I wondered at Baba's absence. Why wasn't he conducting the ceremonies himself? Then, I understood. The caste system forbade him to perform priestly duty. Only a Brahmin of the ruler caste could do so. Baba must belong to another caste since he didn't wear the symbolic white cord. It seemed unfair that such a great sage be banned from officiating. I wondered how he felt about that.
We walked slowly, the torches smoking black and smelling of kerosene. We chanted mantras to the music of the band, but halfway to the river, the village women among us started shrieking while the men yodeled chilling sounds. They thrust their torches in the air, as if possessed by demons. Ignorant of this particular custom, I observed but did not participate in the villagers' hysteria, imitating the swamis and the Brahmin priest, along with the other ashramites.
In the midst of this madness, we reached the burning ghat on the riverbank, where a pyre awaited. Overhead, a low ceiling of billowing cumulus hovered. As the hidden sun lowered on the horizon, fiery red tinged the steely clouds, festooned with liquid lines of silver and gold.
We remained on the steps, chanting, while below, the swamis carried the body around the pyre three times before setting the litter on top of it, flowers and all. Upon a sign from the priest, Chad's brother lit the dry sandalwood. His jaw tensed as the aromatic wood ignited, and Chad’s mother, ready to faint, had to be supported.
Around us, screams and wails from the village women erupted, eerie over the sound of the crackling fire. Black smoke rose from the pyre. The priest gave the brother a hammer. I saw hesitation in the young man's movements at the strangeness of the custom. Through the flames, he tapped Chad's skull open, to release the soul into the afterlife.
I thought it ironic that Chad would be burned twice. In my mind, other images danced across the funeral fire: a jungle burning long ago, the ordeal of two nights back. Did I also burn twice in my previous incarnation? If fire meant purification, then it might be a good omen for Chad's next life.
The last sunlight died out and night came quickly. As far as the eye could see on the horizon, low clouds rolled in, blocking out moon and stars. The continuous wailing and chanting had not ceased. In the light of unsteady flames, half naked men, foreheads streaked with ashes, worked around the pyre. The Dalit, the Untouchable, the only caste low enough to work at the burning ghat, rearranged the wood, feeding the fire.
Gusts of wind fanned the blaze, lifted dust dervishes, scattered ashes, and dissipated the smoke. Far on the horizon, lightning flashed, followed by a low rumble. As if responding to a signal, the death workers hurried their pace. Collecting ashes in a ceramic jar, they gave it to Chad’s brother who bowed, accepting the vessel. With a haste bordering on disrespect, the little naked men scooped the remaining ashes, flowers, bones, and threw them unceremoniously into the NarmadaRiver.
Following the swamis' example, along with the assembled crowd, I then descended the steps leading to the river and lifted the flower mala from around my neck. The torchlight reflecting on the black water made a double line of torches delineating the shore. Stepping knee-deep into the cool, dark flow, I deposited the flowers delicately on the surface, letting the current take them downstream. "Farewell, Chad. Better luck in your next life," I whispered over the flowing river. As the musicians struck a new tune, I watched the flowers float slowly away.
On the opposite bank, jolts of silver lightning split the leaden sky. Thunder clapped. All around, more lightning and thunder exploded. The musicians stopped playing. The villagers smiled, waggled their heads from left to right in approbation, then gazed up expectantly.
Soon, clouds full of rain would meet the thirsty soil, but for now, we only longed for the ultimate contact. The parched earth itself seemed to call the water, like a hungry lover begging for release, willing the sky to burst at last.
At first, fat isolated drops splashed on the dusty ground and fizzled on the torches. Suddenly becoming strong and many, raindrops battered every exposed surface in a steady downpour. The torches went out. Warm rain drenched my clothes and washed away the ashes from my forehead, reviving me with clean energy. The villagers started laughing, singing to God, and danced in a spontaneous celebration of the rain, symbol of life and prosperity.
Then the sky broke, opening the heavens in a giant waterfall. Soaked and blinded by sheet after sheet of heavy, battering drops, I climbed up the steps of the river ghat, hoping to find shelter. When I realized there was none, I started laughing and tilted my face upward. Eyes closed, I stretched out my arms, delighting in a communion with the warm, cleansing deluge.
