The Splendor of the Mighty One

If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst at once into the sky, that would be like the splendor of the mighty one...
Bhagavad Gita

Prologue

A 100 years from now, I will board a bus that will take me away. I will go seeking a village on the cusp where the Ganges descends from the mountains and meets the plains. Going north would be heading towards the mountains and as we all know mountains are full of optimism and I will be too much of a realist by then. Going east would be heading towards the prairies and as some of us believe prairies are full of pessimism and yes, I will be too much of a realist by then. So, I will go searching for this village on the cusp that on one direction will tempt the mountains and on the other will confront the prairies. This village will have a large Ashok tree in its center and a rotunda around it. That rotunda will become my abode and from there I will immerse myself in one of the oldest vocations in the world—I will become a storyteller. I will be telling stories—stories about sunrises, lot of it real and lot of it exaggerated. I will receive my due from the time that the children and the elderly will spend transfixed listening to my tales; children, because they will be at the dawn of their beginnings and it will help them imagine; elderly, because they will be at the twilight of their journey and it will help them reminisce. My stories will be about the sunrises I have seen and experienced in my life.

I believe in a simple maxim—for every sunrise seen, a year is added to one’s life. So far, I have had my share of sunrises. I have received the sun on the eastern coasts of the Dark Continent in Malindi. I was amongst the first to receive the sun in the new world standing atop the Cadillac Mountain with my arms outstretched as if tempting the winds to sweep me off to the ravines. I have received the sun on the coasts of the Algarve overlooking North Africa. I welcomed the sun surrounded by the vastness of the Pacific in Polynesia. And, I stood there on the edge of the Long Island sound as the sun struggled to give birth to the new millennium from behind a mask of gray clouds.

So, by the time I arrive at the destined village, I will have no dearth of sunrise stories. I will be like a salesman on the streets of humanity—like that person at bus-stops in Indian towns, the one who wears a large black coat with the inner seam populated with different sizes and colors of combs and scissors. Under the Ashok tree, I will pull out from this kaleidoscope of sunrise stories. People will come and people will go and generations will wither, but there shall be no end to these stories because as the sunrise itself, I would have become immortal.

A Sunrise Story

I leapt out of my bed with the sound of the shrill ringing. Delirious and disoriented, I scrambled in the darkness towards the door, not knowing where the sound was coming from. I soon adjusted to my habitat and picked up the phone and muffled to the caller that I was up. The bedside clock showed 4.27 am. I realized that I was in a hotel in Benaras. The call was intended to wake me up so that I could keep my date with the sun on the banks of the river Ganges.

With excitement, I prepared to leave my room. Dressed in my soiled Kurta Pajama and limping in my new Bata slippers that had carved abrasions around the toes, I left my hotel room. Coming off the elevator, I saw that the hotel lobby was full of people speaking in a mix of European languages, waiting for the bus that would take them to the banks of the river, because even they aspired to see the world being created by the ascent of the orange ball. Pushing through the crowd of these tourists with their smell of perfume, dried-up sweat and alcohol, I rushed to the rickshaw stand. Soon, I was sitting atop a Rickshaw and keeping my balance as the Rickshaw wallah masterfully avoided each fracture on the road. As his legs deliberately and purposefully pedaled in circular patterns, I eased in to my narrow seat and started gazing at the inactivity of an early Benaras morning. But for hapless dogs, the Rickshaw wallah and I were the only solitary purveyors of life in the city that morning.

Upon arriving at Dashashvamedh Ghat, I met the boatman who had taken me for the sunset tour the evening before. It was still pitch dark that morning and the place was mostly deserted. I saw, on the edge of the street, a man relieved himself noisily. From behind the deck of buildings a child could be heard crying. Beads of decoration lights emitted tirelessly around the perimeter of shuttered shops. Across from us, the man at the tea stall worked in sullen silence amid the monotonous blast of the blue flame emanating from the gas furnace. A stern and weathered teakettle was being cradled in a lotus like embrace by the blue flame. I felt like a tea and had a choice to make: pick this tea stall playing Anup Jalota’s bhajans or the one that was playing “Yeh Dosti” from Sholay and I went for the latter. After that brief stop, the boatman and I headed down to where the boats were parked. The vessel was a no-frills basic, a sky blue colored, contoured wooden structure that had assured me of its buoyancy the evening before. I went to my corner of the boat and seated myself on the neatly laid out white linen cloth. After untying the hard rope from the shore, we made the putsch, freeing ourselves from the deserted boats around us to the wide-openness of the Ganges.

Working the paddles and facing towards me, the boatman asked where I wished to go. I told him to take me up the river, as far north as possible so that I could have a full view of the holy city. I asked him to time it in such a way that just before sunrise we have returned to this main Ghat—the Dashashvamedh.

The journey up river was quiet, occasionally interrupted by the chop of the paddle. A boat passed us by and I gave a nod of approval to my fellow early-riser. On the river, long bamboo poles floated serving as islands for birds to rest on. Away, dim lights lazily flickered from the city that was asleep. On my left, the riverbank was beginning to see some activity. At occasional intervals along the coast, religious songs were blaring through loudspeakers.

