Ramanathan and Mangala embark on a pilgrimage in Kasi, a city rich in spiritual traditions, encountering a humble auto driver who becomes an integral part of their journey. A short story by KS, exclusively for Different Truths.

Kasi, the ancient spiritual haven with a footprint trail going back to millennia has not lost its verve or veneer to the marauding Time.  From the times when muddy lanes were common and the enduring artefact of a glorious civilisation had entrenched itself, the city had seen the search and the struggle to know good and bad, sublime and the ludicrous and high and low.

It still had serpentine lanes which surprisingly led to the least expected discoveries for a visitor. For years Kasi was unpalatable for the sheer squalor and ugly impoverishment associated with the narrow and winding paths that hosted families. Not the least was the stray, sometimes ferocious cattle on the roads that no one wished to challenge.

None cared to take a glance because a pilgrimage to Varanasi seized the besieged minds across the north and as far south. They had to go.  Why, some even had an insurmountable belief that the last breath must exit in Kasi. 

In our times of modern gadgets and communication marvels, where options to travel are so many, a visit to Varanasi is a normal and realisable desire or longing. Unlike the old days where it was an arduous trek of thousands of miles extending over years.

No wonder Tenkasi was an alternative abode of Lord Siva where the peregrine instinct could find its anchor. Of course, there was a history to it.

Ramanathan knew all this when he embarked on a visit to Varanasi.  He too came from a family that posited itself on cherished values of dharma and practiced his core belief with commitment. Even though in his professional niche, his colleagues and friends displayed no such qualities. Rather the motto was to live according to exigent need and never rue the compromises one had to make. Why worry about it at all when you had no wish for a defining identity?

His wife, Mangala, also belonged to an orthodox setting that weighed its practices a notch higher. So, her devotion was no less immaculate. Forget the fact they would be mocked as a relic of the nether world…

For some time, both had regularly hitched on to a travel company that specialized in organizing tours of ancient, nearly archaic temples that dated back over 2000 years with architectural motifs peculiar to the times. Some were 1000 to 1500 years old and oddly enough a few were built into a river basin or even seabed.

“These are marvels, Mangala. Your eyes pop out when you hear about them and widen when you see them. Glad that we found this company, this genial guy who takes us on a comfortable tour. “Mangala was never shy when it came to taking credit or wresting it.

“My office friends told me about him. Ram! You must be obliged to me for working this out for you.”

Ramanathan laughed. He knew it was coming. And he never berated or despised her for doing so. After all, he knew that his office circle of friends either never thought along these lines or if they did had no clue how to go about it.

He responded with a smile.

“Yah…right.  I am suggesting why we do not take up this Varanasi- Gaya tour package on this private railway.  We can last through a seven-day package comfortably. Of course, we will be cooped up on the train except for a couple of days where we spend nights in a hotel. It looks good to me.”

Mangala had an emotional attachment to God, godly things and shrines that owed its stature to times immemorial and revered folklore. 

“Ram!  It was I who mooted this idea to you.  In between fell sick and dwarfed all your optimism in one go by declining to go on any tour. After a week I do feel better but a little scared to dash your hopes again. God! The horrible dysentery left me hopeless, but I feel I can make it this time.” 

As an afterthought, she said, “If I fall sick again, I will refund the entire money to you in a second, I promise.”

Ramanathan knew his wife like the palm of his hand.

“It won’t happen.  Let us book the tickets.  We have only two days to go and this railway has been surprisingly accommodative. I have a hunch their food will be quite good.”

“So do I. I don’t have to cook for a week. That’s a relief.”

They did and glided to Chennai Egmore to catch the private train early morning. And the breakfast was so pliable to their tongue that it was a springboard to tolerate whatever discomforts they could face otherwise.

***

The hotel they checked in at Varanasi was not kosher, but they were on a pilgrimage.  It was slightly chilly with winter approaching and they were happy to have steamed water in the morning. Mangala was upbeat of course after a successful detour of Gaya and Bodh Gaya where they saw the Vishnu Padam.  Mangala went through the rituals for the family’s kin and forefathers while Ramanathan stayed put in the corridor.

