Speech of the sacred birds (Part 1) - Pittala Maata - Bird stories from the Pakshopanishad

From ancient texts in stories that have been lost in the passage of time, the first of the early stories of birds and people of India - from the "Pakshopanishad" - the story known earlier as the "Pittala-maata"

भालपीलस्यामलस्य: नागशान्तीनदितीरे कासीसंगमम्ध्येह: |

शिवविष्णुकृष्णस्य: गंगानदितीरे ब्रह्मदत्त राजसमयेह: ||

Once upon a time, long long ago, in a place far far away, as all good stories say, near the very ancient kingdom of Kasi, along the mighty river Ganges, were the villages of Balapila and Syamala. These villages were about ten kilometers away from each other, but were on either bank of the Ganges. The Naga River flowed near the village of Balapila and met the Ganges as a tributary about four kilometers southwards. The Shanta River flowed near the village of Syamala and met the Ganges as a tributar about fifteen kilometers eastwards of the Naga River.

Considering the sacred aspects of the confluence of the rivers Naga and Shanta with the Ganges, the people from many years earlier, had constructed temples to the gods, and the villagers continued to protect these places. The temple at the confluence of the Naga river was to Shiva and the temple at meeting point of the Shanta river with the Ganges was to Vishnu. There were some large island areas within the Ganges river between the villages of Balapila and Syamala, and the largest island had a temple to Krishna.

This story took place in the rule of the very ancient King Brahmadatta, when he ruled the kingdom of Kasi. The Most Enlightened One was born as a merchant during the rule of the wise king. Caravans of more than 500 carts would travel east and west, and the Most Enlightened One would also travel with these carts.

Ancient villages of Balapila and Shyamala along the Ganges River

In this ancient village of Balapila, lived the merchant Nagasesha and his wife, Shaktipriya. Their only son, Nagasayana, was loved by one and all in the village. He was known to be helpful, and honest and sincere. He never hesitated to help his neighbours and travelers alike. He was unable to learn any trade and this saddened his parents, for they felt, that it was tragic that such a good and honest boy could not set up a trade of his own, and could not help his father in the family's business. The boy loved to sit near the jetty crossing on the Naga river, where merchant carts would travel along the East-West road from the holy Sangam to the city kingdom of Kasi. He would help the merchants and their people with loading and unloading goods on the jetty boats and would also help the buffaloes and oxen in the crossing.

The merchants knew about Nagasayana and they also knew the merchant Nagasesha. Thus, they would always reward Nagasayana with some money or goods or food items in return for his help. His mother, Shaktipriya was happy and grateful that though her son could not learn a trade, the gods had blessing him with a pleasant and helpful attitude and this allowed him to continually earn something by helping the merchants in their jetty crossing.

The ancient jetty crossing on the Naga river

One of the merchants had rewarded Nagasayana with a caged bird, a hill-myna from the forests of the south. There had been two birds in the cage, and the merchant had hoped to sell them at Kasi, and one of the birds had died due to some illness and he feared that the other bird could perhaps die soon. Not wanting to carry it with him, he gave it away to Nagasayana. The boy was extremely happy with this unexpected gift and he brought it home, and his mother, equally pleased, hung it near the window of their house.

The merchant Nagasesha and his wife and son were quite happy with the hill-myna, for it sang beautifully, through the day, and improved in its health and became stronger. Sometimes the hill-myna would repeat the songs that Shaktipriya would sing, and at other times, the bird would clearly repeat the words of Nagasesha or Nagasayana. At other times, the bird would keep singing long plaintive songs, very haunting, and this would sadden the merchant Nagasesha.

The hill-myna, singing his haunting song

The hill-myna would sing in an extremely haunting tone, as though telling or retelling an important story, and would keep looking at the merchant Nagasesha with very sad eyes. He began to feel that the hill-myna was trying to tell him of some important event or story. It so began to pass that the merchant would come home to have his lunch or dinner with his wife, Shaktipriya and his son, and the hill-myna would start singing his lonesome song, looking straight at Nagasesha's eyes.

"The lonely bird was surely trying to tell me something," said Nagasesha to his wife and son, "There must be a sad story or an important story that I must know about. The bird keeps looking only at me when he sings, and he does sing for quite a long amount of time. He is trying to tell me something. It seems quite important, for the bird seems to become sadder and sadder, each time he sings his song."

"I would dearly love to hear the song, and I would be most happy when I know the story that the bird wants to tell me," continued Nagasesha, and asked of his son, "Go, my son, go out into the forests, where the great sages stay, and visit their asramas, and find out if someone out there knows of the language of the birds, and if he would teach you or permit you to know of the knowledge."

Hearing his father's commands, Nagasayana, left his house and went to meet Muni Nagabhushana's daughter, who also lived in the village of Balapila. The Vaidya Kittamutti, married to Muni Nagabhushana's daughter, had come from the Kingdom of Seri and settled in the village. The fame of the eye-physician had traveled to many distant places in the Kigndom of Kasi and neighboring kingdoms. Patients came to the village of Balapila with their ailments and were taken care by the daughter of muni Nagabhushana.

Nagasayana knew of the fame of the muni Nagabhushana, son of the great muni Rangabhashya, and that they were at the Munisangama Ashrama, where the three important rivers came to meet each other, the Ganges and Yamuna, and the sacred and invisible Saraswati. It would be a long journey, but Nagasayana was ready to travel to the great meeting place of the big rivers, and ask from the muni Nagabhushana if one could learn the language of the birds.

Umadevi, daughter of the muni Nagabhushana, was affectionate to Nagasayana, considering him as the son of her maternal uncle and aunt, and welcomed the young boy to the house of the Vaidya Kittamutti. Serving him with hot food, as she was known to do so, to anyone that came to her house, she heard from the boy about his desire to go to the Munisangama Ashrama and learn from her father, the muni Nagabhushana. Totally delighted, she packed up delicacies to send to her father and grandfather, rolls of banana-tree-twine that she had extracted and kept aside to send to the ashram, and gave some money to the young boy, Nagasayana, for his expenses on the journey. She was sure that he would not have sufficient money to spend on his necessities in the long journey.

Banana Twine, useful in earlier days for wrapping parchments

Nagasayana was very happy. He knew that Umadevi had been clever and had provided him with enough gifts for her father and grandfather to make them pleased enough to accept him into the ashrama. He rushed to the jetty on the Naga River, near the village of Balapila and sure enough, he found a boat getting ready to travel back down the River and upstream along the Ganges to the great Sangam, which was one of the most important port cities in those days. The boat owner knew Nagasayana and was also familiar with the great Munisangama Ashrama. He agreed to take Nagasayana to the Sangam, and asked for a payment of lunch at his house, on his return trip.

This was the first time that Nagasayana was traveling on the great river, that was their entire world, the only world that they knew, at the villages of Balapila and Syamala. He had only traveled between the two villages, for attending marriages and religious programmes. He had never gone beyond the 15 km distance between the two villages. This was the first time that he was traveling towards the great Himalayas and towards the meeting place of the three great rivers. 'How could an entire river be invisible?' he thought, telling himself that he would surely see the invisible River Saraswati. Everyone at the village of Balapila had always told him that he was the smart boy, and sure, he would show the world.

Ancient sailboats on the River Ganges

The journey took about four days since they had run into a rainstorm, and an entire day without any wind to lend them strength and power to sail upstream the mighty river. The journey usually took about two days, but Nagasayana was not one to object. Each situation was a tremendous experience for him and he enjoyed every moment of it. Whether it was to rest and hide from the rainstorm or if it was to wait impatiently, in mid-stream, with anchor tied to a large tree stump near a small island. It was hot out there, even if the previous day had seen non-stop rainfall. They slept on the boat, waiting for the wind to lift them, and allow them to go upstream, fighting against the mighty current of the great river.

The wind returned, and never stopped, all the way until they reached the great place of Sangam. It was about 3 am or thereabouts when the wind started pushing at the sail, and two men jumped out of the boat to untie the anchor from the tree stump. The boat began moving swiftly within that time, making it almost difficult for the two men to return. Everyone was laughing at the incident, and Nagasayana thrilled at the bonding among everyone on the boat. He had never been part of such an experience and it seemed like there was much to learn while growing up, and out of the small village that he had been in, over these many years.