Chapter Sixteen
Water
I came out of meditation with a start. Something felt different. In the dark empty hall, the still morning air saturated with moisture exhaled a slightly lighter feel. Suddenly, I realized what it was. Silence. After five days and six nights, the uninterrupted downpour battering the roofs and closed shutters of the ashram buildings had stopped. Like most ashramites, I had welcomed the confinement in cool semidarkness, spending the time in meditation, lulled into deep trance by the hypnotic beat of the incessant rain. Peaceful silence had now replaced the familiar drumming.
The smell of rotting humus and all-pervading mildew floated on the air. Slowly, new sounds filled the void. Heavy drops dripped into a puddle. A bird chirped. A cicada started a timid song. Unwilling to move yet, I remained in lotus position, enjoying the new sounds. I felt rejuvenated, weightless, almost giddy and ready to laugh at nothing, like a light-hearted child.
I rose, folded my asana under my arm, and retrieved sandals and umbrella before braving the muddy garden path. As I left the meditation pavilion, I saw that the deluge had washed away the gravel and bared the slushy red clay underneath. My feet sank, leaving deep footprints in the muck. Depressed areas in the lawns had become shallow ponds.
The vibrant garden smelled of clean leaves and grass. The rain had cleared away the dust. In the muted light of dawn, I looked down the slope. For the first time in days I could see as far as the river.
When did this happen? I gaped at the sight. Far down below, the familiar landscape disappeared under a mass of reddish water. Logs, branches, planks and debris floated swiftly by. The monsoon floods! I hurried toward the courtyard to find out what was going on.
After the Guru Gita, I noticed a huge gray truck parked outside the gate, an old German Daimler cab with a long flat bed, the kind that usually transported metal beams to the dam. The surrounding planking, however, revealed Indian craftsmanship in its creative irregularity and gaudy hot pink and turquoise colors.
Baba assembled us in the freshly scrubbed courtyard despite the threat of more rain. As usual, we sat on the mosaic tile, the men on one side, behind the swamis in orange, and the women on the other side, behind the Bhramacharyas in yellow robes. Our beloved teacher looked serious, his usual smile absent, deep creases of concern crossing the red bindi of his shiny forehead. A dark young man in western clothes sitting next to him on the elevated porch spoke to Baba in Hindi.
As Baba tapped the microphone, the courtyard grew quiet. "The monsoon has just started, and already disastrous floods have stricken many villages downriver." The holy man paused, sitting straight on his turquoise pillow. Piercing eyes scrutinized the audience through tinted glasses. "There is also concern about a cholera epidemic."
Ashramites, Bhramacharyas and swamis exchanged worried glances. Although the ashram contributed to many charities and relief funds, Baba didn't usually talk about worldly matters. This world was after all only an illusion created by God for our spiritual development.
"But more alarming news reached me this morning," the holy man went on gravely. "I will let my friend Amit, an engineer from the dam, explain the situation."
Amit accepted the microphone and cleared his throat, obviously not used to talking in public. He looked too young for the task. "Several of our neighboring hamlets are being in imminent danger. One of the smaller causeways is showing signs of weakening. The reservoir is filli
ng fast, and we are not knowing how long the levees will be standing the increasing pressure."
Utter silence bathed the courtyard now. Even the birds had stopped chirping. So, Mukunda's deepest fears had come to pass. I shuddered at the implications. Visions of floating corpses, rotten devastation, rat infestation, and deadly disease flashed through my mind.
"The Red Cross was being contacted but is being already overwhelmed," Amit explained, apologetically. "Unable to satisfy all the demands for help, the State is not understanding the imminence of the danger and is refusing to intervene. We need to be evacuating these farms and villages right away, in order to prevent more casualties."
So that was it? A desperate call for help?
"We have excellent trucks," Amit went on earnestly. "Baba is also making arrangements to set up a temporary shelter in the village temple in Ganeshpur. We must convince the villagers to be leaving, and let them know we will be taking care of them. They will not be wanting to abandon their homes easily."