In Benaras, there are numerous Ghats on the Ganges, with their own personality, their own living quarters and their own function—Munshi, Ahilya, others. However, it is difficult to miss one such Ghat north of the Dashashvamedh with large piles of wood and a few golden embers burning silently. This is the Ghat where the remains of the mortal beings are set ablaze by grieving relatives. As we canoed north, the boatman urged me to get a closer view of this hallowed Ghat but I shunned the suggestion. He asked me somewhat teasingly, why I did not want to go closer to this historic venue. To which I said, “It is not my time yet.” He responded with a belly laugh and an assertive heave of the paddle surging us farther north.

The morning was looking brighter indicating early signs of a dawn to emerge. Having gone up river, we were now heading in the direction of the current. The river was more occupied now, as I noticed hundreds of boats. Mostly, there were larger boats with 8-10 people each. The tourists were ready with their cameras, at times being interrupted by smaller floating shops of flowers, wares and trinkets. The riverbank was looking busier. Women walked herding their sleepy children. Men walked ahead, chins up, bare-chested. As we floated closer to the Dashashvamedh Ghat, I saw little dwellings, each covered by a large umbrella, with a platform occupied by priests with their shaven heads, pig tails and a belly-button stuck on a well endowed girth. Across from each of these priests sat a family ready for a ritual. Small bouquets rested around the knees of the Pundits; steel and brass tumblers, sweets and cloth were all being neatly arranged. The army of religious men sat ready in position to kick-off customized rituals for their paying customers who had traveled to the Holy city for a purpose. They were all waiting and preparing for the sun to rise.

I asked the boatman to take me somewhat farther away from the Ghat because I wanted to see the sunrise in peace. He did so and we were now parked in the middle of the river but still in viewing and listening distance to the Ghat. The brightness had become bolder, the riverbank was bathed in a light fog, and in the middle of March there was a cold bite to the air. I prepared to receive the sun and walked to the center of the boat sending ripples around the seams of the bobbing vessel. The boatman had become curious about my actions but was trying hard to be polite and decided to give me my space. I stood there on the center of the boat looking for the sun to ascend, hoping it would do so slowly and deliberately, and the moment would last longer for this one time.

And then the event that I had come for started to happen. I was looking out at the clear horizon that had no clouds. A little boat with a kid and his trinkets that had been orbiting around us had now stopped pestering, himself enchanted by the drama about to unfold. All of us on the shores of the Ganges were now looking across the river and the sand dunes, and then we saw it—the emergence of a bright sliver of an orange cake.

I had a full view of the totality of the orange ball as it arose out of the earth. The concoction around me was becoming potent. From loud speakers, M.S. Subhalaxmi’s musical verses with her characteristic clipped diction were rhythmically soaring down the river. The ringing of bells from the background was cacophonous. People of the world were now huddled in temperate silence looking at the sight ahead of them as they bathed in the orange light, while some stood waist high in the river with their hands clasped chanting almost in unison. Priests standing on the precipice of the steps leading to the Ganges, surrounded by teaming millions around them, waved large multi-fanged diyas vigorously, while calling out to the gods in their illegible Sanskrit verses. Some tourists who had traveled long distances to see this sight, chose to see the sight through their camera viewfinders. The floating shops on the Ganges had momentarily ceased pushing their trade to take a bow at the sun and ask for a materially fulfilling day. The Ganges riverbank in Benaras had come alive at the sight of dawn and this un-choreographed drama was overwhelming. Each actor, from the sun to the river water, and from the temple bell to the musical shlokas were as if converging at the Dashashvamedh Ghat. To further visualize the environment around me I closed my eyes. My eyelids felt the warmth of the morning sun; my ears started digesting the sounds of the Ghat, the slurping water, the boats and the birds flapping as they took flight. As the voyeur in me took it all in, I opened my eyes.

As I grasped the moment and looked at the rising sun, I was reminded of a verse that I had heard -- If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst at once into the sky, that would be like the splendor of the mighty one.[1] J. Robert Oppenheimer, the father of the atomic bomb, had recalled this verse from the Bhagavad-Gita while witnessing the first nuclear explosion on July 16, 1945 in New Mexico. As I witnessed the making of a sunrise in Benaras, I felt pity for Oppenheimer who had perhaps missed experiencing the “splendor of the mighty one” on the river bank of the Ganges in Benaras. What I was seeing that day was all about creation, what Oppenheimer saw that July day was the start of destruction.

Right then, right there on the Ganges in Benaras, I imagined seeing the “splendor of the mighty one”—it was the mother, the mother of all sunrises I had ever seen. Although still in the early hours, the morning was now in full bloom. I told the boatman that I wished to return.