Sailing on the Ganges in the early dawn hours

They kept moving swiftly upstream and it seemed almost like they were being pulled up by the great Himalayas themselves, for the Ganges appeared very calm and peaceful in the early dawn, under the reflection of a very large moon. The river never seemed to be moving, and yet, Nagasayana knew from his own experience at Balapila, that the current would be very strong, going downstream. The strong wind that took them upstream never seemed to be present. He could not feel the wind in that night of the early dawn hours, and yet, the sail filled out, and the man at the rudder had a tough time maintaining a proper course.

The sun had come out, and it was beginning to be painfully hot, thought it was not noon, when the boat came in to dock at the jetties at Sangam. The village of Balapila had two jetties on the Naga River and two more on the Ganges, and these four had seemed like an achievement and tremendous progress in the region. But, here at Sangam, Nagasayana kept looking and kept counting the jetties. There seemed to be more than a hundred and that would be the one side that he was coming in to. There were three banks, at Sangam, of the Ganges and the Yamuna, and there could be more than 300 jetties, he felt. There were boats at every jetty and people.

Nearer to Sangam, in the early morning hours.

'Wow!' thought Nagasayana. People. There were simply too many people here, and too many different types of people. The entire village of Balapila could come here and be lost in 2-3 jetties, he told himself. The owner of the boat pointed out a group of four sadhus, standing near a small Hanuman temple, and said, "See, there, those four sadhus... they are from the Munisangama Ashrama. See the way they dress, and the manner in which they are different from other sadhus. Everyone is different here, boy, except the crowd seems to make them all look similar. If you see carefully, you would learn. Every person is different."

Nagasayana thanked the owner of the boat and got out on the jetty and went up to the sadhus from the Munisangama Ashrama. They were pleased to know that he had come from the village of Balapila and asked him to wait near the Hanuman temple while they completed their tasks at the river. Later, as noon approached, they shared their food with Nagasayana, and allowed him to purchase some curd and raw rice with some money that he had. An old lady approached them, with a cooking pot, asking if she could cook lunch for them, and the sadhus agreed. She set up the cooking pot, and took the vegetables, rice and lentils from the sadhus, and went about moving around in the crowd, going around the shanties. She kept making small purchases, accurate amounts of food material that she wanted and allowed the rice to cook, in the meantime.

Very soon, she had got their lunch organised, and with the curd that Nagasayana had purchased, the group had a good meal. The owner of the boat had seen it happen, and came up at the right moment and shared some of his food with them. The old woman seemed to know him, and silently placed an additional place for him. The sadhus were also on familiar terms with the owner of the boat. It seemed very puzzling to Nagasayana, for in this great hustle and bustle of people at Sangam, where everyone seemed to be faceless, people knew each other, greeted one another and shared their food. This was so very unlike his village, where one met others only during special days. Here, everything and everyone melted together.

Path to the ashram

After their lunch, the sadhus returned to the Munisangama Ashrama with Nagasayana. They had to walk out of the numerous settlements around the Sangam and travel through a forested path, climbing into the lower Himalaya mountains. Nagasayana had never seen the Himalayas and had not seen such tall mountains. Very soon, he began to feel the cold and chill and wondered at the ability of the sadhus to adjust to the change, without having any need for warm clothes.

Muni Nagabhushana was surprised to see Nagasayana at the Ashram. Worried about his daughter, he asked if there was any problem at the village of Balapila. Muni Shantarama, his brother, and the great Muni Rangabhashyama were also happy to know of Nagasayana's visit to the Ashram. It was very rare that someone from the villages of Balapila or Syamala ever came to stay at the Ashram. Most villagers were busy with their householder duties and never seemed to seek the Ashram way of life. Thus, that night, in the hut of the great Muni Rangabhashyama, in the presence of Muni Nagabhushana and the Muni Shantarama, the story of the hill-myna, its sad song and Nagasesha's desire to know of the song was explained by Nagasayana.

The three great sages heard him out quietly and seemed to ponder over the request. 'Can you help me understand the speech of the birds? I have to go back and tell my father about the sad song of the hill myna' Nagasayana had told them. The great muni Rangabhashyama seemed amused about it. He was smiling. His younger son, Muni Shantarama, was actually laughing and shaking in mirth. What did they find funny about the request, thought Nagasayana. It was an entirely legitimate request. His father was curious about the sad song of the hill myna and wanted to know what did the bird sing about? How was it supposed to be  complicated or something to be laughed at?

The great muni Rangabhashyama instructed Muni Nagabhushana to teach Nagasayana the art of understanding the speech of the birds if the birds were willing to open up the secret. The Muni Nagabhushana agreed with the great muni and asked Nagasayana to accompany him to the hut where he would be staying while at the Munisangama Ashrama. He was being given a hut at the outskirts of the ashram since he was not an ordained sadhu. He would have to stay with the other helpers and visitors to the Ashram, at a small scattered hamlet outside the village.

Nagasayana's hut outside the Munisangama Ashram

On the morrow, the Muni Nagabhushana called out for Nagasayana, except it did not seem like morning, so much as it was still dark, and probably the early dawn. "Go, go out in the forests in this early dawn hours, and seek a bird that would help you, and will allow you to learn the speech of birds. This is a sacred place, for, this is Munisangama Ashrama. Here, the birds, animals, insects and plants have magical powers. They can understand you. But, it depends on you, if you can understand them. There is a way to learn these aspects, and it only the teacher who can decide if you are ready. Go, and be in the forests for the entire day."

Nagasayana was worried. It was dark out there. The forests were inside the deep valleys of the Himalayas or they were in the high craggy cliffs that had to be climbed. The forests nearby were dense and dark, and to make it worse, he had never gone roaming in forests, all by himself, ever before. The Muni Nagabhushana seemed to understand his fears, and said, "Do not worry. Have I not told you, that this is Munisangama Ashrama. You have nothing to fear. I know, coming from the river villages of Balapila and Syamala, this forest will look frightening. I had also been frightened when I had come here as a kid. There is nothing to fear out there. Go, with courage."

He stepped out of the hut and began to walk into the forest. It was silent and dark. Dawn had not begun. How does one search for birds in such a place, he wondered. Suddenly, he came upon an opening in the canopy, and stood at the edge of a small pond. There was a large stone ledge, and Nagasayana decided to sit and wait it out, for the break of dawn. As he sat there, he realised that there was no silence out here. There were those small sounds, very low toned chirps, low volume calls, short and sharp calls, just a small chirp, or a beep, but the calls seemed to come from all around. As he sat, silently, on the stone ledge, deep inside the forests of the Himalayas, at the edge of the small pond, Nagasayana realised, that, the forest was not silent at all. There seemed to be quite a bit going on.

The forests around the Munisangama Ashrama, in the Himalayas

There were sounds, all over the place, deep inside the forests, and the sounds felt like they belonged totally to the forest. Birds were moving about and were calling out to their companions, or announcing their presence or warning other birds of predators that were made out. Nagasayana could not see anything in the darkness. He could only make out the silhouettes of the mountains, and look for the dawn sky lit up by the moon, and the distant glimmer of dawn in a deep valley towards the East. He realised that by looking up in the sky and picking up on the light, he was unable to make out the deeper recesses of the forests. He sat near the small pond, and closed his eyes, and tried to use only his ears and catch the sounds of the forest.

He knew some of the birds from his village area and from near the Ganges. He could hear the teetiri (Redwattled Lapwing), the dhoban (Wagtails) and the pandubbi (Little Grebe) near the pond waters, since he was seated nearby. The pandubbi was not making the usual musical calls, but was calling out in sharp clicking sounds, much like when he heard them near his village when the boys would go to disturb the waterbirds' nesting areas in the floating weeds. There must be other animals and birds moving about, he thought, for the pandubbi to keep calling out repeatedly.

He could make out a raat-ka-bagla (Night Heron) and several other bagla (herons and egrets) on the trees overhanging above the pond waters. There could be more raat-ka-bagla nearby for they were calling out, in low volume, staying in contact with one another. The andha bagla (Pond Heron) was also probably in that bunch of trees, but Nagasayana could not make out. The raat-ka-bagla was flying out silently over the pond waters, perching on the trees on the other side of the pond, and returning after a while. He knew their flight, having seen them cross the Naga River at the village of Balapila, during the night hours.

