Notes from an old diary - Flowing with Ma Ganga

There has been an endless stream of pilgrimages, just like you have the endless stream going on and on.

Poor people pawn their happiness into future births in lieu of all the drudgery for the crumbs of survival. To beat the tidings of the present times, they have to absolve themselves of all the past and current sins. So they throng Mother Ganga's lap in multitudes.

Very poor people, consumed by worries, like the stunted, beaten vegetation of an arid climate. They have greenery in their dreams, which lies either in the next birth or in their progeny down the line, at least a couple of generations further into the future.

They move as a group, like a flock of sheep bunched together, trying to muster up collective courage, asserting their dusty identity. It is a rare outing, but they don't have the independent spirit. They lack free will. They have been chained too hard and have forgotten the swag of life.

Their smiles are restrained, but they know Mother Ganga will not discriminate between rich and poor.

And witnessing all this, feeling their collective pain, sitting among sadhus, instantly I feel better. It reaffirms my faith, my beliefs and the values that have lost their sheen over the years due to the tough situations I have faced.

But while you are sitting here with the sadhus, you very well know that they have renounced more than they have taken from Mother Earth. In totality, they are the givers. They are the flag-bearers of faith.

They make you realize that it is possible to be happy without sitting on a mound of possessions and worldly competence. Beyond the realm of possessions, quite passively, they have little permanent reservoirs from where they take tiny sips of solace and meaning in life.

They are the ones who have at least realized the futility of the chase, because the chase never ends. It persists forever. It goes on and on.

So they have kicked the bullshit idea of being in the hot pursuit of success, name, fame and material possessions.

Sitting with them, you absorb the fragrance of their rest, repose and poise.

It is a healing touch. It puts balm on your bruises. That, I think, is a real blessing, nothing short of a miracle.

And there are so many Western people who visit Rishikesh. I look at them with curiosity. What are they seeking so far away from home?

But then I think Western society seems to have gone too deep into the recesses of impersonalized caverns, almost too mechanized and lacking the personal touch.

And in the same vein, I see this woman, a white woman. She is a very pretty white lady.

There is this German bakery at the end of Lakshman Jhula, and she is sitting down the slope. The bakery's glass-fronted panels show many other tourists, including foreigners, having their breakfast.

This woman is sitting on a bench. A stray dog is lying in her lap. She is absorbed in caressing it around its ears.

Indians look at her more hungrily than any other skinny stray dog around.

She has a disarming smile. She has come across someone whom she loves—this stray dog—and who, in turn, loves her without any conditions, without any pursuits and feelings of ownership and possessiveness.

A lot of thirsty eyes cast fleeting, pining glances at her.

The holy river moves quietly on its mission of purifying, of absolving guilty consciences of real and imaginary sins.

It bears the imprint of the universe, known times, and beats down fire and water, mixing them into ecstatic fluidity. The ripples on her face are countless flowing stars. The Mother River has the flowing expansion of stars and light in its veins.

It has been flowing for thousands of years.

I just move on, looking at all this beautiful happening that is flowing with the flow of Mother River, and come across this stone bench, unoccupied at a relatively uncrowded place.

Sitting on this bench, surrounded by luscious green, huge, majestic mango trees, absorbed in the feeling of awe for Mother Nature and its bounties, I feel a bit guilty that everything apart from human beings in nature gives back to it in some form for taking its sustenance.

I reflect over how we just plunder not only our share, but the collective share of all other species of flora and fauna, giving back environmental degradation, pollution and chaos in our effort to add to our share of comforts and conveniences.

We have inevitably let loose irreversible damage to the beautiful, self-evolving, counterbalancing forces of Mother Nature.

A small cow arrives and starts rubbing its muzzle against me with full and unconditional love.

One just can't say no to such unconditional love.

I take out my sole banana from my bag and offer my share of love. The little cattle has it.

Then it wants more, and it becomes pushy. It won't go away. It rubs its muzzle on my pants, licks my hands, pulls at my bag.

I am forced to move.

I am forced to stand up and start moving again.

Life is only about moving.

*****

She challenged herself to the farthest limits of her fears and came all the way from Japan to marry a man from Bihar, just like any other poverty-stricken figure running a tea stall at Rishikesh.

She challenged herself to love unconditionally, absolutely in avoidance of any expectations and security. No demands, just the pure bliss of giving.

She has a pretty round face, puts a bindi on her forehead, and wears a peacock-blue saree with a gold-embroidered blouse. She has taken up the role of a traditional Indian wife. She picks up empty plates and glasses, washes them, cleans them, arranges chairs, and reads a book in between while her husband and his mother run the tea stall.

And the visitors find her such a curious and strange figure in this poor setting, like a piece of gold in the dust.

It is a ramshackle, thatched establishment by the street running down almost to the end of the bathing ghats by Mother Ganga. A path by its side leads to the swift currents of Mother Ganga. Here you have some chairs and stools, just at the turning of the path that leads to the river. Sadhus, foreigners and pilgrims sit down for tea and cigarettes.

She moves around with petite delicacy, the symbolism of her work larger than the rises around to the north.

And I sit here sipping tea and watching her with curiosity because she seems to be such an interesting subject for building a story for a person who has a writer's observation about life and living.

