Rakesh Agarwal pens a short story on the changing landscapes and the evolving definitions of love in the historical town of Varanasi.
Look, love-jihad,” Shantanu said as we ventured out of the historical premises of Sarnath. The world-famous ruins were scattered around us, with excavations unveiling carved railing pillars from the Shunga period almost 2100 years ago. It appeared to be an entire city, with platforms made of fire baked bricks forming the bases and foundations of the buildings, the prayer halls, the living rooms, and even the bathing places and lanes—an entire urban landscape that existed before the birth of Christ.
“You know, Sarnath, the name itself is derived from Saranganath, meaning ‘Lord of the Deer’,” I told Rakhi, my soul mate, who was walking beside me. “It is said that Buddha was a deer herder in a previous birth, and once offered himself to be killed in place of a doe that the king wanted to eat. The king was so moved that he created this park as a deer sanctuary.”
We were climbing down the gently inclined hillock of the famous Buddhist site on the outskirts of the oldest living city of human civilisation: Varanasi. But Shantanu’s eyes were elsewhere. I followed them—a young couple, the girl dressed in a bright yellow salwar-kameez, as if to match the bright yellow amaltas (golden shower) trees blossoming on either side of Mulagandha Kuti Vihar, a modern temple erected by the Mahabodhi Society, which boasts of some excellent frescoes by Kosetsu Nosu, Japan’s foremost painter, and is a rich repository of Buddhist literature. Behind it is what remains of the ancient vihara.
She was sitting on a stone bench, just next to the temple’s façade, with a guy who was wearing a pair of tight jeans and supporting a fluffy beard. His right hand, draped over the girl’s shoulder, had a string of red thread; the sacred thread Hindus wear after a religious ceremony.
“Certainly, love is in the air,” I remarked.
“No, it’s not love, it is love jihad,” he protested, subscribing to the theory being propagated by Hindutavawadis that Muslim guys are on the prowl, part of a conspiracy to lure Hindu girls by pretending to be Hindus, and after trapping the innocent and juvenile girls in their net, forcing them to convert into Islam.
“Well, at least they are waging jihad through love and not through AK-47,” I replied. “And these girls, then, are quite foolish.”
“Yeah, girls are anyway silly, more so Hindu girls.”
Urmila, his obedient wife, draped in an amorphous pale blue sari and wearing a mangalsutra around her neck, nodded dutifully.
A group of Buddhist monks walked out from the golden sanctum santorum of the Dhamekh Stupa just then, holding prayer strings with 108 beads and murmuring “Om mani padme hum.” Sarnath is, after all, the place where the foundation of Sangha, a new order of monks and Dhamma, was laid. But my friend of 38 years was insinuating that this was not the Sarnath where Buddha delivered sermons of peace, but a battlefield in a culture war!
A war being launched with very potent weapons—weapons of love, weapons of affection, weapons of devotion. But fake love, fake affection, fake devotion.
* * *
As we rediscovered the city I grew up in over the next few days, crossing the narrow alleys where even the midsummer sun struggles to penetrate during peak summer and reconnecting with the intricate and finely crafted network of friendship I had woven over the years, this love jihad appeared ubiquitous.
We were passing through old Ghanshu Maharaj’s shop. “Let’s have lassi for old times’ sake,” I proposed.
“Well, he is dead and gone years ago, but his son continues,” Shantanu replied.
We sat down to enjoy lassi in a big kulhad (earthen pot). Cool dollops of thick and sweetened curd filled our eagerly awaiting mouths and washed them down. Finally, a thick layer of curd was stuck to the kulhad and we cleared it with water and drank it. “Remember,” I asked, “once someone threw the kulhad into the dustbin without washing it and Ghanshu Maharaj blasted him?”
“Yes, because he considered milk and milk products are holy they shouldn’t be thrown into the garbage.”
The same tradition continued even today.