Soon enough, it was dawn, and the forest erupted in sound and light. There seemed to be birds everywhere. Teetar (partridges) and bater (quail) seemed to be calling from all around the forest. It sounded like there were at least a million of them, well hidden. Their calls caused the mor (peafowl) to start sounding off, in long resonating calls, drowning the sounds of the forest. Immediately, alternating with the calls of teetar, bater and mor, the jungli murghi (jungle fowl and spurfowl) began calling out. The small birds in the trees started their songs and it was like a concert that had gone terribly wrong in symphony, but was splendid in music, rhythm and song.

The redwattled lapwing in the pre-dawn hours at the 

forests around Munisangama ashrama

Continued - Part 2 - http://shtories-shtuff.blogspot.in/2013/01/speech-of-sacred-birds-part-2-pittala.html

The great unknown swami

The great unknown swami. He will continue to stay unknown, I hope. He is from somewhere, you know. And, he keeps traveling, all the time. I get to know from others that he had just passed by a certain place, and I hope to meet up with him ahead, along the road, somewhere, but he has moved on to some other place. But, at each place, with someone, he leaves behind his memories, and a story. I have been collecting these stories wherever I hear about him, and I hope you will love them, as much as I do.

From Dehradun to Har-ki-pauri, Haridwar

Rakesh Singh Dingri, a pilgrim-route taxi driver, about 40 years old, a native of Badrinath, had met him on more than one occasion. He spoke of him with great reverence and respect. He had driven him once to Gangotri, and later had accompanied him about at Haridwar on a hurried visit from Delhi during the great congregation of the  kawadiyas. [Note = The kawadiyas are known for the great festival in the Uttarakhand Himalayas, when nearly 150,000 pilgrims congregate and carry heavy pitchers of  ganges water from Haridwar-Rishikesh to the pilgrimage towns northwards, with some of them walking all the way to Badrinath. The entire pilgrim route gets crowded with these devout travelers, and is also known as the kawad-yatra.]

The great unknown swami had traveled from Haridwar to Gangotri, alone, in Rakesh's Jeep. He had refused to use the vehicle's a/c, prefering to keep the windows open, and enjoy the air of the high mountains. It seems he had not worn any warm clothes, and had sat in the seat alongside Rakesh, in a very thin cotton kurta and had been lost in his meditation. He had been chanting silently, all along the route, and Rakesh had not been able to make out the words or the mantra, for all the twelve days that they had been together. They had hardly spoken to each other, and it seems, that the great unknown swami had entrusted himself entirely to Rakesh. Even as he spoke about him to me, Rakesh seemed to virtually thrill in his memories of the journey.

There seemed to be some days when the great unknown swami had slipped away from Rakesh's companionship, asking him to wait with his vehicle. They had traveled from Dehradun railway station to Haridwar, and then doubled back to Dehradun, and driven up to Mussoorie. This was sometime in May 1996, Rakesh said. It was quite a long ways back, indeed, more than 15 years ago, as we chatted, me and Rakesh, in April 2012, at a very dangerously perched roadside dhaba, between Rishikesh and Rudraprayag. Most regular travelers know of this dhaba. Its a regular stopping point, a good restaurant, tasty local food, with welcome hot rotis and chai.

No, said Rakesh, to my question, if the great unknown swami had come to Dehradun by train. No, he said, he had not. He had sent him a postcard, 15 paise then, and the most dependable form of communication in those days. It had been a surprise to him, for they did not know each other. The message had been very specific. In clear and precise handwriting, the great unknown swami had introduced himself as a good friend of an earlier pilgrim-traveler from Delhi, Shri Ramanashrayji. The postcard informed Rakesh that the great unknown swami would meet at Dehradun railway station at 05.30 am and he would look for him in the parking lot next to the exit gate of the passenger trains. He would ask for him by name, and the message in the postcard concluded, by saying "you will recognise me, for sure!" ["आप हमें जरूर पेहचानेंगे"], and had been signed in some strange language, and thus, Rakesh did not know his name.

Rakesh knew Shri Ramanashrayji. He was a very rich businessman from Delhi, and spoke Hindi, Punjabi, Haryanvi, Urdu, English and Garhwali extremely well, he remembered. He came each year to Haridwar, stayed for a week, traveled about to Rishikesh and sometimes to Mussoorie, and would insist upon Rakesh's vehicle and his companionship. Rakesh knew that Shri Ramanashrayji had many vehicles, including a yellow coloured, old mercedes, along with other mercedes, in his house at Delhi and in his farm house near Bhindawas in Haryana. He had driven him back to Delhi on many occasions, and twice had been invited to help and participate in family weddings that had him escorting people from Delhi railway station and inter-state bus terminals to Bhindawas. They had treated him well and had seen him off with gifts of new clothes, suitcases, wristwatches and recently, with a new cellphone, in 2010. But, again, in answer to my question, No... the great unknown swami had never attended any of these functions and had never been seen at Shri Ramanashrayji's house in Delhi. It was only that one occasion in May 1996, that there had been that one brief mention, by way of introduction, that he knew the businessman, and he had been told of a dependable taxi driver at Haridwar, and that he needed his help.

The Dehradun railway station, from some years ago

Rakesh had waited it out at Dehradun railway station in the early hours of that day in May 1996. He had a Mahindra MM540 jeep with him during those years. It was not a strange request for him, because most pilgrims spread the good word to their friends, and he would regularly receive postcards of impending travel and specific meeting points. The strange part of this message was that the first trains would start coming in at 06.30 am, and the request was for Rakesh to be at the railway station by 05.30 am. It could have been a mistake, he thought, but no... it was not. At exactly 05.15 am, he saw a white contessa, the long ambassador car, come in with Delhi plates, driven smoothly right up to the parking lot of Dehradun railway station. There was nothing hectic about it, and the driver sat inside the car and did not step out. There was only one passenger, sitting in the front seat, alongside the driver. The passenger got out, opened the rear door, and took out a rexine suitcase and a green-canvas holdall, easily by himself. Immediately, the contessa drove off, straight out of the tree-lined parking lot.

The gentleman who had alighted, adjusted his rexine suitcase and the green-canvas holdall, set them down, pulled out a visibly much-used stout walking stick from the folds of the holdall, and looked around at the car parking lot next to the exit point from the railway station. In those years, as Rakesh told me, there were quite a number of jeeps, including MM540 jeeps, serving as taxis at Dehradun on the pilgrim route. But, to this day, Rakesh said, thinking back, he gets a chill, as he remembers, how the gentleman looked straight at him, through the front glass, picked up his suitcase and holdall, and walked straight up to the passenger-side window and said, "Rakeshji? I wrote to you, with reference to Shri Ramanashrayji from Delhi." He had been stunned with surprise, but had not given it much thought on that day, dismissing it to chance and luck. But now, after these many years, and having known so much more about him, and having traveled with him, Rakesh refers to the incident of that day with great respect.

He must have driven through the night from Delhi and got a vehicle to drop him off at the railway station. He opened the rear door of the jeep and personally placed his suitcase and holdall on the seat. From yet another fold of the holdall, the great unknown swami pulled out a cotton shoulder bag, a 'jhola' as we would all call it, and asked Rakesh to hang on, while he went inside the railway station to visit the restroom and return. Rakesh sat quietly in his driver's seat, he remembers, wondering as to what was all this about, and who this gentleman was, for he did not know his name until then. He only knew him as Shri Ramanashrayji's friend. Was he also from Delhi? He did not know. After a while, he saw the gentleman come out of the railway station, and walk up to the newspaper agent, who had started sorting out the morning newspapers for sale in the platform's book stalls and the shop outside. The gentleman bought a rather thick bunch of newspapers and walked amiably in a gentle gait to the small dhaba near the parking lot. He turned and waved at Rakesh, asking him to drive up to the eating place.

