Om Swami - If Truth Be Told: A Monks Memoir

I checked out of my lodge and stepped out onto the crowded street. Spotting a cycle rickshaw, I waved it down.

'Where to?' said the rickshaw driver.

'Ghat.

'Which ghat? There are so many here.'

I wasnt prepared for this. How was I to know there were many ghats in Varanasi?

'Just take me to any ghat.'

'I cant take you to just any ghat, sir. Then you will say this is not where you wanted to go.'

'Alright, name a ghat.'

'Dashashvamedha Ghat.'

'Fine, take me there.'

I hadnt been on a rickshaw since 1995. Back then, fifteen years ago, I was a teenager attracted to, and working towards, materialism. Now, at thirty, I was doing exactly the opposite. The vehicle hadnt changed but the direction had; the person hadn't changed but the priorities had.

I presumed I was headed to a quiet riverside but I couldnt be more wrong. The ghat was crowded beyond description, like an agitated mind crowded with thoughts, like ants gathered on a dead insect.

India was hardly new to me; I had spent the first eighteen years of my life in this country. But, rather naively, I had expected a different India in Varanasi. An old image was locked in my head, an image I hadnt seen but conjured up while reading medieval texts: Kashi by the Ganges, an ancient town full of scholars, saints, tantriks, yogis and other spiritually inclined people.

I roamed about for a while, not knowing where to go. A long time ago, I had heard about Telang Swami, a realized soul who had lived in Kashi more than a century ago. There was supposed to be a monastery at the site of his samadhi. I visualized a quiet monastery by the Ganges, where noble sadhaks sat under the shade of old banyan trees and focused on their sadhana under the guidance of a venerable guru. I enquired, but no one knew anything about the monastery.

I thought of visiting the only other place I'd heard of in this cityManikarnika Ghat, a cremation ground by the river where dead bodies were burnt round the clock. I hoped to meet some tantrik, sitting there and performing esoteric rituals by the burning pyres. I marched back to the main road and stopped another cycle rickshaw. It was nearly noon and the heat was biting me. I tried to tell myself that it was only mid-March, but this intellectual balm failed to soothe my body.

Will you take me to Manikarnika Ghat?

'Yes sir, but I cant go all the way there. I can drop you at the nearest point.'

'How much?'

Rs 20.'

I hopped into the rickshaw, which moved slowly but steadily on the busy road. Several times, the rickshaw driver had to actually get down to manoeuvre it through the crowd. I noticed he was barefoot even though the sun was spewing fire and the road was like a field of burning coalit just exuded heat.

'Why arent you wearing any slippers?'

'They got stolen at the temple the day I bought them.'

'I dont know this area. Please stop by a footwear shop. Id like to get slippers for you.'

Ill manage, brother.'

What is your name?

Mahesh Kumar.

'Dont worry, Mahesh, Ill still give you the money for the ride.'

A little later, I spotted a small shoe shop. Mahesh wasnt keen on stopping, so I practically had to order him to halt. Getting off the rickshaw, I gestured to him to follow me into the shop. He came in after me sheepishly.

'Hello, sir,' the shopkeeper said, and asked me to sit down. I beckoned to Mahesh, who was hovering near the entrance, to join me on the sofa. He did so extremely reluctantly.