Nearby is a Canadian, and I have seen him taking tea earlier as well. The Canadian is a handsome man around fifty years of age and looks impressive with his baritone voice, holding a tea glass in one hand and caressing the street dog with the other. He looks almost in tune with the unconditional streams of love that fill up the place.

He has spent much time all over India. It has turned him into a staunch Indophile, I think.

I hear him say:

"I love samosa. Any day it is better than a burger. The corporates are destroying native cultures back home in Canada. We travel thousands of kilometres, and still one will have the same food, same dress, same language, weather and culture—a monotony, so boring. So why should I move around at all there in my country?

"I come to India because every step takes me to a new experience. It is quite interesting."

He is addressing one particular person with whom he is in conversation, but he looks at the rest of us as if he is giving all of us, this audience, his thoughts.

I hear him further say:

"Allopathy is good for surgery and trauma. In other cases, it destroys your system. I prefer Ayurveda any day. But the corporate-driven cultural onslaught is so powerful that in the next two decades, entire India will be the same boring Western caricature. Then I will be able to hang my travelling boots and rest at home. No more adventures."

Now I reflect over this.

I think, just for his exotic chaos, which his spirit hankers after with such expectancy, how can we Indians ignore our poverty and struggle, which make countries like India interesting to international tourists? Can we just keep ourselves full of poverty so that they can enjoy the vast range of experiences and differences here?

It is stamped. India, just like any other country, is also stamped to come out of the yoke of poverty. Things are bound to change.

Corporations understand this desperation at the mass level. They throw baits of ambition, hopes and aspirations.

The universe is being pulled by a massive ambition, in fact.

This ambition can survive with a huge mass of unfulfilled dreams at the base. It cannot afford to have too many success stories because then, with everyone a winner, who will labour in the mundane manual activities?

The pyramid has to have a huge base of layers. The pyramid has to have a huge base of losers, frustrated people at the base.

But that doesn't mean the losers will stop fighting. They will continue waging wars. The corporates will keep their futile hopes alive. Some will jump out of the boiling cauldron, but these are generational changes in a lineage.

For one winner, there will be at least a hundred losers.

That seems to be the law.

*****

As I sit here on the bench by the side of a makeshift tea stall overlooking the swift flow of Mother Ganga, there is an itchy man that I look at. He is a short, fiery, slightly built young man with a razor-sharp, rolling tongue. The tongue stings with acerbic pieces of truth, laced with lots of cuss words.

He was born on the premises of a famous ashram. His father works at the resident hospital.

And here are his monologues.

Others are just listening to him, taken in more by his enthusiasm in speaking negatively rather than by the content itself.

The prickly man is saying:

"All this is the same show. These are fake babas. It is basically business, money, only money. Fuck it. What religion? They are just after money.

"To have a room here, you have to be either a foreigner, or have a gorgeous girl around your arm, or donate in lakhs. Then you will get a room to stay whenever you come here. The room will be available for you. But if you don't have any of this, they will say there are no rooms available. And still they talk of religion and all this godly talk.

"This man, the one who controls the ashram, the head, the chief baba, he grabbed the property. It is property to him. There are rumours that the previous swami was poisoned. The scandal should be busted.

"This chief baba is surrounded by 15–20 women who have shamelessly left their husbands and now are enjoying their time here. They are all part of a big political game. This baba has a rich family in Punjab. His children stay in a city in Punjab.

"He has grabbed all the land from here, from the banks of Ganga Ma to the hills on the other side. India is poor because half the land has been grabbed by fake babas. If the government takes it back, most of our problems will vanish.

"Do you know who the real babas are? They are the ones who survive in the streets, who beg, who stay on the road, eat, bathe and lie in the open, who have surrendered every right to make this life comfortable.

"All the big names in ashrams are businessmen, seekers of popularity, and facilitators of politicians. The babas don't leave a chance to sleep with a woman.

"Yoga has been glamorized, but believe me, it is like any other product or service. I have seen it with my own eyes. All these big buildings with their shine are hollow inside.

"There are middlemen, dalals, to manipulate things. It is an institution like any other. There are intrigues, strategies, fakery, lies, deceit. Everything is used to sell the services, grab political patronage.

"Now the babas are thriving. Congress used to spank them on their bums. Now they will thrive for a long time."

The guy seems to go on and on and on, and this much cynicism, this mammoth cynicism in his frail body, makes me feel pity for him.

I feel like putting my hand on his shoulder to give him some peace. He seems terribly restless, itching with restlessness. I think he is not happy at all with life.

I am sure he will not be able to live long with this type of electric sparks continuously going on. How long can a sparking wire survive?

I just pray to Ganga Ma that she blesses him with peace, that every time he bathes in her holy waters, he gets more restfulness, becomes peaceful, and joy finally touches his life.

This is what I pray.

His angry sparklings have been so effective as to destroy my entire day. The impression has been too much, and as I walk on the holy banks of Mother River, I can't help but pray for his itchy soul because he, after all, is just like any other son of Ma Ganga, like the rest of us.

And I know there are so many beautifully souled babas here.

Yes, there are fake babas who are into it just for the career of it, to survive. But for that, we cannot ignore the bigger reality of there being genuine seekers of the soul who are praying for world peace and who are staying here on the banks of Ganga Ma—in ashrams, in the open as well, and in dharamshalas.

There are so many lovely souls who are evolving into beautiful lives for themselves as well as for the greater humanity.

*****