Rakesh drove up to the dhaba, and by then, the gentleman had sat himself on a rather extremely dirty bench, and seemed to be happily eating fresh hot samosas and jalebis, and gulping down a large glass of chai. He waved for him to park the jeep and join him. Rakesh went inside and found himself hesitating to sit on the dirty bench. The stench of the heavily burnt oil was remarkable, he said to me, even after fifteen years, but the memory was printed forever. He would never have decided to eat at this place, though he had been bringing in his taxi for ever inside the Dehradun parking lot. The eating places in the city were only too close by and the food was also quite tastier. He had always come from his home, after having eaten to his fill, and had never wantonly chosen to eat at this shanty. But, the gentleman was visibly happy and ate to his content, and asked the shanty-owner to pack up a fresh batch of pakoras with salted and fried green chillies. Rakesh had politely decline to eat, and had only agreed to chai.

They had started out from the parking lot, and as Rakesh told me, he had not known about what was the day's schedule. The gentleman sat peacefully, as they drove into the city, and came up to the clock tower. At that point, he had said that they would have to drive up to Mussoorie. The drive had been peaceful, and the early morning breeze was quite bracing but the gentleman did not roll up the windows. He was happy at the breeze, and sat silently, with his walking stick with him. He held on to the walking stick with both his hands, in bliss. They had started climbing up towards Mussoorie, when the gentleman stopped Rakesh, and said that he had changed his mind, and he would rather go to Haridwar, for he wanted to see the Ganges for some time. There was still time to go up to Mussoorie, and he could go later. Unmindful of the sudden change, Rakesh turned the vehicle and drove towards Haridwar. Again, the journey was completed in silence and they came up to the banks of the Ganges opposite Har-ki-pauri ghat.

In those years, as Rakesh told me, the Har-ki-pauri ghat was a pleasant place. Less crowded, and easy to get to. Nowadays, the vehicle parking areas were quite a distance from the ghat areas, but fifteen years ago, it was quite easy to park right up to the sandy banks, near some eating places, and pay them to take care of the vehicles. You had to also promise them that you would return and have food with them, sometimes, if you were in a big group. They would not bother if there were only two persons in a vehicle. Rakesh knew the owners of a eating place, right opposite the ghat, and they were acquainted for many years, he told me. Those eating places were no longer to be found at those locations, having been forced to move and relocate beyond the parking areas. The gentleman had taken only his jhola with him, and asked Rakesh if he would want to go with him. Curious, he had agreed, and walked behind the gentleman, quietly, in the cool sands alongside the river, towards the bridge nearest to the ghat.

Har-ki-pauri ghat at Haridwar (a circa 1996 photograph)

They crossed over the bridge and walked up the stone-paved pathway to the main bathing ghat near the Har-ki-pauri temple. The gentleman climbed up to the circular porch to the temple of Bhagirath and Ganga, offered his prayers and returned in a while to Rakesh, who had waited by himself, near the shanties that were selling plastic jerry-cans to take the river water back from the pilgrimage. There were barbers who would tonsure your head for a small payment, it used to be just two rupees during those years, he said, and there were priests who could haggle forever to conduct prayers for forefathers and other family members who had passed on to other worlds. For a better payment, the priests could also confide about the rebirth of the forefathers, and could also pass on the correct address and location and date of birth of the reborn persons. The gentleman came up to Rakesh and stood silently, watching the entire panorama that was opening up, as the sun went up above the Ganges. This was India, veritably.

Two naga sadhus were bathing at the ghats, and a group of pilgrims were watching them reverentially from a distance. They feared them, and the ladies in the group, veiled, were giggling quietly to themselves, and continued to watch  the sadhus, with seemingly open insolence. The men were watching with awe, for the two sadhus were quite a sight. More than six feet in height, well built, with 7-8 feet of matted dark black hair, dressed only in loincloth, and braving the early morning icy cold waters of the Ganges, inspite of the sheer speed and strength of the river. There were no safety chains or barriers during those years, except for locals who would shout out at the pilgrims and warn them against being adventurous. There were other timid bathers, cautious, and they would sit at the top steps while their feet would be in the fast moving waters, and they used small containers to pour the waters over themselves. A group of pilgrims would hold on to one who would brave the waters and they would pull together to heave the pilgrim back from the river.



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The gentleman went up to one of the shanties to read a display board, and Rakesh tells me, with that moment, his life changed forever. It was so surreal, and he cannot explain it properly, to this day. He can remember that exact moment now, and knows that it must have have been that very moment. The display board was to show off the prices for doing the memorial prayers, shraadh, for one's forefathers, and there were different types of prayers that could be offered. The gentleman read the display board with great attention, and this held Rakesh's curiousity. For, he had assumed that anyone who would visit Haridwar, and especially Har-ki-pauri would have known all about it. There was another display board alongside the one offering memorial prayers for one's forefathers, and this one offered various prices for conducting memorial prayers for oneself, while alive!

He read the second display board again and again and stood there, quiet, in thought. Surprisingly, the horde of priests who would have thronged and pushed and pulled at a potential prayer-pilgrim did not disturb the gentleman. It must have been his look, Rakesh thought, for he looked quite a bit like an all-knowing, veteran Himalayan pilgrim. White qurta, clean shaven, long black hair flowing up to his shoulders, khakhi cotton trousers, chocolate-brown sandals, stout walking stick, cotton jhola and the round-framed gold-metal glasses. He was unlike the pilgrim groups or the family groups. Alone, he stood out, confidently looking around, without any hesitation, as a first-time pilgrim would do. The priests must have also seen Rakesh standing there, alongside him, a bit 2-3 steps behind, and would have recognised him as a street-smart local guy from Dehradun or Haridwar. So, they waited their time.

The nearest priest, an elderly white-bearded person, had approached the gentleman with caution and respect, Rakesh recollected. He seemed to be the priest who owned this particular shanty, and his name was written up on the display board. Rakesh remembered him only as "ghat-wale bade panditji" (= the elderly pandit from the ghats), but let's name him only as the 'elderly priest' for now. The elderly priest mumbled something to the gentleman, and there was some reply. Rakesh had got curious, and so he moved in closer, and what he heard surprised him tremendously. The gentleman had asked the elderly priest, "How do you do a memorial prayer for someone who is alive, such as me, if I want to be sure that the prayers would be of no use to me in the near future. I plan to stay alive for a long long time, and have no wish to die. But who knows what may happen at any time? I am a yatri (= traveler), and who knows what is my naseeb (= fate). Will I have to come here, again, year after year, to renew my memorial prayers?"

The elderly priest replied, "No, janaab (= Sir), you do not have to do that year after year. Of course, you are welcome to do so, but this prayer is mainly for those elderly persons who feel that they may not get a decent burial or cremation when they are dead, or that their children may not come here to Haridwar and do a proper memorial prayer. Some fear that their children may actually discard them or throw them out of their houses. For some, they may have no family. And for some, who come here as elderly couples, husband and wives, having lived together for so many long long years, they come to be assured that their memorial prayers would have been recited together, and that they would be together, in their after lives, once again, reunited." The gentleman seemed to be thoroughly moved by the explanation. He asked, again, "But, which slokas and which mantras do you use? Do you use the same ones that are meant for those who have passed away? Is that appropriate?"

"Yes. We do recite the same prayers, even for those who are alive" the elderly priest replied, "It's their insistence. They want to hear that very group of slokas and mantras. Most people who come to us and ask us to conduct their memorial prayers, they know what they want. They are familiar with the slokas and mantras. Some do not, but they have faith in us. People see us as thugs, and thieves, as those who would cheat the pilgrims who come to Haridwar. We see the pilgrims with tremendous burden. They carry all their lives burdens with them when they come to Har-ki-pauri. They want to leave all this burden here, for the mother river to carry away with her. Who is more understanding than mother Ganga? She must have carried away the burden of so many hundreds of thousands of pilgrims who travel all the way to her banks. She must have done so for thousands and thousands of years."

The gentleman was totally moved by the information. Rakesh could realise, looking at his emotions. A priest from another shanty came by with two plastic chairs, and arranged them in the shade between a bunch of shanties. The gentleman and the elderly priest sat on the chairs, in the shade. Another priest came up and presented a glass of drinking water to the gentleman, who took it gratefully and began drinking unhesitatingly, unlike most pilgrims who carried their own bottled water. To this day, Rakesh is unable to forget those moments, he tells me, for he saw a small and quiet and respectful crowd gather together. They had no eyes on Rakesh. A small group of shopkeepers, the custodians of the slippers and shoes at the Har-ki-pauri temple, and the priests came together, and seemed quite reverential to the gentleman. At that moment, Rakesh realised, this elderly gentleman was no ordinary person. He seemed to glow, and seemed to be like a magnet. People heard him out quietly, and responded to him. People who would usually never speak for more than a sentence to passing pilgrims had left aside their work in this most impossible of locations in the world for such a gathering to happen, so impromptly. They had gathered to hear about what happened at Har-ki-pauri on a daily basis, and yet, they seemed to want to listen.

