Saptapadi

Written by Kiran (my husband)

The priest appointed by my friend was muttering something in Sanskrit. Less out of piety than out of habit. His hands were doing the complicated mudras of the sankalpa -- the sacred proffering of intent to the Gods before starting anything auspicious. In the waters of this one well lay the jnana of the whole world. All covered up so no one could get so much as a peek, lay the Light, contrasting with the darkness I sat in. The dawn rays were yet to travel over horizon and the December cold pierced my marrow.

I was responding almost subconsciously to the sankalpa before beginning the journey, from the Jnana Vapi well passing through four of the most sacred bathing ghats on the Ganga, ending with cremation on Manikarnika Ghat, thus ensuring salvation. Staring at the mudras, I tried to summon up the wisdom I had gained in my seventy years. The life which, with all its futility, was about to end. And yet, there was no panic, no maniacal self-preservation, nothing. "I could die without a ripple," I said aloud. The panda looked up and, seeing nothing amiss, continued his murmuring.

Walking through the misty, narrow lanes of Kashi accompanied by the priest and a boatman, my brain went back to the sankalpa. What had he said and what intent had I proffered? Did I actually tell the Gods, 'In the name of the presiding deity Vishwanatha, the Lord of the Universe, I intend to undertake the Panchathirtha Yatra in order to end my life?' I wondered how the Gods would react. Did they care? Would they be worried? Or shocked? Or at least surprised?

"Why do it?" my friend had asked yesterday, surprised at my leaden declaration. "You could stay here. No one would know. All you want to do is get away from your sons and the family." He was sitting on the teakwood swing that must have been as ancient as the house itself.

"Subbanna, it's not just that." I said, in defence. "After Janaki died, there seemed nothing left for me to do around here. She expected me to live; to the others I was just in the way -- for everything they wanted to do. That nitwit, my youngest, he even had the cheek to ask me if I had any brains. After this are you still asking me..."

"Look," he cut in. "All I'm saying is stay here. You love reading, and philosophy is still something you like to discuss. There is no better place than Kashi for that. I know some of the pandits and professors here and you could do something interesting."

"I've lost all interest in everything. All the talk we waste our time on is just that -- talk. What is the use? I worked a lot in my tehsildar days. Distributing free darkaasth land to farmers struggling to exist under the bloodsucking zamindars. And what did I get in return? The jibes of my eldest son -- a judge, an abomination to that post -- for not having made out any land in my own name -- all because he could get his filthy hands on it... Oh why am I telling you all this... Look, I just don't want to have to face all this any longer. I'm tired, I'm disgusted and I've made up my mind. After last month I did not even want to leave behind my dead body... leave it to the hands of the sons who could not even perform the rites for their own mother. Here, Death seems actually merciful now. I am willing to take the risk of being reborn as an animal. Leading the life of a dog is better than having to live under a shower of abuse from one's own sons."

Silence dripped slowly into the long hall of the Hanuman Ghat house, gently rocking to the rhythm of the regular creak of the swing's chains. "But what about your daughters?" he asked after some time. "It's still your responsibility to get them married off."

"Oh, I don't care. I don't want to be expected to get them married. I got two of them married. Sudha's husband turned out to be a gem. And the other one... Any respect I had for the judiciary, he killed it. How can I be expected to get the other two complete fools married? One has already gone and got pregnant. Oh, I know, and she doesn't even have the spine to stand up and tell me not to bother with her marriage. About the other, the less said the better. The fellow she is living with is already married and has two small children. And this daughter of mine calls his wife akka! I don't want to be responsible for the idiocy of my daughters. I cannot explain it to anyone -- not even to myself, I am exasperated.

"But what about your daughter, Sudha," he asked, "and her husband? How will they take it?"

"That's what made me wait so long," I replied. "They took so much pain, so much time to try and get the marriages done, all to no avail. And my callous sons have the gall to shout at them."