We proceeded ahead, reaching Thatheri Bazaar, known for its famous sweet shops, along with those selling pickles, papads and pans. There sat Babu Nandan, wearing a starched kurta-dhoti, supporting a matching white cap and selling the famous Banarasi pan. We couldn’t resist enjoying the famous taste. He put layers of thick katha of pale green leaves along with a dash of lime and a wet supari and we put it in our mouths and proceeded ahead.
There was the famous Shri Ram Bhandar. A few steps ahead, the more inexpensive Satyanarayan Mishthan Bhandar. Next to it, in a lane so narrow that two persons couldn’t stand there together, was a tea shop where we’d spent countless evenings sipping Babu Lal’s tea and discussing many important matters of national and international importance. I glanced at the shop. Babu Lal was still alive, though the wrinkles on his face betrayed his seventy years. Seeing me, he stood up from his narrow seat and adjusted his glasses, “Babu! After so many years?” Clearly, his memory hadn’t betrayed him.
We kept on walking and reached the end of the bazaar where it joined the road. At the end, on the narrow stoned platform outside the sari shops, there used to sit a famous shehnai maestro, Ustaad Bismillah Khan. During Holi, the Hindu festival of colour, he would play for hours, a living example of the famous Ganga-Yamuna culture of India that is a paraphernalia of Hindi and Islamic culture assimilating to produce a composite, Hindustani culture.
Although the famous Khan is dead and gone, the tradition continues and his son has replaced him. “Remember, shehnai vaadan by Khan?” I asked Shantanu.
“Well, these Muslims claim it as an epitome of the Ganga-Yamuna culture, but he once said that though shehnai is his puja, he is a Muslim as his religion is Islam. His son refused to be the proposer of Narendra Modi when he requested him before he filed his nomination papers. Now that Modi has won by a record margin, these anti-national buggers have got a slap on their faces. Soon, our beloved hero will teach these jihadis a lesson and they won’t even dare look at any Hindu girl.”
I kept mum. We kept walking, crossing Chowk, the famous city square where the uphill road coming from Maidagin flattens and after a while goes downwards. I had a glimpse of the huge thana (police station) on my right, crafted in red bricks and having a sprawling courtyard. To my left were the fruit sellers, selling all kinds of fruit—apples, guavas, oranges. We kept on walking and reached the mouth of perhaps the most famous city lane: Vishwanath Gali. We stepped down a few stairs and were again on a very narrow sandstone laden lane. “How clean are these lanes!” remarked Rakhi.
“Yeah. There are no drains on the sides since the entire city has underground sewerage, built by Sher Shah Suri more than 500 years ago.” I replied. Suddenly, a bagful of filth landed on the road, missing us by a few inches. “Jai ho Swachha Bharat Abhiyan ki!” I shouted. Shantanu looked at me disapprovingly.
The two-kilometer-long gali that connects Chowk to the famous Dashashwamedh Ghat has scores of shops selling religious paraphernalia—as it also goes to the revered Vishwanath Temple—toys, saris, accessories and cosmetics. We stopped in front of the narrow counter of such a shop, as Rakhi wanted to buy some bindis. There was a couple next to us. The guy was wearing a thick kada in his right wrist and sporting a tilak on his forehead. He was holding the hand of the girl, who was wearing a bright blue salwaar-kameez and trying on matching blue glass bangles.
“Oh no! Love jihad here too,” Shantanu was disgusted. “These buggers are so caitiff that they depict themselves as Hindus to fasao a Hindu girl.”
We crisscrossed the gali and reached the other end, where it joined a narrow road full of traffic—screaming autos, honking cars and jostling rickshaws. Wading through the traffic and the narrow street; both sides on which vegetable vendors were selling fresh fruits and vegetables, we reached the famous Dashashwamedh Ghat and stepped down its stoned stairs.