The elderly priest said it first, and since then, for Rakesh, the name struck to his heart and memories. The elderly priest said, "We feel the pain, Swamiji" [and for Rakesh, it seemed the most appropriate to call the gentleman as Swamiji]. The priest continued, "It pains us sometimes, when they tell us their stories, and they are parents who have loved their children. One elderly man, had come up from Mumbai, he was more than eighty years old, and he said that he wanted his memorial prayers to be completed, as though he had already passed away. I tried to correct him, and tried to pacify him. He was a highly educated person, and had been a senior officer in the Government of India. But, he was so disappointed in life, that I felt miserable for weeks after that. His elderly daughter and son-in-law had deserted him and gone away to a good and comfortable life in Australia, suddenly. One fine day, they had told him that they were leaving, and had taken away the 2-3 year old grandchildren. They must have planned it for months, but they burst it on him on one day, suddenly. It had crushed him. He came here and told me that he had died that day. He had loved his daughter and had brought her up with tremendous love and affection and had got her married and had spent all his pension money and gratuity and what not. But now, he was sure that he was dead, and he wanted us to do his memorial prayers for him."

One shopkeeper got into the conversation, and nobody objected, including the elderly priest, "O swamiji, we see the worst of our people, and we see the most devout, and most faithful. Everyone, one and all, have to come here. This place, Har-ki-pauri, is the best keeper of secrets and the most blessed place of all. Ganga-mata (= Mother Ganga) has always been the most kind to everyone who thinks of her. I sell brass and copper pots of ganga water, and I also sell the plastic cans for people to take the water back home. Does that mean that their families are better and their lives become instantly all-ok back there?" The unknown swami smiled, and spoke, and everyone listened quietly, including the elderly priest, "No, my brother. It does not happen that way. But, it is the unquestioning faith. Why does the pilgrim come here? Faith. Why am I here? Faith. I search for that strength in other brothers and sisters, in mothers and fathers. You, who are all here at Har-ki-pauri, are here for the same strength in human beings, and that is faith."

"I know of a shopkeeper like you, way down in South India, selling sea conches, shells and plastic bead necklaces in the beach at Dhanushkodi, near Rameshwaram. There is nothing there. Only poverty. He makes about ten rupees profit every day, and goes home to take care of his family. I met him at Dhanushkodi, in the wind-swept desolate beach that had seen complete destruction by the tsunami many years ago. He had lost many people in his family, and had also lost his wife and children. He had to take care of his aged parents, who had escaped the destruction. He worries there, wanting to bring his parents to Haridwar, because someone has told him that it can only be the Ganga that can carry away his sorrow. I think of him and cry for my country. I think of him and cry for his family."

"He is at Rameshwaram, and more particularly, he is at Dhanushkodi, where Lord Rama himself had passed by, enroute to Lanka, to fight Ravana," the unknown swami continued, "He is at one of the most sacred places. There are more than sixty sacred water springs in that location that Rama, Lakshmana and Hanuman had discovered, while camping at the island, and while constructing the sea-bridge to cross over into Lanka, more than 4000 years ago. That shopkeeper is not content, to be in such a sacred place. He is eager to come to Haridwar. For him, the journey is important. The more difficult the journey, the more impossible the journey, the stronger the faith. For him, you are not a brother shopkeeper. You are the custodian of the River Ganga. You are the custodian of his faith, of the kind mother of his faith."

All the priests and shopkeepers assembled in that small group nodded in agreement with the unknown swami. They could understand the perspective. They had hardly traveled, except to conduct prayers and ceremonies for families who had known them for several years, and their forefathers had known each other. So, some family would come and request them, or send a postcard, assuring them that all their expenses would be met with, and they would travel to remote parts of India, carrying Mother Ganga with them for consecrating the prayers. The elderly priest spoke, "O pujya swamiji, you seem to have traveled all over this country of ours. I feel like I have seen you before, and I get this feeling that I have known you for many years before this meeting. Are you on any particular journey now? Are you traveling? How come that you are here at Haridwar today? I trust that I have not offended you by these questions, for I feel that there is much that we can learn from you."

The unknown swami smiled. Instantly, as Rakesh tells me, all those present at the gathering, smiled back genuinely. They seemed to be visibly happy in their positions, in listening to him and talking to him. It had barely been about ten minutes, and yet, the aura of the unknown swami seemed to hold them all in thrall. It was almost magical. The unknown swami said, "No. Not at all, panditji, not at all. I am not offended at all. But I am afraid that I do not have any answers. I am not on any particular journey. I have to go to Mussoorie to attend a conference at a government institute and later I am going to Gangotri. I hope I can, and that the roads would be open and clear. I am keen to get up into the higher Himalayas as soon as I can, but Haridwar and Har-ki-pauri have their own special appeal for me. The gentle pace of mother Ganga at Haridwar is as beautiful as her flow in tremendous energy at Gangotri. Both aspects are equally magical for me. I search for these images to capture in my memory, every single day, wherever I am."

"You are among the most blessed in all, of this land of ours," the unknown swami continued, "for you are forever to live here, do your service to all others who come from so many different places. It is unto you to help your fellow brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers and grandparents to cast off their burdens. Everyone who comes here, expects mother Ganga to help them out and show the way forward in their lives. Even those who may blame their children, must truly be praying for more blessings for them. I am indeed fortunate to be able to talk to you all. I will come back from Gangotri, and will meet you again, O panditji, and I want to participate in the memorial prayers for myself. Perhaps, mother Ganga will take away all my burdens and cleanse me, of all the wrongs that I have done. I would then look forwad to my new life, as one who has been born again, with a blank slate. I must be going now, my friends."

Everyone stood up and gathered around the unknown swami and jostled gently to shake his hands. Two shopkeepers bent low to touch the unknown swami's feet and were pulled up with affection, with the words, "No, no. I am not anyone special. Please do not do that. i am just a traveler." The elderly priest smiled and said, "The travler is always the king, swamiji. It is unto us to decide whom we want to respect and my brothers here are happy to have met you. The world comes here, and during the kumbh mela, we are sent away during the shahi snan (= the royal bathing - of thousands of sadhus and pilgrims at the river). We have seen hundreds of the most important sadhus. But none among them has ever sat with us to know from us. You have, in these very few minutes, given us an understanding of our place in the world. We are indeed grateful. Do return here, when you return from Gangotri."

The unknown swami took his leave from the shopkeepers and priests at the shanties along the bathing ghats of Har-ki-pauri. Rakesh was alongside him, in silence, as they walked back through the many other vendors who had set up shop by now along the river. They crossed the river and returned to the jeep and got back on the road to Dehradun. There was no conversation between them, but to this day, Rakesh says, he never felt that he needed to talk to the unknown swami. He told me, fifteen years later, that it was those periods of silence that was more delightful and more satisfying. He felt happy, content and most importantly, as he told me, he felt that he was an important driver, for this stranger, this very pleasant gentleman, this unknown swami, made him feel needed. He felt chosen, for indeed it had been thus, that he had been chosen by someone to be the driver for this great person.

From Har-ki-pauri, Haridwar to Mussoorie

Rakesh got back to the road, climbing steadily towards Mussoorie. It was nearly noon by now, and the unknown swami kept eating the morning pakoras he had bought at the Dehradun railway station. There were many sights to see along the road but the unknown swami had no intention of stopping anywhere. He seemed to know the road well, and must have come by on the route on a number of earlier occasions. Rakesh knew hte road thoroughly, with all its good and bad patches and he knew that he could drive through even at night without any trouble. As they neared the Mall road, the unknown swami informed Rakesh that he would like ot have some lunch first, at any easy-to-park roadside small-time dhaba-like eating place before he could be dropped at the government institute. He wanted to eat local cuisine only and nothing else.