The swamis stared at Baba and Amit in obvious disbelief.
"More trucks will be arriving in half an hour," Amit explained. "Any number of volunteers to help evacuate would be very fine. They should be standing in front of the gate. We are being in a position to save lives, the only hope of survival for these people. It would be immensely cruel to be idly standing by. On behalf of the people you will be saving, thank you in advance for your much appreciated participation." Amit bowed slightly then handed back the microphone.
Baba took it and added, "I know this is far beyond your usual chores. Before making up your mind, consider your physical strength and state of health. No one should feel pressured to respond."
A murmur rumbled through the small assembly, but Baba quieted his audience with a stare. "I rarely get the ashram involved in the chaos of the material world outside these walls. Remember, however, that the world was also created to test our worthiness. Since we should love and treat every being as God Himself, this is a perfect opportunity for you to practice God's selfless love and compassion."
When Baba rose, I folded my asana and started toward the dorms, followed by several others. Damned if I was going to let these people drown.
I needed to change clothes. Leaving the bedroom door open in my haste, I pulled the suitcase from under the bed, in search of civilian clothes. Cargo shorts, tank top, climbing boots. Not the most appropriate ashram wear, but more suitable than white pajamas for hard, dirty work.
Regretfully, I removed the heavy gold necklace that had never left my throat and hid it between the folded white clothes neatly stacked on my shelves. I didn't want to flash wealth at poverty. Besides, the thing belonged to a spiritual place rather than the grime and ugliness of ordinary life's struggles.
I quickly changed, plucked my glasses from their case, threw a change of clothes in a canvas shoulder bag along with my contact lenses, a pair of sandals, and a bottle of mosquito repellent. Running out the door, I hurried through the gardens, conscious of my bare legs and arms profaning the familiar surroundings.
Outside the gate, several people already waited, some familiar, some not. It took me a minute to realize that the bare-chested man in cut-off jeans and baseball cap, chatting a short distance away, was Swami Satiananda. Without his orange robe and red bindi, he looked athletic, very handsome and quite American. With a diamond earring he would have pleased the Hollywood crowds.
Kora, who just walked out the gate, must have caught me looking at him. In a stylish safari jump suit, she approached me, smiling. "Don't bother." She gave Swamiji a sidelong look. "I already tried. A hopeless case."
"I don't judge people by their sexual value." I bit my lips, trying to control my hostility. "Are you waiting for the trucks?"
"I wouldn't miss the only exciting event in weeks!" Kora brushed a strand of blonde hair away from her perfectly made up face. "This should be fun. Besides, Mukunda will be there. I can see him and make sure his eyes don't stray." She glanced at my bare legs. "Not that there's anything to worry about."
I swallowed a biting remark. I had good legs and knew it, but I refused to let Kora trick me into pointless bickering. There were more important things. Suddenly, I found the idea of seeing Mukunda overwhelming. For a fleeting moment I thought of backing out, but I couldn't. Other people's lives depended on our help. I approached the group where Swami Satiananda was giving directions.
"The girls can help the women collect their things."
"How much can they bring, Swamiji?" I asked.
"Only as much as the truck can hold, which is a lot. We can probably fit a hundred people per truck." Swami Satiananda turned toward the men who had gathered apart from the women. "You guys tell the men a big flood is coming their way. If they refuse to go to safety, ask them to send the women and children anyway. Hopefully, they'll change their minds when they realize we are serious and everyone else is leaving."
When an ashramite brought a map, Swami Satiananda opened it and pointed at different areas, explaining, "We have three small hamlets and a complete village to evacuate with six trucks. We'll load one truck per hamlet and two trucks in the village. Each vehicle will return to Ganeshpur as soon as it's loaded. This team will come back in the last truck at the end of the sweep. Ultimately, we want to gather everybody and do it fast." He looked at the cloudy sky. "There's no telling when the rain will start again. Our own lives may be at stake as well if the levee gives way while we're still in the danger zone."
