his throat, even scoffs a bit at her, takes a turn to look the other way. He seems to have been affected by the remark.

She picks up a slice of cucumber and puts her special masala on it and goes to the sadhu. ‘I’m sorry beta if my saying so hurts you. I said about my life. Only Ganga Ma knows the truth. How can an illiterate, ignorant old woman like me know the truth? All of us are the children of Ganga Ma. She is the one who feeds us whether we work for it or not. All are same to her,’ she caresses the young sadhu’s unkempt locks of hair.

The heat of her care melts the tiny traces of frown on the bearded face. He smiles and takes her offering. ‘Who will you give your love to if there are no receivers of love like us?’ he laughs and starts munching on the spicy slice of cucumber.