He did not seem to need any discussion. Each point of instruction was conveyed to Rakesh in a very soft spoken voice, gently, with deliberation, and with emphasis on the full-stop, as though conveying that there was to be no other option. They drove above the mall road area and beyond the administration academy towards Kempty road. Within the city roads on the valley facing outwards to Kempty, Rakesh stopped at a small roadside eating house. There were quite a number of patrons, mostly rickshaw drivers, local vendors and villagers from nearby valleys. There seemed to be only one standard menu, lauki-chana (= bottle-gourd and lentil-grams), vegetable curry, dal (= lentil soup), parathas or aloo-parathas and rice. There was a distinct absence of any menu card, and the wash basin was remarkably dirty and filled with soap scum and used cut-lemon slices littered within. For Rakesh, who was a true native from Badrinath, and closely associated with the temple, being a Dingri, it was almost taboo to be dirty or to eat at a place that was not cleaned efficiently.

The unknown swami did not seem to notice anything wrong with anything at the eating place. He went inside, in his clean white qurta and walking stick and picked up a dirty large plastic water-jar from one of the tables. He came out of the hotel on to the road with the plastic water-jar and washed his hands on the roadside, and returned to the tables inside. He did not ask anyone, and nobody seemed to mind. There was a pile of old newspapers near some snacks-shelves and from among that, he pulled out a couple of sheets and used them to wipe the dirty benches and table. Having done so, he sat calmly and allowed for Rakesh to join him at the same table by an inviting gesture. He had chosen a spot nearer to the cooking area, and instructed the cook directly to serve vegetables, parathas and rice with dal. The lunch was completed in dignified silence, and yet Rakesh felt extremely at unease, as he could feel the eyes and curious glances of everyone at the eating place. The impeccable demeanour of the unknown swami was entirely out of sync and the curiousity levels were high. But, this was a town that was used to the movement of all sorts of persons, tourists, visitors, officers, businessmen, godmen and sadhus, one and all, and they were only intent on placing this stranger within a label of sorts.

Again, it happened all so suddenly. Rakesh was quite startled to watch it unravel in that nondescript eating place, along the roadside in Mussoorie. It seemed so strange at the beginning, and then, as it happened, Rakesh was drawn into it, and did not seem to be away from the incident, and thus, remembered it word by word, enough to tell the story to me, fifteen years later. A man on the neighbouring table engrossed in his eating, quite loudly it seems, was blissfully carrying on by himself. The unknown swami was happy watching him, enjoying his peace and content manner of eating and was smiling in the happiness that the sight had invoked. At one moment, the man looked up and saw this gentleman smiling at him, a very gentle but happy smile, and was startled. He continued with his eating, but kept looking up at the unknown swami who had looked away by then, because he realised that he had disturbed the happy man from his pleasure. After a while, the happy man was distinctly unhappy or morose, and disturbed, and kept watching the stranger-gentleman intently. Finally, the unknown swami looked back at him, with affection and a human bonding spirit, and smiled at the happy man. That smile seemed to break everything loose at that instant.

The happy man had finished eating by then. He walked up to the dirty wash basin, washed his hands and mouth, and wiped them off on his shirt and trousers, and came back to the unknown swami's bench. He sat across at the same table alongside Rakesh, whom he had not seen at all, it seemed. The unknown swami smiled again at the happy man, who seemed gently perturbed. The happy man spoke, "Janaab (= Sir), can I ask you something? I feel I know you from somewhere. I think I know you from a long long time ago, but I am not able to remember. I feel that you are part of something that happened in my life, many years ago. But, seeing you today, here, and seeing you in Mussoorie, is a surprise for me. I can feel my heart racing and my eyes are blurring with tears. My throat is very heavy and I am not able to speak, for my mind tells me that I am supposed to be extremely happy that I see you now. Do you remember me?"

The unknown swami had begun eating by then, and did not answer immediately. He smiled again at the happy man and patted the man's hands that were on the table. He did it so gently, with his left hand, in a very affectionate gesture, slowly and softly, and yet, even Rakesh could feel a pleasant vibration. A bond, a message that seemed to flow from the unknown swami to the happy man. He asked, "My friend, I do not remember rightaway, but yes, I do feel that we know each other. You seem troubled, my brother. You look happy, and yet you seem troubled. What is it? Even if we do not know each other, can I help you? Do let me know." At the touch, with the feel of affection, and from what the unknown swami spoke, the happy man became all that more agitated. He grabbed the unknown swami's left hand with both his palms and sat there, silently, not saying anything. His mind seemed to agitate terribly, and his emotions had made him speechless. He kept looking at the unknown swami's eyes and sat there silently. The unknown swami did not seem to mind, and continued to eat slowly. Rakesh could feel the eyes of everyone in the eating place on them, and wondered as to what was to happen next.

Others who had eaten, and had washed their hands, had come to sit around them, not wanting to go out of the eating place. The owner had come out from behind the counter, and sat on the table where the happy man had sat down to eat. He looked at the unknown swami with growing awe. Two groups of tourists were blissfully going at their lunch in a farther corner. They had not noticed anything developing. They would soon, Rakesh thought, when they would find the cook being busy with not cooking anything at the moment. For he was also watching this situation with the unknown swami. The happy man managed to control himself after a while, and poured himself a glass of water and had it, gulping it down rapidly. He spoke, "Janaab, I know you from some years ago. You had come to our town. I am from Karnaprayag, and I used to run a chemist shop at the chowk. I remember now. You were in search of some ancient temple and were passing through. My parents were also in the shop on that rainy night. I remember you now."

The unknown swami showed visible pleasure, and replied, "Oh yes. I remember you too. You have changed a lot. You were a young schoolboy then, helping your parents at the chemist shop at night. You look like your father a lot. I remember your father well. We stayed in touch for 2-3 years later, and I met him twice again. We spoke a lot, your parents and me. You sat quietly in that first visit, but I remember you. How did you recognise me? Must be my dress. I have not changed at all for many years, I think. Isn't that correct? But, you look so sad, my young friend. What is wrong? What is troubling you, so much? Is everything all-ok with you at Karnaprayag? Are your parents well? What are you doing here, in Mussoorie?"

The happy man replied, "No, not at all, Babuji, nothing is ok with me. My parents are dead, having been swept off in a crowded taxi-jeep, in a landslide in heavy rain, south of Karnaprayag, on the road where you used to travel. Nobody found their bodies. Twelve people died in that landslide, but they could find only two bodies and parts of the jeep. Everything had been smashed in that thunderous river and the landslide. People stopped looking, and I keep going there, again and again, each year, for the past four years. I have been hunting and meeting government officers without end. I am not alone, Babuji, there are many people like me, every year, in these mountains. You, and others, come to these mountains for the gods and for the temples and for finding peace and magic. For us, these mountains are the burial valleys for our fathers and mothers, for our families, for many hundreds who die in each monsoon."

The other people in the eating place nodded in agreement. The tourists were eating unmindfully, talking in loud tones. The shopkeeper looked back at them in irritation, and turned to the unknown swami and the happy man, and said, "He is correct, Babuji, everyone comes here, expecting the Himalayas to be like a beautiful photograph all the time. There are people who curse everyone, including the local people, if there is a landslide, or if there is a delay, or even if there is heavy rain. Once, I heard a family that came to eat here, they had just returned from the Kempty waterfalls, and they were complaining about it all the time that they were eating. Their problem was that they could not take proper photographs because the waterfall was too tall for their cameras. So, they blamed Kempty and Mussoorie. We lose so many people from the mountains each year. I know this boy, he looks so old now. He is not an old man. He is a very young boy. He looks too old mainly because of his problems."

A possible tonga (= horse-cart) driver, obvious by his dress, or possibly someone who had been managing kachchars (= mules that were employed for carrying stuff), came to sit alongside the shopkeeper. He had purposefully - he made quite a show of it - shut off his chillum (= smoking pipe) outside the eating place, and packed the entire thing into a cloth bag, and had come to stand inside while listening to the happy man talk about his situation. The tonga driver, sitting alongside the shopkeeper now, spoke, "No, Pandey Master, not everyone complain when they come here. There are those who come regularly, even if there were problems in their previous trips. O Babuji, I knew this young boy's parents. They would come regularly from Karnaprayag to pick up medicines, and I would load them on to the buses. I knew them from many years. His mother did not know English, and she did not know anything about the medicines, but she learnt everything only after her marriage. She could talk for 2-3 minutes in English, and read and write postcards. Their death made us all feel very sad."