"All right, don't change your mind." The tone was tinged with resignation and sympathy. "At least stay with me for a couple of days. We could spend some time together, catching up with the old days. Days we would spend talking about everybody and everything. Look at you now! You used to be so angry. Where is that fire now? At this time when hundreds of sleeping people in Bhopal breathe in the poison from some foreigner's factory? And the owner claims he has nothing to do with it? You have nothing to say?" Just like the Subbanna, I thought, of thirty or so years ago. His face would flush and then he would raise his voice until he had unburdened himself. Now he sat there on the swing, his face seething with anger.

My voice was cold water. "That fire died, long ago. I gave up doing anything to improve everyone's fate. I have done the best I could and when I could. I have seen the hope of full stomachs dance in the eyes of those farmers when they came to receive the papers for their own land. That one memory is enough for me to forget all that has happened since. It settles my scores. I'm now even. Even with good and evil. I want to die before this sense of neutrality fades."

We sat as the late afternoon sun slowly climbed the opposite wall, split by the rods in the window into three gold-yellow columns. Subbanna's daughter-in-law came in with coffee, served piping hot in tall brass tumblers -- just as I liked it. Subbanna recalled a visit he had made to Bangalore years ago. "Janaki's coffee is still on my lips. Whatever you say the coffee made by a coffee-planter's daughter is indescribable. This is nothing in comparison."

I relished the compliment to my wife as much as I did the coffee. "She was the one who actually held me up, prevented me from splintering into fragments. Now that she herself is dead, I can go ahead, which is exactly what I'm here for."

"You make it sound as easy as going for a walk or something." The coffee was good. I called out for more and got up and stepped towards the kitchen. "So much talk!" he went on, " Just look at that, will you? Can't even give up coffee and he talks of giving up his life."

"Look," I said, "Do me a favour. Just see that my cremation is done and after that send Sudha a telegram. I did send each one a letter before I left last week, and yet I don't think the others will be bothered." I drank the coffee and sat down on the swing. Putting a hand on Subbanna's shoulder, I said, "Look don't worry. I'll take a walk for sometime. I promise I will be back later."

The late afternoon sun was pleasantly warm as I walked the narrow alleys towards the great Ganga. The life-giving mother of all civilisation. I was only going back to my mother's lap. The place of security and comfort that never ran out of succour. The nourishment that demolishes the hunger of the mind and the flesh.

I sat down on the steps of the Hanuman Ghat and looked out on the blue-green expanse and the gentle cadence of the surface that could so completely cover and obliterate the seething power of the flow. I stepped down to the water and sat down. I began the third of the daily cycle of prayers, meant both as a celebration and as worship of the sun. Prostrations to the sun as He rises in the morning, at His highest at noon and as He sets at dusk -- worshipping Him as the source of all life, physical and metaphysical. Celebrating the benevolence as He dispenses energy without prejudice, treating all creatures -- plants and animals, humans and insects -- the same. 'Oh Lord who art the giver of all energy and light, please enlighten me.' The setting sun could not have been more perfect. I felt as if my prayers had been carried directly and instantaneously to that radiant disc, now hanging low in a honey-coloured sky. I sat there, motionless, feeling an elation so rare as to have been almost mystical. The sun had set and the activity along the river was gradually coming to a halt, as well as slowly becoming less and less visible as the mist rolled in.

The morning was too young for any warmth and the boat moved slowly through straggly wisps of mist that clung to the water. The priest was pointing out various things he thought were interesting. At Asi, the first of the five bathing ghats, he explained to me the significance of bathing in the Ganga. My mind, like the mist, was slowly clearing. By the time I had finished the five baths, each of them followed by a sankalpa, I felt as if my thoughts had stopped wandering. We had reached the last ghat, Manikarnika, the pre-eminent cremation ground of Kashi and therefore the most sacred one in the whole world. The air was thick with the smell of burning flesh and the chant of the Taraka Mantra, the prayer of passing. I finished my pilgrimage and sent the priest away along with the boatman.

I sat down facing the river and tried to think. I needed something, anything, to rid my mind of clarity, of calmness. Some chaos, some confusion, some fear. But no. Nothing came up. Except the image of my wife. I got up and carefully descended the steps one by one. I had taken seven steps with Janaki in marriage with the Fire God as witness, binding myself to her for seven lives. I now descended the seven steps that led to her.

This was also published on Sulekha @ http://creative.sulekha.com/saptapadi_98701_blog