The hot morning sun pierced the cracks in the leaden clouds as the big trucks appeared, far down on the deserted road. I shaded my eyes, wishing my glasses were tinted. Steam already rose from the soggy fields, blurring the outlines of the huge vehicles sputtering black smoke. The rumble of engines covered all other sounds as the trucks stopped in front of the ashram gate. The rain had washed clean the dull gray paint, but fresh red mud splattered the sides and stained the tread of the heavy twin wheels.
While I seized an offered hand and boarded the flat bed with the others, Kora sweet-talked a driver into letting her ride in the cab. Dam workers distributed helmets and burlap sacks. An ashramite from the kitchen dropped off a basket of what looked like sandwiches wrapped in banana leaves. Thunder rolled over the din of engines. As if answering the signal, the heavy Daimler trucks lurched forward.
After a few miles, we left the paved road to follow a muddy path along soggy fields. The vehicles pitched and rolled into deep flooded gullies, throwing us right and left, even as we clung to the wooden sides for balance. In the distance, the concrete dam loomed in its majestic splendor.
I couldn't help thinking about Mukunda. I was proud of him for such an achievement. I also admired his determination to evacuate the endangered villages despite the government's indifference.
Jolted to and fro, assailed by exhaust fumes, we passed the dam and continued upriver, around the rim of the future reservoir. When our truck negotiated a steep incline, I peered down. New torrents dug deep crevices in the red flanks of the riverbed. Swollen by rain and mud, the Narmadaflowed russet in the bottom.
I grabbed a side plank, as the truck careened toward a cluster of shacks nestled at the foot of the slope. The flimsy buildings blended with the surrounding dirt. The only touches of color setting the hamlet apart from the fields were a few palm trees and various lengths of cloth hanging from bamboo poles, like pennants drying in the sun. Children, filthy from playing in the mud, ran and waved at the convoy. The deafening noise of the engines, however, kept them at a safe distance as they stared with wide round eyes, ready to run at the first sign of danger.
The trucks stopped, engine running, in front of some gutted, roofless mud shacks. A few villagers in stained lungis gathered palm fronds scattered by the storm, while others used ropes to secure the branches on the gutted roofs where they belonged. The men stopped working to watch our noisy arrival. I jumped off and landed in a mud puddle, splattering my face and glasses.
From the open window of the next truck, K
ora laughed at my mishap.
"Oh, shut up!" I removed the glasses, wiped my face, cleaned the lenses with the hem of my shorts, and placed the glasses back on my nose.
Kora still chuckled openly.
"Stop laughing, or I'll drag you out and shove you in the mud, designer jump suit or not." I was growing tired of her continual harassment.
Eyes widening with surprise at my threat, Kora stopped chuckling, pinched her nose, then rolled up the window.
I turned away, holding my breath against the fetid odor of a dung pile between two shacks. Scared chickens scattered in front of me, feathers flying over frying pan and cooking pots. A skinny goat came out of a house, bleating, and a mangy dog barked and growled menacingly at the trucks. I directed my steps toward a group of saried women crouched in the mud, cooking chapati on an open fire.
Smiling engagingly, I saluted in the traditional bow. "Namaste." I crouched to talk to the women from the same height.
They stared at me, smiling back. "Namaste." They giggled and looked at one another. The youngest didn't look more than sixteen and breast-fed a toddler past nursing age.
How could they laugh in the face of such trials? The rain had destroyed their homes. They were wet, dirty, cooking in the most unsanitary conditions, with damp flour from a rusted tin container set on the sodden ground. The oldest lady graciously offered me some breakfast, which I refused as politely as I could, hoping she wouldn't take offense.
When voices rose in alarm and protestation among the men, the women craned their necks to see what was happening.
"You have to leave," I explained, pointing at them, then at the trucks, knowing quite well they didn't understand English.
Several men yelled in Hindi, each gesturing wildly to his wives. The younger women rose, calling the children with urgency. An older woman dumped all the breakfast food into one cooking pot, another yanked the drying clothes from the poles and bundled up the family belongings, while the oldest called after grandpa, who smoked a bidi in the scarce shade of a plucked palm tree, oblivious to the surrounding chaos.
Ashes for the Elephant God Page 15