The scene was so familiar, yet unfamiliar. I had spent my entire childhood in this city, and visited this place so many times that I wouldn’t even bother counting. As I moved out in search of a “better” life, not once did I realize, how this very scene had stealthily hidden itself in my bag of memories. It moved with me from place to place, and appeared just when I needed it.
Growing up in a small Indian town by the banks of a river, the Ghat and its traditions became a subconscious part of my core memories. I remember coming to the banks of the river with my family whenever we got some free time. The vehicle would be parked a little distance away and we needed to walk down a path that sloped downward. As children we would love to run downhill on this, and were duly scolded, as the path directly ended in the river. Our parents would then hold our hands and walk down gently till we reached the bank.
I loved these outings and remember observing every little detail. I was mesmerized watching the river flow silently, the boats ferrying people across to the other side, strangers coming together and enjoying the sugary steaming cups of adrak chai. The smell of freshly fried pakoras to accompany the tea hung in the air and the enticing sounds of the street vendors selling their wares attracted everyone, especially the children. The overall commotion had a quiet charm associated with it.
But my favourite time would be dusk, when all the people present on the Ghat would pray to the River Goddess. Eyes closed, hands folded, heads bowed, a crowd of strangers sending their collective thoughts and prayers to the preserver of their lives. And then, there would be the lamps. Hundreds of lamps made of completely natural materials would be floated on the river. Leaf bowls (“Dona”) decorated with flower petals and grains, and carrying little flour lamps with wicks made of ghee or cotton dipped in camphor or ghee would be lighted and floated in the river as an offering – with humility and folded hands. As darkness descended, the whole river would be covered with the flickering lights of these Diyas, as if precious stones adorned a flowing dupatta. I loved to and still love to gaze at this scene, till all the lamps float away to infinity. It is one of the most peaceful experiences I have ever had in my life.
Through incessant questions to Maa, and reading up about different subjects, I realized the ancient wisdom hidden in these practices. The river is the primary source of life with its water nurturing all kinds of life around it. Praying or saying thanks was acknowledging the life force sustaining everyone around. Whether one looks at this through a spiritual lens or not, just the practical aspect of accepting the significance of the river went a long way in people respecting and preserving this source of life.
Even the materials offered to the River Goddess were chosen so as not to harm, rather to sustain the ecosystem. The leaves and flowers would float to the banks, decompose and turn into manure for agriculture around the river. The flour and grains from the lamp would become food for the fishes and birds of the region. Finally, the camphor and ghee would purify the air while burning. Beauty, utility, and an acknowledgement of the ecosystem around – so much meaning packed into a humble Diya. All this while I am not even touching the spiritual aspect of the whole experience.
This had been the case in almost all towns and cities situated on the banks of rivers, anywhere in India. As I kept moving, in my quest for a “better” life and a successful career, I kept feeling lost. And as I felt lost, I would seek a river and sit by it quietly, watching the glimmering dupatta it became at dusk. The familiarity and comfort of the scene never failed to help me put myself together. It always picked up my spirit, and gave me the strength to face life, irrespective of whatever problem was bothering me at the time.
Today, as I descended the well known path with Maa, in my home town, some of the old sounds and smells reached out to me as if old friends were coming by to say hello. But it seemed, they needed to put in a lot of effort to do so. What were these unfamiliar things that were pushing away the familiar, I wondered. I tried to focus and figured out what was assaulting my senses so rudely!
A blaring loudspeaker, horns of vehicles trying to reach the banks (“why bother to walk, when you can honk” seemed to be the mantra), cemented storefronts selling lots and lots of plastic wares, especially bottles to carry the holy water back (was it holy or just polluted – I dared not ask, instead just kept looking at all the plastic and trash floating in the river). This was such a shock. I desperately searched for the peace and quiet of the past, the makeshift shops and above all the Diyas. There were so many Chinese plastic candles with LEDs fitted into them, but the natural ones seemed to have vanished.
For a minute, I was lost. Where was the calm that anchored me through the many storms of my life? Where was the carefree chatter that soothed the soul after a tiring day? Where was the peaceful prayer and the familiar smell of pakoras? All I could see were the cafes selling sandwiches, momos and a hundred varieties of shakes with instant noodles. Everyone was in a rush to reach the river bank (preferably in their SUVs, after all they had spent a fortune buying these and everyone needed to know!), take a quick selfie and then return as soon as possible. No one was interested in connecting with the nature, forget paying respect to it. They were here to make some short videos, capture the loud festivities being put up as a show to attract more tourists, and put that up on social media.
I was almost on the verge of tears when Maa asked me to get the diyas for the river. She pointed me towards a couple of rundown makeshift shops still selling the diyas, tucked away in a corner, far from the maddening crowd. Standing at the shop, I observed the scene around and tried to make sense of it all. I was trying to replace the image I had held on for years with this new reality, looking at the plastic bottles and flowers floating in the river, while the shopkeeper prepared my diyas. But just then, as if to console my tortured soul, my eyes fell on a handful of people on the other side of the shop.
Hidden by a small embankment, they were not visible upfront. Eyes closed, hands folded, heads bowed and a prayer on their lips, they were silently floating the leaf lamps a little further away from the crowd. I walked towards that set with Maa, diyas in hand, and a small smile finally appearing on my face. I wondered as I gazed into the twinkling lamps floating away on the river, “How have we managed to push such wonderful parts of our tradition into a corner? For what? They have survived somehow and are finding a place for themselves in this mayhem. But can they survive this onslaught of consumerism and mindless following of trends? Can we save these simple yet profound traditions?”
What do you think?
IDYLLIC TALES 