The unknown swami had completed eating his lunch. He did not seem to eat visibly, except that Rakesh noticed suddenly that his plate was empty, and he had just washed his hands by standing up from the table, and leaning out of the eating place, across a counter, and had used the dirty big plastic water jar again. Everyone had gone to the washing basin, and here he was, this decent gentleman, who did not mind doing stuff that others did not do at that place. He had sat back at his bench, smoothly, within a few seconds, and nobody seemed to notice, and nobody objected to him washing his hands off and across the counter, and on to the road. Everyone seemed to accept it as THE behaviour of the place. Amazing, thought Rakesh, who had also completed his lunch, but went up to the wash basin to wash his hands and rinse his mouth. He came back to the table and sat down, wondering what was going to happen next.

The unknown swami took the happy man's palms in his own, and spoke pleasantly, in a soft voice, but one that could be heard by everyone nearby, "I am very very sad, my young friend, extremely sad. I knew your parents, and I have their postcards, written by them, asking me for introductions and contacts to marketing people and other things. I have also written to them on many occasions. I did wonder about the silence for the past 3-4 years, but I have not come up to Karnaprayag recently. I was traveling elsewhere. They were absolute diamonds, your parents, absolute diamonds. I know your shop from even before you met me on that rainy night. I would not be alive, if it were not for your father, nearly fifteen years ago. I had a very bad stomach upset, eating at the Karnaprayag chowk, and drinking the water from a serai there. In those days, there used to be a serai, if you would go past the chowk, southwards. This was for the caravans coming up to Kedarnathji and Badrinathji. Your father saved me that day when I could not even talk or describe or explain it to him."

That sort of news sharing brought everyone closer to the unknown swami and the happy man. They came to sit around the table, and the cook and his helper stopped their work and also sat down. The group of pilgrims at the corner had just stopped waiting for their rotis and dal and had decided to stop their lunch. They had been given a bunch of cola drinks and they were sitting it out. It had started drizzling outside the eating place and this brought in more people inside. They saw this group of people sitting around the unknown swami and they realised that something was happening. And, they decided to sit and listen. The happy man was crying, happily it seemed, and he was holding on to the unknown swami's hands, and was listening carefully. A grown up man crying did not seem to be a strange sight to these people, thought Rakesh. Maybe they were all just too emotional.

The unknown swami continued, "I had had a very bad stomach upset and the medicines that I had with me were not helpful. I had gone to your father's shop and it was late at night. They were about to close the shop, and it was raining. Not drizzling like it is now, but it was raining heavily on that night. The pilgrim traffic had stopped because of land slides on many locations. There were no dumpers or bull dozers in Karnaprayag. The vehicles were being used in other places. The pilgrims had come to stay overnight and it had continued for more than 2-3 nights. I had been staying at a local lodge for two nights and did not know how many more days I would be staying there. Your father had one look at me, and realised my problem. There must have been many patients from the eating places in Karnaprayag, I think. He gave me a tablet without asking me anything, and a glass of water from a special bottle he kept with me, boiled and filtered I think, and asked me to sit in the shop to wait out the rain."

"During the time that I sat with him, at the shop, your mother kept taking care of the accounts and talking to the local villagers who kept coming for medicines." he continued, "They were also stuck at Karnaprayag like I was, and were not able to return to the villages. They knew your mother, and called to her by name, and each one called by a relation, like, aunty, sister, mother, daughter or cousin, and some called her by respect, and some even called her as 'doctor'... for them, she indeed was, a doctor. She would give them medicines and would also discuss their problems with them. For some, it was medicines that they had to carry back with them to the villages, and they did not know the names of the medicines that they had purchased during their previous visits. She had a notebook for everyone, and she kept them in an open cardboard box, and would pull them out and refer to the pages, and would ask about the patient. For them, she was a god, really."

The happy man seemed content, finally. He replied, "Babuji, I remember the way she was able to be in touch with everyone. I find it so difficult to be as good as my parents. They were two people in a tiny small medicine shop in a small small small town, if you compare it with Mussoorie, Dehradun or Delhi. There were about five more medicine shops in those years, and they were all good at their work. Now, there are more than twenty medicine shops in Karnaprayag alone, and more in Rudraprayag. I keep trying but I am not good enough. There are people who are good and there are people who are very bad. Today's world is about family, and you should never give up on family. What if I am not ready? I keep going back to the landslide location to search for my parents. I hope that someday, magically, they will come back, and tell me that they had just gone on a pilgrimage. That moment never comes. I see the same sadness in many people who come to our shop and I can see that they are all hoping that my mother would be sitting there, to welcome them, and my father would be there, with his ability to choose the correct medicine."

Rakesh kept hearing the conversation and also kept looking at the people who had gathered. They were listening quietly to this seemingly normal discussion between any two persons. But, they were all silent, and wonderous, attentive and keen. The unknown swami was the same person who had entered the eating place for lunch, and he seemed to have changed as the discussion had continued. It was like a moment that would not have taken place earlier, or if it would happen again. But, they had all been part of it. The discussion seemed to have been out of control, but it had been like an incantation. They did not want to disturb it, and they did not want to rob it off the essence. Nobody wanted to go back to an earlier point in time, and they all wanted to continue within the conversation. They wanted to go with the discussion and wanted to be part of it all. Nobody wanted to be left behind. They did not want to stop this lovely feeling of watching something happen. Of course, we would not know if Rakesh was correct in his thoughts or was just jumbled up like everyone else at that moment, or if he was adding flavour to the situation after fifteen years, but, we will go along with him, for now.

The unknown swami spoke to the happy man again, "I have seen people go mad with their situations. You may go crazy thinking about all that could have happened. Or, you could just have fun with your life. Your parents would have wanted you to be happy. Those villagers out there, around Karnaprayag, they depend on you for their medicines. You are not young and you will not get those days again. You were a different person in those years, and you were a different person when your parents went missing. You are a different person now. You should know that your medicine shop truly works, when it works for the people who come there. They do not come for the trust they have in the medicines, but they come in the trust they had for your mother and father, and they look for you to demand their love and respect. You have to lead with example and with affection. You will be like a colour TV that has taken over a black and white TV. They programmes change every day. You are like that only. Nobody is interested in whether the actors and movie stars are inside the TV box. The people who come to you are only interested in getting their problems solved. Think of the power that god and your parents have given you to help them out. Go and do it, my boy. I will come and meet you when I come to Karnaprayag. God bless you."

They stood up, and Rakesh asked the shopkeeper for allowing them to pay their bill. Again, like at Har-ki-pauri, Rakesh saw that everyone were keen to shake hands with the unknown swami. Again, there were one or two who tried to touch the unknown swami's feet, but were disallowed gently. The happy man seemed very content and hugged the unknown swami. That set off others who also wanted to hug him, and they did so. The unknown swami did not seem to mind any of that affection. He looked at everyone like true friends that he had met and would meet with again. They would come up again, and it would be like a group of friends who would grow up in different places and keep meeting again. Suddenly, it seemed like what do these people understand? Rakesh wondered. Did it matter if they understood anything? They were all just like people he met every day, in all these places, and today, they were different. He would have to save these memories and he would have to watch these images again and again, to know that people can be friends, only if someone listened to them.

They got out of the eating place and got back to the vehicle. The happy man was waving at them, and the unknown swami waved back at him. They drove back to the government institute. The unknown swami had to attend a conference or something that Rakesh did not know anything about. He found a comfortable corner in the parking area for the vehicle and got himself busy making friends with the security guards and the reception desk persons and the housekeeping and cleaning boys. They knew one another, having met sometime, or seen one or the other somewhere. They knew their category or slot at Mussoorie, and recognised Rakesh for being a regular visitor with guests and VIPs coming for various meetings and seminars. The happy swami had given him some money to use for dinner and other expenses. With some negotiation, Rakesh soon found a table at the mess kitchen and got some dinner to eat with the security guards and later sat up late with the kitchen staff watching TV. Everyone went off to sleep on the sofas in the TV lounge and got up early, around five am or thereabouts.