We docked back in from where we had left. I walked up the large steps of the Ghat and after making my way to the Bazaar got myself another cup of hot tea, this time choosing the stall that played Anup Jalota. The man at the tea stall and his tea kettle were still as stern as I had left them a few hours ago. As I looked around, the bazaar was becoming busier. A man was standing next to a Rickshaw. He had a cloth (Gamcha, typical of that part of the country) draped around his shoulders and falling from the front to his waist. He asked me if I wanted a ride. I took his offer and asked him how much he would charge to take me to my destination. He said it was up to me and I could pay what I desired. I told him that I had paid 55 rupees early in the morning and would pay the same to which he agreed. As I sat in the Rickshaw, I was somewhat disappointed. In Benaras, negotiation is a sport. You lob a price out and the other guy hits back and you go back and forth till one agrees. I brushed the thought aside and started to observe the activity around me.

Part of the stretch from the riverbank to the hotel is a gradual climb. If you drove it, you would not notice it, but when a person is pedaling, you can tell from the effort that is being put in. I sat like a king with my arms embracing the helm of the raised seat, back resting and the motion of the rickshaw providing the feel of an elephant ride. As we started making the gradual climb, I realized that the Rickshaw wallah, still with the cloth draping his back and falling in the front, was beginning to break in to a sweat in the back of his head. I started to banter with him, typical of a Benarasi style. I asked him if the effort to pedal up was too much and if he wanted me to get off. To that, he vigorously shook his head, denying the offer. I let the ride continue, once again enjoying the sights of Benaras. We passed Jalebi laden counters, pan shops with the morning’s early customers lining up for a mouthful, little children with their heads between their knees easing in to their morning chore on side streets as their hands drew diagrams on the road, cows slapping the garbage heap with their coarse tongues, and occasionally aggressive car drivers breaking the peace with their impatient honking—all interspersed with the coming and going of Hindi filmi songs that were the only constant through the ride.

As we approached the hotel, we pulled up to the front gate since Rickshaws were not allowed to come in. I got down on my right, dished out a 100-rupee note and gave it to the Rickshaw wallah. He took it and with his profile to me started fumbling with his right hand on his waist pouch. Not understanding what he was up to, I took a step forward and that is when I saw it. The sight was gruesome. The man’s left hand dangled and ended at the elbow in a stump. It hit me and hit me hard that the man did not have an arm and he had been tactfully hiding his deformity all along by draping himself with the cloth. Taken aback and embarrassed remembering my earlier banter, I asked him how it had happened. He said, “I used to work in the textiles and one day my arm got caught up in the machinery and that’s when it was severed.” I asked him when had that happened. He said “about eight years ago.” Caught by the moment, I uttered the obvious, “it must be difficult pulling a rickshaw!” To which he said, “Now I am used to it, I have three children and I want them to go to school and this is my livelihood.” He handed me the balance of 45 rupees. Clasping the wrinkled money in my palm, I started walking towards the hotel immersed in my thoughts from this recent episode. As I approached the canopy at the entrance, I stared at the money and looked back. I turned around and ran back to the front gate in search for the Rickshaw wallah. I wanted to give the money back to him. I was dismayed that in my shock I had not even offered for him to keep the 100 rupee note. I arrived at the rickshaw stand and looked for him, asked about him and peered down the road. But alas, the man was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared in the maze of the city.

I came back to the hotel and entered the lobby lazily ushered in by the doorman. The restaurant across the lobby was full of people. Breakfast was being served. People were dishing out heapfuls of food from large cauldrons and laughter was echoing. Servers were walking about pouring tea. And, I had lost my appetite. The open elevator looked inviting. I walked in and pressed the button for my floor. As the doors shut, the darker confines provided relief.

Epilogue

Later that morning, I was having lunch with a Member of Parliament (MP) elected from the state of Uttar Pradesh. I had been introduced by a mutual acquaintance and we were conversing. This was a young educated man symbolizing the new generation that was making a foray in to Indian politics. He was wearing starched Kurta Pyjama and black leather shoes. I was in contemporary clothing and awkwardly aware about it. After small talk, he shared his opinions about the problems with the state. The MP was not hopeful. He elaborated on how little could be done due to the existing “political paralysis.” The only hope, according to him, was when the Janata would realize that one party, his party, needed to have a majority and only then would things begin to change for the good. Unprompted, and not totally out of context, I told him about my experience with the Rickshaw wallah from the morning. The Rickshaw wallah, I told him, was positive and hopeful and was working for a better life in spite of his deformity. I could tell that the MP was starting to lose interest. Reaching out to the breadbasket, he smiled at me and said something that stung like an expletive. He called me a storyteller.

[1] The actual text from the Gita: Arjuna saw the supreme Deity possessing many mouths and eyes, presenting many a wonderful sight, decked with many divine ornaments, wielding many uplifted divine weapons, wearing divine garlands and clothes, besmeared all over with divine sandal-pastes, full of all wonders, infinite and having faces on all sides.

If there be the effulgence of a thousand suns bursting forth all at once in the heavens, even that would hardly approach the splendor of the mighty Lord.

Concentrated at one place in the person of that supreme Deity, Arjuna then beheld the whole universe with its manifold divisions.

(This column was first published on www.sulekha.com)