He could not help but see the contrast between the two holy towns – the road close to Gaya railway station called Station Road where a string of sweet stalls on either side was silhouetted in the appalling backdrop of unhygienic setting and the traffic-torn though well-kept road network of Varanasi webbed in tidy gullies and lanes. He remembered the rail maintenance staff telling him that Bodh Gaya boasted far better rooms than the one they stayed in Kasi.

Anyway, that was as far as the contrast went. Mangala was stern.

“Ram! We have to get up at 3 am at the earliest to avoid crowding at Kashi Vishwanath, Annapoorni and other temples. We can spend the whole day on it. We also have to visit the ghats, at least the primary ones. We can do it all in three hours at the maximum depending on how it turns out.”

“You have left out Kal Bairava?”

“Of course, it is there. Maybe we can return here for lunch, relax a while, and then leave for Kal Bairava.”

Ramanathan knew it would not go on as programmed and some occurrence of delay could disturb the nine pins.

When they entered the magnificently renovated and reordered Kasi Vishwanath, they could not believe their own eyes. Mangala recalled her friend admitting to her a few years back about her visit to Varanasi and how they had to circumnavigate to find the temple after futile enquiries with the passers-by.

There was gleam and shine and a sequence of order about the cherished corners that they spent quite some time admiring and inhaling the experience. What thundered home the fact was the magnificent use of space for idols and devotees with a retinue of guides to take care of the nitty-gritty.  

They were not aware of the time or the persistent pestering from the auto drivers they had to negotiate before reaching the temple. After visiting the Annapoorni they missed Visalakshi temple because of their habitual mistrust of a local offering to guide them through a shortcut to the temple.  They ignored him and misconstrued that the longer one would be time-consuming.  The idea was shelved then.

Hunger has a way of throwing things overboard.

So, the group of five decided to return to the hotel for breakfast but their plan went awry with the blocking of roads at certain points owing to a procession. And they stayed in different hotels that could not be detected any easier than a needle in a haystack.

“Perhaps we can try at noon for Kal Bairava,” said Mangala to which Prema, 60 plus and a retiree from Nestle where she had worked for some years, agreed.  She occupied the opposite berth to the couple in the coach and was happy to hitch her pilgrimage to them.  Her composure and quiet had been impressive.

It was around 4 pm that they decided to leave again after the prevailing uncertainty, slightly hyped, had kept them indoors. Expectedly they found a pack of auto drivers outside the hotel looking for a fare which led to verbal duels with the hotel staff who did not want a raucous assembly there.

Ramanathan found his shirt sleeve tugged. He turned to find a dark, spectacled guy in his late forties with a well-kempt look and a ready smile.

Soft-spoken and affable.

“Babu! I will take you three to Kal Bairava, the ghats and even Visalakshi. Don’t worry about the fare. You will keep arguing with these guys till the cows come home. Just hop in.”

Ramanathan, who could speak fluent Hindi despite his strong southern roots, found something uncannily engaging about him. He turned to Mangala and Prema.

“Let us go with him…”

His assurance was encouraging enough for the two to shed their apprehensions and get into the auto. They did.

                                                                     ***

Mangala knew no Hindi but was given to easy panic when he stumbled over the pot-bellied gullies at times. He ignored and wriggled through narrow lanes making them wonder whether they were being taken to the nether world.

Suddenly he stopped at a point and asked them to get down and follow him. Dutifully they wondered whether eccentricities had any horizon. They walked a furlong or two through bent alleys until they reached a small shrine with a small pathway in front.

“This is Kal Bairava. See we have reached the spot without a hassle.”

The trio caught their breath when the young priest sitting in front with beads of flowers strung came rushing to them. He didn’t expect the trio to surface by the shortcut.

“We know what you are here for. Be patient for a minute as two VIPs are having darshan. They will leave in two minutes.”

Sure enough, they did though Ramanathan was curious as to who they were but could not place their faces. Top bureaucrats, he guessed. Also, he feared that they could be barred from entering the premises as they had come the easy way.

“Come immediately…get it over.  There is a big queue out there.” said the young priest handing over beads of flowers, The trio got the hint and rushed to the deity. Before they could blink puja was performed, ash was given and were asked to leave the sanctum sanctorum before a heavy rush of people like a blizzard breezed in.

Mangala, fearing a stampede almost fell and recovered leaving a panic-stricken husband on the other side. He got down immediately with their co-passenger Prema before another priest called him to stream certain slokas and tie a black thread on his right wrist. It was all over in a trice.