On the large stone platform, under the bamboo canopies pandas (priests) supporting rudraksha garlands of 108 beads and paste of yellowish sandal red roli had plastered their foreheads with a big tilak in the middle. Pilgrims were obediently sitting in front of these pandas, mostly middle aged, a few young and many supporting beards. They would recite mantras, throw the sacred gangajal from brass containers, using a grass brush and the obliged pilgrims paid them before taking the plunge in the most sacred river of the Hindus.
I looked down at the river. A thick muck, containing flowers, beads, ash and suspended twigs, was floating along with the water that was pale green, turning rather pale yellow. Scores of pilgrims, the men clad only in underwear and the women fully clothed, were taking dips into the river, standing on the narrow flight of stairs. Many were offering water to the eastern sky, filling them between their palms and emptying it into the river. A few also drank it, reciting, “Jai Gange, Om Namah Shivay.”
* * *
We hired a boat, since the real glory of this ancient city is visible only by exploring its ghats, a series of staired structures crafted in pale fawn sandstone from Raj Ghat in the north to Assi Ghat in south binding the Ganga in a half-crescent shape where it flows in the reverse direction. This is a must for the tourists to visit, for the pilgrims to take a bath in India’s most sacred river and for the locals to perform their daily chores like washing clothes, bathing and also cremating their loves ones.
The boat smoothly glided towards Harishchandra Ghat as the boat man rowed it effortlessly in the placid water of the river, “Darling, the city has about 100 ghats; this being amongst the most famous and oldest ghat along with our destiny: Harishchandra Ghat on the southern ridge of the Ganga and then, we’ll move to the Manikarnika towards the northern edge,” I said. “Both these ghats are cremation ghats,” added Shantanu. “It is said that the fire never extinguishes at Manikarnika.”
Most of these ghats were built in the early 18th century, when Varanasi was part of the Maratha Empire. Ahilya Bai Holkar of Malwa built Holkar Ghat, while the Peshwas of Gwalior built Peshwa Ghat. The boat glided past Lalita Ghat, made by the king of Nepal, home of the Keshav Temple, a wooden temple built in typical Kathmandu style, having an image of Pashupateshwar, a manifestation of Lord Shiva. We passed the Harishchandra Ghat, where Raja Harishchandra, who would never speak a lie, is said to have performed the last rites of his son. It is still a cremation ghat, though much smaller than Manikarnika. Beyond it is the equally famous Assi Ghat, where many festivals, classical music soirées and games regularly take place, and is a much sought-after site of poets, painters and photographers. “Assi Ghat is the place where Swami Pranabananda, the founder of Bharat Sevasharam Sangh, attained ‘Siddhi’ (fulfillment) while performing ‘Tapasya’ (endeavor) for Lord Shiva, under the auspices of Guru Gambhirananda of Gorakhpur,” Shantanu informed us.
As the boat reversed back towards Manikarnika, we realised that not all ghats were built by emperors. Many bear the stamps of famous poets and writers such as Tulsi Ghat, where Tulsidas wrote the Ramacharitamanasa, and Munshi Ghat, named after Premchand.
Almost all the ghats have temples, many touching the river water where the rivers struggles to enter. Not all temples are Hindu—Bachraj Ghat has three Jain temples.
But, no one can miss Scindia Ghat, just before the famous cremation ghat as it borders Manikarnika to the north. Very much like the Tower of Pisa, a Shiva temple stands on its edge, lying partially submerged, as it gave way under the excessive weight of the ghat’s construction about 150 years ago.
The boatman smoothly turned the boat back towards Dashashwamedh Ghat, with the slanting sun rays that were turning the pale yellow water of the river into simmering gold. The boat glided through the placid water smoothly. He could hear the tintinnabulation from the countless temples that were lining along the prose; the story written over centuries, crafted in stone; jelling with the azaan from a mosque from behind; very much like a poem.
