The morning sun streamed through the leaves of the imli tree onto the cement platform. It looked like a calm place to sit and eat an orange on a lazy winter morning on the Ganga ghats — the mild warmth always helped to soothe the distressed souls. Until my apprentice made an appearance that is. He came running up the stairs in front of me, grinning, his chappals clapping every step. Bastard. He had the air of one who worked at a temple where people get married: with his hair parted in the center and glued to his scalp and a grin cemented under his nose. He looked at me, squinting his eyes against the sun, then raised his hand to point downstairs on the right and parted his lips. Before he could say a word in that irritating sing-song raspy voice of his, I flicked my right hand and tilted my head to tell him that I’ll follow.
It was time for work. He didn’t budge though because he wanted to ensure that I don’t make the party wait for long. I spit out the seeds of orange, and called out “I am coming. Go.” “Do hurry.” “He is already dead.” Another person had died and their family had traveled from some faraway place to get it cremated. They were probably worried that the body will start stinking soon — they wanted to destroy it immediately because it was not a pleasant feeling to be around the body. The apprentice turned back on his heels and ran down the stairs. Stupid rascal. He thinks he is very smart. Last week he tried to convince a family to let him perform the rites himself when I was not there — he still didn’t know that I had found out about it. It was my benevolence that I had let it go one time.
I had done the same thing when I was starting out. It is hard to remember when I decided to get into this … I think I gradually transitioned into one growing up here on Ganga ghats in Banaras. I know this business in and out, although just this one. The business of helping people get rid of the remains of a departed one. They trust him because humans rely on the gut feeling about a person in such cases, and he had found that God had favored him in this. People’s guts usually liked him, even more benevolently than most: they perceive him as a wise person. Looking wise! I was just the right height at 6 feet, tall, lank, with a gaunt neutral face. The business acumen demands that pundits not be fat or appear cheerful. That was the million-dollar secret that I had uncovered in this place where every other person was vying to be a pandit.
I burned 12–20 bodies a day, and outsourced the rest to my apprentices and colleagues — sometimes for commission, at times as goodwill towards well-wishers, and sometimes just to keep the good name going — brand building it is called; at yet other times because I could not eat any more pious meal-offerings.
I spent a lot of time by myself, away from the other pundits because this earned their respect too. I might be wise after all. Or at least, wiser. Who could decide? Or had I faked wisdom so much that I had started believing it? In either case, I got good business. I had come across people educated and uneducated, businessmen, politicians, boatmen, NRIs, slum-dwellers — all in white clothes, asking to be helped. Spiritually.
I threw away the peels of orange near the tree trunk, stood up and straightened out my kesari-colored robes and muttered the Ram name. I walked down the stairs and turned around right — about 8–10 people looked up. Oh, middle class family. 70k — 1 lakh rupees.
The elderly man moved towards me. “Purushotam,” he said taking my hand in both his hands. I looked at him in his eyes, and he started crying — just realized yet another time that it was time for the person to go, that this was it. I placed a hand on his shoulder, “himmat rakho (stay strong).” He joined his hands and wept more; the whole gathering sitting on the ground behind him with the wrapped body whelmed up. He tilted his head over my hand on his shoulder and looked at the family with a look that told them that I share their pain. I am wise. I have never married, never had a family. Was born at the Ghats, got into this business, and could never make up my mind to move to a temple somewhere and get a wife.
I asked the man, “Your son?”
He started crying and I let his head fall on my chest. The elder-most man of a family can only fall in front of strangers. “The worst pareeksha (test) a father can be meted out.”
I can never lose a son that I fed with my hands.
He shook his head against my chest. I said, “who can challenge these things? We will take care of him.”
He lifted his head up and looked at me.
I solemnly said, “1 lakh.”
A brief look of treachery passed over his face. He says, “One lakh, punditji?”
The apprentice comes running down the ghat and stands about ten feet away from me. I slightly nod my head again — he knew that he was supposed to wait. I continued, “we have to arrange for wood, samagri (various items), deeksha for 21 pandits, food at the temple, … But if you want, we can cut corners –”
He was confused and offended by the business-like talk on my part and realized that it was not my first time. He stepped back, cleared his throat, straightened his kurta and turned around to look at his family. They were his own people, not this guy in whose chest he just wept — in today’s world all these pandits are haramkhors. What can one do?
He turned back to me, “Theek hai, please make the arrangements,” he said.
I placed my hand on his shoulder again and he again joined his hands but it was not the same. I gave him instructions, “2:30 pm under that tree.”
He nodded his head. I looked at my apprentice and walked towards him and asked “Where next?” We walked on to meet the second group. “It is so busy all day. The winter sun is getting to my bones,” I complained.
“You can always hand down the lower-priced parties to us, sir,” he replied. Haramkhor.
The mild winter sun was itching rapidly towards the Western horizon and I paced my steps to the Dashashwamedh Ghat. Aarti was something that I had not missed in 34 years. Never. That Ghat has seen people visit from each corner of this world, the Swarg, and the Narak alike. It is one thing I do that does not make any business sense to me.
The boats that had taken tourists out on the river were returning after exposing the human vulnerability all around. More boats with devotees unloaded. I make time for things I want to do. Unlike those other pundits who just make money all day without a break. It is so serene to see all the lights lit up successively — now here, then there, and take over the darkness on the Ghat. Viswa, I hear, has a 100 killa zameen in Delhi South. I might afford that if I put everything on stake. Why bother? I don’t even have a son to pass off the land to.
The aarti started and I well up once more. My ammi used to bring me here every day, I can still smell the cotton of her dirtied saree and feel its cool on my face in summer and warmth in winters. After the aarti finished, she would take out a laddoo from under her pallu and give me a piece of it as prasad.
I walked half a kilometer away from ghats and then took an auto to my abode on the other side of Banaras Hindu University. Away from work. I filled in my Chillum and thought about the cat story that my ammi used to tell me to put me to sleep. Then, as I drifted to sleep, I wondered the same as I do everyday. Why am I still lost?