The ghats on the Ganges, littered with flowers, leaves and ghots, have watched in silent awe as millions came all throughout the day and immersed idols, with folded hands and guarded shoes. The latter is a mere and often futile precaution against the prowlers, who gladly pick shoes and sell them at the Chandni.
The day was long, with a number of Calcuttans trying to evade the crowd and reach as early as possible. But in a city of millions, even the meager makes a crowd. So the tussle began even before the sunrise, as the yearly almanac clearly said that the shukla panchami got over at 5 o clock. 5. 04 to be exact. None had a clock adjusted to the chronometer, so they thronged the ghats with the first caw of the morning crow.
Even hours after the first immersion ceremony in the Ganges, the greater proportion of youth was clearly noticeable in the crowd. And you could easily see that most were from the bazaar, that is to say, not from the middle class, but from humbler backgrounds. And while most were well past their boyhood the moniker ‘Bazaar boys’ stuck. Their garish dresses and brazen attitude stood out in the mellow afternoon. The somber sunset gave way to tunes of Hindi number, which was, more often than not, a remixed version.
Jishu had never seen or heard such a cacophony. After all, most of his pictures of life were shot through the frame of his father’s shop. He took his father’s chair when he left for some work, and assisted him in other times. Sometimes his friends tempted him to ride with them on the motorbike, but fleeting images of his father with a stick had had the better of him most times. But this time he made sure that his father would not decline his wish. Days of mute work, always before the call from his father and he finally gathered the courage to ask.
“Can I go to the bisarjan?” He had asked, softly.
“The……what?”
“Basu was telling me that the saraswati puja is in a week’s time. The colony club is planning to bring a band party for the bisarjan…………”
“Now, don’t tell me that you………..”
But he did tell him. When his father’s stupor over his evening alcohol was deep enough, he had also forced a yes.
And now he was here. He had a small cut in his elbow as it brushed past the projecting iron rod of the minitruck that carried the boys and the idol from Garia to Ganges. But his pain subdued when he saw the spurt in human activities.
Some were dancing to the tune in the most haphazard manner. But even the most flamboyant steps couldn’t disguise their inner conflict and all the sacrifices they had made in life. Happiness for them was measured in cups and cones- in the number of hours they spent at duty to bring enough food for the family, and may be sometimes in the number of satisfying hours, those were spent under the bedsheet of the neighbour’s wife. Some of the older and the more dignified lot looked in disgust at the younger ones. Some even mourned how solemn the celebration of this day in their childhood days was. Much of those descriptions were crafted instantaneously; was there also a bit of envy in their disgust, Jishu thought.
“Hey, we did not bring you here to just gaze like a thundtho jagannath- a standstill idol. Help us to carry the idol. God is she heavy!” Basu called, bringing Jishu back to reality.
He scrambled towards them. The cemented stairs were muddy and slippery, making it all the more difficult for Jishu to move. But he did manage to put a hand below the heavy idol.
Where the ebbed water of the Ganges met the man-made bank, men, women and young adults gathered and immersed their idols. The air was heavy with chants from the priests, who lifted their dhoti up to their knees and carefully preserved their sanctity.
“Om bhadra kalyay namonityang, Saraswatyei namo namo
Veda Vedanga Vedanta Bidyasthanevya ebo cha.”
Flowers flew. And in went the Devi.
Jishu did not know the meaning of the mantra. Neither did he understand why many children were collecting the used flowers and touching them on the forehead, before putting them inside their pockets. He was also curious to know why many had brought books along with them.
Books. Those were something he rarely saw. His father’s was a grocery shop, where you would find a place for cheap pirated DVDs, but surely not a book. He remembered those days when his mother would bring him secondhand books at the beginning of the academic year at school. Adarsha Vidya Niketan for the Underprivileged, its name was. But the little privilege of studying also vanished the day he first came here, at the bank of the Ganges. But there was no water visible then.
Only fire.
He had held a burning taper. He still remembers that someone held his hand and thrust it forward. It touched the mouth of a corpse, a body he once called mother. And then there was nothing but fire. A couple of hours later, he had himself immersed the ashes in the muddy waters of the holy river.
No, his father did not give him the news. A month later, when he went to school, he learnt that his father had not paid the token fee and had himself struck Jishu’s name off the register.
He still had some books in his box, which he kept off his father’s knowledge. But those were items to savor in the leisure, surely not articles to bring in the bisarjan.
He had also noticed that many school going boys and girls had come to their pandal and offered the pushpanjali. Some even gave the priest boxes of sweets to offer to the goddess, so that they are endowed with knowledge and wisdom. But Jishu wondered whether the goddess had time for school dropouts too. However, with all those schoolchildren to look after, he considered the chance slim.
Jishu and Basu and the other boys pulled up their pants and left their sandals on the stairs. Then they carried the idol into the water, revolved her three times and then laid her into the water bed.
“Jai Saraswati, Jai Kali, Jai Shiva…”
Before he stayed on to utter all Thirty three crore names, the others pulled Basu back.
The sacrosanct ghat was now full of godly wastes. With the setting sun casting the somber rays over the river, the river carried the poisons – scientifically and literally, spiritually and metaphorically. Many castaway idols remained standing on the river mud, their arms amputated and faces discolored and dresses torn. The stench of decomposed flowers and leaves put even the street dogs off. They stayed off the mud, occasionally sniffing at something or the other.
Ganges- the holy river. The river that held all the secrets of Jishu’s mother. And of many others. The river who knew about all those unnamed craftsmen who had spent days to make the idols of the devi for a pitiful salary. Her beautiful face, well proportioned limbs, hourglass figure and even the veena she carried in her hand were made from clay taken from the riverside by them. Only to be lost in the waters of Ganges. The water, which had assumed a color of all colors. Back to its origin.
As Jishu sat against the wind at the back of the open minitruck, he looked at the sky. The sky looked confused, whether to bid goodbye to the daylight or to welcome the darkness. Some untimely clouds seemed to take the basanti hue. To his eyes, the cloud took the shape of the magnificent swan, the vehicle of the goddess. A drop of saline water appeared at the corner of his eyes.
Among the books that his mother had left him, there was a translated book, about a girl and a cat with a funny name. And the girl fell through a hole and had all kinds of adventures. Jishu still loved to smile, if not laugh at those absolutely impossible events. He always had to find new excuses to please his father and give a plausible reason behind his sudden fits of laughter; but those were happy moments.
Now, with the sky finally accepting the dark, Jishu pondered over the reason behind the sudden tears. Was it for the inherent tone of loss associated with bisarjan, or was it a mere reminiscence of his mother? Or probably a growing envy at all those who were looking forward to another academic year? Those who were now returning home with their parents, their hearts filled with pleasant anticipation.
No, Jishu did not get the answer.
Probably the Goddess of knowledge had been a little miserly to him.
– the seal