Rakesh saw the unknown swami go about before breakfast and later moving into the seminar halls and going around at lunch and talking to other delegates. After lunch, he came up to Rakesh and told him to be ready to go off towards Dharasu to be on their way to Gangotri. The unknown swami came back at 3 pm and was just about ready to get away from the seminar. They got back on the road, driving out of Mussoorie towards Kempty and onwards. The silence was back, and they had stopped at Kempty for the unknown swami to purchase lots of eatables, cold drinks, fruits and biscuits. He had also purchased a couple of canvas water bags and had them filled up at a dhaba nearby. These canvas water bags were now tied to the radiator in front of the jeep and would get to be chilled and cold when they would want them. After a while, the unknown swami slept off, and Rakesh drove slowly, around Dharasu. It was about past nine pm and they checked in to a lodge at the edge of the town.

The unknown swami asked Rakesh to park the vehicle and come in to sleep in the same room whenever he would be ready. It was indeed quite cold and chilly and Rakesh was quite happy to be able to sleep in a warm room. It was a small lodge, with only about ten rooms but they had a good hot cup of tea and a decent kitchen and a dining room. They served dinner with parathas and a nice hot bowl of mixed vegetables followed by rice with aloo-curry (= potato curry). Dinner was partaken in silence, with two boys serving them silently, almost sullenly. The unknown swami went up to the reception desk and picked up a bunch of newspapers and magazines and went back to the room. He kept reading for beyond midnight while Rakesh slept off immediately. In the morning, by six am, when Rakesh woke up, he saw the unknown swami sitting silently on the open balcony, soaking up the early morning sights, with a cup of hot tea. He must have got up early and got ready without making any sound to disturb Rakesh from his sleep.



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Rakesh went up to the unknown swami and greeted him and stood at the balcony, watching the Bhagirathi river flow by, quietly and peacefully. The entire image looked so very innocent and entirely pleasant. They had not crossed the river from the Highway 94 to Dharasu town, but had taken a room in a lodge that was totally unlike a lodge. Most pilgrim facilities on the char dham yatra (= four great pilgrim places route) were similar, if one looked for the nearest place at night. Moderate prices, good decent rooms, nice food and strong cups of tea and undisturbed view of the rivers. The costlier and better lodges came with all their situations, including crowded parking, large pilgrim groups, sullen room boys who knew that these pilgrims would not give generous tips, and worst of all, insufficient hot water for bathing. The smaller lodges had enough of hot water and one could get better facilities if one would tip the boys properly.

The unknown swami remarked, "Rakeshji, do you see the Bhagirathi? How pleasant it is? Only last month, it was at its most terrifying worst, with floods affecting more than 200,000 people. A friend of mine, an engineer in the roads department, lost his life while trying to erect an emergency bridge. This was the river that even Lord Shiva warned about to Bhagirath. He warned him that we will not be able to control the spate of the river if it decided that it be so. And watch how it goes by innocently today? Who will believe that this was the same river that took nearly fifty lives in the previous month, and all of them near Dharasu? Get ready soon. I will ask for breakfast. We will eat and be on our way to Uttarkashi. I cannot wait to be away from this place though this is so pleasant and the lodge is very good. But we must be on our way again."

They were back on the road, driving up from Dharasu towards Uttarkashi. It could have been a quick ride through, but the Himalayas are always daunting in their challenges. There had been about three landslides in the previous week, and narrow pathways had been gouged out through the sillage. Traffic on either way was stopped and vehicles were being allowed in turns. The almost thirty kilometre route took about three hours, almost like driving in downtown Mumbai, as the unknown swami remarked. Rakesh was used to these delays on the char dham yatra routes and he was realising that the unknown swami was also quite used to the aspect of a slow journey. He did not remark on the delay, and waved pleasantly at the very large and fat policeman who was organising the traffic at one of the landslide points. The policeman also waved back with a pleasant smile. It must have been a terrible day for him, but the contact with the unknown swami always resulted in a smile with most people, as Rakesh saw.

They drove past the Tiloth power plant project. It had just started construction then. The roads were crowded with vehicles moving about for the power plant and there were many tea stalls during those years. The project has been completed only recently and the roads are easier to drive through nowadays. Rakesh wondered if the unknown swami knew about the Bhali underground tunnel that took water from the Bhagirathi River to generate power. The work was almost complete, but the headworks had not been commissioned during those years. The unknown swami seemed to know Rakesh's thoughts and nodded, and pointed vaguely, "Yes. That is a great tunnel. It takes the waters from the Bhagirathi to the Bhali dam out there. I have been there. The Chief Engineer used to be my friend. I have also stayed at the project site." Rakesh was amazed. Those were out-of-bounds areas for even the local taxi drivers. They reached Uttarkashi by noon and had lunch at a rapid drive-by dhaba just after the town. The unknown swami did not seem to be keen on eating at any place within the town.

After lunch, Rakesh decided to stop at the char dham camp site at Maneri, to take a quick siesta. He was tired and exhausted, driving bumper to bumper through the Dharasu to Uttarkashi road, through the land slide points. It had been raining and the road was slushy. The jeep could not be recognised from the outside. At Maneri, Rakesh asked two boys from a local tyre-repair shop to clean and wash the jeep while he took some rest. The unknown swami agreed with him and talked his way into getting a room at the camp site at Maneri. The camp site overlooked a beautiful lake created by damming the Bhagirathi. It seemed like bliss. Rakesh hoped that they could stay for a longer time, but they would have to leave the place to be enroute to Gangotri. He wanted to be at the town by nightfall. It was dangerous driving past Purga and between Harsil and Lanka along the Bhagirathi. Even veteran tourist bus drivers avoided driving that stretch.

The Maneri camp site was not much of a camp site in those years. Nowadays there are well designed and nicely constructed huts that double up as so-called tents. Fifteen years ago, the Maneri camp site was just that. Tin sheds and some tents, and a small cottage for the office. There were private sheds and some tyre repair shops and places for vehicles to be brought in out of the road during heavy rains. Rakesh and the unknown swami found a wierd shed, allotted to them by the office because they wanted to stay for only two hours. The shed had three walls and two cots. The open side had chicken wire mesh nailed to a wooden frame, and it had been tied to the walls of the shed. A old fungoid tarpaulin was hanging over it to prevent the chilly wind from making it uncomfortable. Rakesh slept off peacefully, while the unknown swami had opened out his diary to write some notes. He had promised Rakesh that he would wake him in a couple of hours.

The nap completed, they were back again on the road, with a much cleaner jeep now. The road seemed more open, and it was easy driving through the mofussil towns of Malla, Bhatwari, Raithal and Salang. The unknown swami seemed to know all these places, and he pointed out an eating place somewhere, a temple someplace, a viewing point that could get one a good photograph, if the light was right, and bailey bridges across rivers that were dangerous and also pointed out old bailey bridges that had crashed. Rakesh picked up speed through Sunagar, Gangnani and Rishikund, and finally, around five pm, the road was empty, without oncoming traffic, and they drove fast through Dabram, Sukhi and Jhala, and as he wanted it, he was going through Purga at around six pm. This was good, he thought, and drove cautiously between Harsil and Lanka. This was the dangerous bit, and the unknown swami kept talking about each place, and mentioning some anecdote of a previous journey. These were recounting of small happenings and not enough to make an interesting tale. Perhaps someday, I would be able to travel with the unknown swami in these regions and be able to understand the remarkable aspects of the stories he had told during that drive with Rakesh.

The final drive came through, from Lanka to Bhairavghati and at last, the run to Gaurikund. They seemed to be in time for the night prayers at Gangotri and the unknown swami could perhaps make his way through the smallish looking crowd of devotees and get a good place for himself inside the temple. Rakesh drove into a good spot at the parking lot nearby, and ensured that it would not be an inconvenience to other vehicles. There was no reason to get into an argument or a fight with other drivers at Gangotri. After all, they were brothers in the trade, and would need each other's help, whenever. The unknown swami alighted from the jeep and walked about in the parking lot, and strangely, went up to the traffic policeman on duty nearby. They chatted together for some time, and suddenly, the policeman and the unknown swami turned about and went to the temple. The policeman passed him on to a local policeman on duty, and he in turn escorted the unknown swami with great respect and awe, to within the temple. Wow, thought Rakesh, that was something done very easily. How did he manage that? They must have known him. They seemed to be expecting him here. They had recognised him.