Ramanathan rushed to find to his relief Mangala safe and brought her to the priest to partake in the ritual.  They found their way back to the main road with some guidance from memory before contacting the auto driver to pick them up.

The trio already had a healthy gush of respect and love for the quiet-spoken auto driver. A delighted Mangala conveyed through her husband that she would be eternally grateful to him.

After all, during their noon detour around nine prominent temples in the town, they never hoped to visit Kal Bairava. Mangala even thought another trip to Kasi was needed to see Visalakshi and Kal Bairava.

                                                                  ***

There is always a dark line when the sky is a spotless blue. It happened.

The genial driver dropped them at the Harishchandra Ghat for leisurely patrolling of the area before taking them to Asis Ghat where Ganga aarti was to take place.

“Bapu! The ghat is 200 meters away from here. I will park on the stretch opposite. When you return you can find me without a hassle. My mobile has lost charge, and I don’t have the charger. Never mind, you will not lose me.”

Ramanathan took it as a matter of course though annoyed that the driver left the charger at home. It was still sunny, about 5.30 pm. He noticed a couple of landmarks where the auto was parked, memorised it and they trooped to the ghat. All were in excellent spirits because the day had gone well, and they had seen almost all the temples in the town. They declined a boat ride on the river hoping for a fleeting glimpse of Ganga Aarti before returning to the hotel by 7.15. They were to return to Chennai that night.

A magnificent view of the captivating aarti began at 7 pm. Excited and in a spell, they watched it for some time unaware of the pervading darkness all around.

“Mangala! Time to leave.”

It was when they walked back with nonchalant confidence that Ramanathan realised he missed the way and the landmarks memorized. He was stunned. Suddenly the road seemed to stretch and stretch. Mangala and Prema, bitten by the travel bug, had not noticed either.

“Ram!  He was so good and affable. I wanted to pay him handsomely. How could we go without paying him when we don’t know where he is?”

Ramanathan tried his mobile with the fond hope that the auto driver could have charged his mobile in some shop. No luck!  the mobile was switched off.

He lost colour. Mangala was right that to return to the hotel without rewarding the auto driver for all that he did in a pilgrimage cause would be unpardonable. Maybe he could G-pay him on return to Chennai provided he had an account. But that was three days away and the painful embarrassment would remain. There was no guarantee that he would come to the hotel to get his fare. Suppose he didn’t? 

Prema was speechless though at one with what Mangala said.

Ramanathan had no hope of finding him in the web of alleys and turns where darkness had obliterated all in his memory.

“Lord Siva! We have come to your abode. Maybe you will show a way.”

Hopelessly they trudged their way back after checking with the passers-by on the route to their hotel. Ramanathan was about to cross the road when from the left he heard a voice….

“Bapu! I am here… I sensed you must have lost the way.” The smiling countenance of the auto driver was such a relief to Ramanathan that he hugged him.

“God! Brother! I lost my way because of my overconfidence.  Darkness made it worse, but I owe it my incontinence.”

The auto driver, composed as ever, took them in the vehicle and on his way back to the hotel said….

“Bapu! There is always a shade of dharm in everything. In your kindness, you would have tried to pay me in some way or the other if you had missed me. I also have to take the blame for leaving the charger at home. But I would have rationalised it in a way that I contributed to your pilgrimage here. Bapu! There is no such thing as a loss.  Money can always be made tomorrow.”

Ramanathan could not miss the grain of moral compass in his riposte. Mangala paid him handsomely on reaching the hotel which he accepted with the same expressionless composure that was his persona. He folded his hands in a Namaste.

On the way back to the room Ramanathan ruminated …over a riddle.

“What was the strange turn of Time that I ran into him in a dark corner, and he too appeared there? Is it a coincidence…Can one explain this?”

Picture design by Anumita Roy

K. S. Subramanian

K.S. Subramanian has published two volumes of poetry titled Ragpickers and Treading on Gnarled Sand through the Writers Workshop, Kolkata, India. His poem ‘Dreams’ won the cash award in Asian Age, a daily published from New Delhi. He has been featured in MuseIndia. His poems and short stories have also appeared in magazines, anthologies and web sites run at home and abroad. He is a retd. Senior Asst. Editor from The Hindu, India.

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