Hari ka dwaar

Rituals hold a dubious significance. As we chanted the Bhagwat Gita, day before yesterday, the chants still ring in my head, spiralling till they reach a crescendo. Blocking a very large quantum of very sad thoughts. Couplet after couplet of Krishna's unselfish wisdom, did more than impart jnana, they rang in the heads of the readers, until thought itself seemed a heavy burden to bear. Undoubtedly it carries wisdom, a very earthly wisdom, but what it surpasses in, is to curtain our thoughts. Well, for a while. Everything is transitory.

They put the body on a sliding thing, pull a lever and wait till it is gobbled up by the chamber. I didn't see it. They tell me that's how it's done. They pull another lever and collect a bag decorated with marigolds the next day. "Bhapaji, Haridwar chalo!"

Hari ka dwaar. . . The door to moksha. . . Be free from this world as thy ashes toucheth the blessed water. Ganga looks like a discerning old person. To me. For I see her for the first time today. She is so conscious of the dirt around her. We take about seven hours to reach Hari ka Dwaar. A rising hunger, an avowed crony of long journeys makes our thoughts drift. We have tea, pakoras and tomato cheese sandwiches at Cheetal. I skip the pakoras, labour to remove the last bits of cheese on my sandwich and lament about how I can't have coffee. You simply can't have coffee. Everyone is supposed to eat the same thing. Another plate is prepared. A sandwich, a few pakoras and a thermacol glass half filled with tea. "Bhapaji! Nashta!" He never really cared much for tomato cheese sandwiches, I think to myself. The ploy was to feed it to the most unsuspecting candidate, that could be found begging on the road. A snare for ether, fire, wind, water and earth. . . We'll force you to drown yourself in the Ganga.

Books are unusual companions on such journeys. But I musn't elaborate on that. Hari ka Dwaar. . . The door to Moksha.

The door to Moksha is well guarded. A child is dressed as Shiva, complete with trident and all, manning the parking lot, avidly sticking the trident into a harmless Mayawati conveying condolances poster. Quite amusing, actually; political vendetta at such an impressionable age! The angels of the famed ghats stood a little further away, clasping their chillums and taking long pleasurable puffs. I feel nothing; surprisingly. I don't know whether I feel like a puff or whether I am judging. The locks were quite endearing, matted, just as much as was expected. Endearing because I was reading a book about such people. People with matted hair. The angels gave way to the Pandas.

The Pandas have built their dwellings parallel to the ghats. They are stacked together. One panda residence for one family line. The Teri's pandas were way inside. We seek them out. The head Panda looked like a very senior, sinister hawk. Ashes must be sanctified by a particular Panda, else they wont reach the heavens. The panda courteously offers us tea. Sugar free is a distant thought. We decline. Must finish with the business. The deal hasn't been reached, I suppose that's how they plan it. We head for the ghat. The ritual begins.

Your name? The griever gives it. His name? He spells it out. When did he die? The date is communicated. Who's the small one? His grandson. He needs padding, this one does! . . . and then, How much? The decisive question.

2100.
Not enough.
You said give from the heart.
Yes. But we belive in big hearts.
Well, I believe mine's quite big.
Not big enough. A few extra ladoos might do the trick here.
Hunh?

The widow is accosted.

Mataji! You must give your consort a befitting farewell. It must be grand. How many cows?
Cows?
Yes. Gaudaan. Mahadaan.
Give him more money.

The griever drags the Panda away. 2500 and we're done.
Humph. 2500 for all this fuss. Very well.

The Panda takes a white ball. he throws rice and flower petals on it and hands it over to the griever. A few choice words are exchanged. The pind is left afloat.

The time for the big kill has come. The panda catches a glint of gold from inside the bag bearing the ashes. I must first bless the ashes. He blesses the ashes. They are let into the water. A horde of young men dive into the water. A fight ensues. The bag is snatched and wrenched. I can see a few white strips on the surface. Suckers! We head back to the Panda's abode. The young pandas are smoking chillums. Now I envy them. Fresh entries are made to the family tree. While the aunt can't get over the fact that she was once called 'Seeti' as a toddler, I chortle over an ancestor named Mussadi Lal Teri. The Panda gives me a scathing look.

Mock not the dead! They will haunt you and make you wet your lungi. Right. This particular Teri wasn't mericlessly drowned in Hari ka dwaar. I stick my tongue out. Fortunately for me, the Panda is busy making entries. Arjun Kumar, at the very end.

We meet a snake charmer on the way out. He thrusts the basket into my face. I could've fainted. The cobra readies its hood. A more righteous uncle of mine asks the snake charmer- how much to let him go? 5000. Pat!

A few by-standers whisper "Words befitting our holy shrine."

I miss you. I miss you very much.