Another boat, a smaller, two-seater boat passed by ours. In front of a bearded guy, rowing the bat, sat another bearded guy, with a young, pretty and slender girl at his bosom. He ducked down and filled Ganga water in his fist and sprinkled it on the smiling face of the girl who giggled freely and fell on his lap. “These buggers are everywhere.” Shantanu was bitter.
The diamond in Urmila’s nose ring refracted the dying sunrays. She patted her husband’s shoulder.
* * *
The sun rose again, many months later. Its golden rays entered through the huge glass window of my home in Chandigarh, more than a thousand kilometers away from Varanasi, my current karma-bhumi. I was enjoying a cup of tea with Rakhi when the phone rang. It was Shantanu.
“Hi bugger, what’s up?”
“Get ready for another trip to Varanasi.” He sounded cool.
“Any time. But what’s the excuse?”
“My daughter has found the man of her life and I’d like to say yes,” he announced as if a newsreader were reading the news of an accident.
“That’s great. Who’s the lucky bum?”
“You’ll come to know it soon.”
The reason behind his tepid attitude became clear three days later when the postman delivered the invitation—printed in pale gray, as if it was announcing a death and not a wedding.
“Mr. and Mrs. Chawdhary invite you along with the family on the auspicious occasion of the marriage of their daughter Reema with Shahid Khan.”
I could hear a bomb exploding with a deafening noise. But when we turned up the wedding, it turned out to be a dumb squib. As we entered Shantanu’s double story home, a petite, good-looking girl with pearly white, almost illuminating skin, big oval eyes and a lissome body opened the iron gate and touched our feet. Her long, silky and lustrous hair was floating vagrantly and covered the left portion of her lingered face.
We were awestruck by her beauty. Rakhi took her in her arms and we settled down on a sofa. Soon, a tall and handsome young man joined us. He was about six feet tall, with a sturdy body, very expressive eyes and thin moustache.
“Yaar, this is Shahid, my daamad,” Shantanu introduced him.
They seemed made for each other. After graduating, Reema had joined a software company in Bangalore, where she met Shahid and was awestruck by his simplicity, looks and sense of humour. He, in turn, was captivated by her radiant beauty, her eagerness to help others and her presence of mind. It was really love at first sight.
The wedding was held the next day, at the Arya Samaj temple. Reema looked like a goddess; Shahid looked no less gracious. Before the ceremony began, Brahmbhoj was conducted. Sixteen Brahmins, each wearing a white dhoti-kurta and a sacred thread across their chest, lined up to be fed.
Reema and Shahid exchanging garlands of roses, bela, chameli and marigold. She garlanded him first and handed him a pitcher of water. He washed his feet, hands and face before garlanding her. Then the priest asked her to put a mixture of curd, ghee and honey into his cupped palms. After scattering the mixture in all directions he consumed the rest. This was madhupark se satkaar: the combination of curd, honey and ghee is a known ayurvedic cure for indigestion and many other imbalances in the body, and the rite indicates the commitment of the couple—the wife’s to feed and nurture her family, and the husband’s to provide for his family without harming Mother Nature.
Now, it was the time for the Saptapadikriya, seven rounds around the sacred fire. Shahid had no reluctance to perform this. This ritual signified their seven needs: nourishment, strength, wealth obtained through honest means, good health, progeny, good luck and a loving relationship. They went around the sacred fire seven times, first Shahid lead her for the three rounds and then it was the turn of Reema for four rounds and while making the round they took their wedding vows. After that, they went out of the wedding hall and looked at the azure sky. A bright, hot sun was in the heavens. It was the time for Suryadarshan by which they worshiped sun, the life giver on Earth.
Finally, they did Hriday Sparshor— they touched each other’s hearts and promised to be tender-hearted and gentle with each other and Shahid finished the ceremony by applying vermillion on Reema’s head.
“Our Reema will remain a Chowdhary,” said Urmila, “and will worship the gods she has been worshipping until now.”
“This is the real jihad,” said Shantanu, “fighting the devil inside you, struggling to strive to reach inner peace and goodness.”
