‘The Narmada shall rise again..’
The quiet black waters sparkle in the light of a hundred odd diyas. As the boatman takes the patwars, I move into the Narmada – The Reva. The waters lie all but an inch below the side of the boat. I sit absolutely still, lest my motion disturbs the balance of the boat. The Narmada does that to you. The placid waters propel you with an invisible hand. Gently but irresistibly, the Narmada propels you towards her course of life.
The only sounds that one can hear are the splashing of the oars in the water, and the distant echoes of the bells that float down from the Mandir further up. Towering silhouettes flank the Narmada and the night pales away in comparison with the black of the river – black as the Styx.
As I move towards the Mandir, people around me discuss the depth of the river, the velocity of the current and dissect its various aspects. I can only feel an overwhelming and divine yet benign presence. Not as potent, spectacular or brilliant as the Ganga, yet unmistakably divine. The boatman tells us:
‘one’s sins get cleansed just by looking at the Narmada. It would be an insult to Ma Narmada, if we went to wash our sins to the Ganga’.
The chants become louder and the floating candles more numerous.
I feel like a pagan. That is the only way to be. Isn’t nature the only real medium through which one can experience the divine? How can we expect to experience the divine sitting in our man-made ivory towers? Is that why idol worship was eschewed by some religions originally - Because it sought to understand God through the narrower concept of man? Why then have most religions resorted to it in some form or the other? Why limit one’s experience to those viewed from within the confines of this mortal being? Is it not a paradox? One seeks to transcend the barriers created by existence in this form, yet one is not able to or does not want to understand anything that is not first translated into the human form. How can one ascribe human qualities such as anger and jealousy to God (evident in the existence of a vengeful God in popular myths across religions)?
We reach a small mound island with a gleaming deity at the peak. On the bank to my left, I can see a tree etched out against the sky, its image more startlingly clear because of the strange white mist that seems to emanate from it, like a ghostly halo - could also be some uncommon plant growing from it. I try and capture this curious phenomenon on my camera but only succeed in getting a green haze. I prefer to think of it as a bewitched tree and leave it at that.
We think of returning to the guest house, but the boatman will not take us back till we’ve not seen the temple. He will not take no for an answer and we aren’t loth to see it. I move on.
A typical Hindu temple scene.
The Ghats are swarming with people. The temple steps take a dip right into the river. The brightly lit and vibrant temples reverberate with the chimes of bells, chants, ‘artis’ and ‘shankhs’ (conch shells). A lifetime of conditioning prompts my being to respond to these, I do not disappoint it. I can immediately feel the presence of God (or at least the authentic signs of God – a theory derived from the Semiotics of Tourism!).
I have been taught to look out for such signs. As a choir, organ, candles, the loud gong of the big bell would signify God to a Christian, the smaller bells et al. signify God to me. It is difficult to describe that feeling. I cannot say why, but I feel God. I have learnt to look for God in those signs. And I experience all that religion meant me to. Only I’m, not sure whether experiencing these signs of God is the same as experiencing God himself, herself, itself. The pristine black waters had inspired a very different feeling. Yet I cannot in all honesty say that I wasn’t a bit awed by the temples too. In my defence - it as an acquired experience.
A strange spot in the middle of the river. Temples of different Gods all around me on the banks, and right in front, a temple nestling in the very bosom of the river. I go around it. Everyone else is asking for ‘mannats’ in frenzied whispers (‘IIT ki seat maango’!). Busily trying to take in as much as I can, on my camera and mind, I omit to ask for a boon.
Damn (as I think later)! I always have a long list of wishes which I seek piecemeal at different places – mandirs, mazaars, the back of my hand, beneath the bridge with a train passing overhead.
A current catches us. The Narmada warns us not to take its placid disposition at face value. The boatman tells us that the monsoon swells the waters considerably. A slight breeze brings the heady fragrance of fresh flowers and incense to us. A gift?
My more romantic side certainly warms to the idea, my more prosaic side thinks of it as a contrived play on words.
I start back, the journey is faster. Another futile attempt at shooting the enchanted tree. On one side of me people discuss hydraulic pumps, motors, on the other side people sing gustily. My mother prods me to join in. I do.
I sing, yet I listen to the theories on valves being dished out. I try and pull out all that I had learnt at school to make sense of it. My mind is present at both places, yet it isn’t. I keep thinking about something else.
A lurch and I am jerked out of my reverie. The side of the boat had scraped the banks. I climb out gingerly, so as to maintain the balance. The steps leading up to the guest house seem much brighter from below.
Not for long, I know. Once the rains arrive, the Narmada will glide up the steps and try and reach the guest house. Its tide of fortune will rise. It time will come. The Narmada shall rise again.
The quiet black waters sparkle in the light of a hundred odd diyas. As the boatman takes the patwars, I move into the Narmada – The Reva. The waters lie all but an inch below the side of the boat. I sit absolutely still, lest my motion disturbs the balance of the boat. The Narmada does that to you. The placid waters propel you with an invisible hand. Gently but irresistibly, the Narmada propels you towards her course of life.
The only sounds that one can hear are the splashing of the oars in the water, and the distant echoes of the bells that float down from the Mandir further up. Towering silhouettes flank the Narmada and the night pales away in comparison with the black of the river – black as the Styx.
As I move towards the Mandir, people around me discuss the depth of the river, the velocity of the current and dissect its various aspects. I can only feel an overwhelming and divine yet benign presence. Not as potent, spectacular or brilliant as the Ganga, yet unmistakably divine. The boatman tells us:
‘one’s sins get cleansed just by looking at the Narmada. It would be an insult to Ma Narmada, if we went to wash our sins to the Ganga’.
The chants become louder and the floating candles more numerous.
I feel like a pagan. That is the only way to be. Isn’t nature the only real medium through which one can experience the divine? How can we expect to experience the divine sitting in our man-made ivory towers? Is that why idol worship was eschewed by some religions originally - Because it sought to understand God through the narrower concept of man? Why then have most religions resorted to it in some form or the other? Why limit one’s experience to those viewed from within the confines of this mortal being? Is it not a paradox? One seeks to transcend the barriers created by existence in this form, yet one is not able to or does not want to understand anything that is not first translated into the human form. How can one ascribe human qualities such as anger and jealousy to God (evident in the existence of a vengeful God in popular myths across religions)?
We reach a small mound island with a gleaming deity at the peak. On the bank to my left, I can see a tree etched out against the sky, its image more startlingly clear because of the strange white mist that seems to emanate from it, like a ghostly halo - could also be some uncommon plant growing from it. I try and capture this curious phenomenon on my camera but only succeed in getting a green haze. I prefer to think of it as a bewitched tree and leave it at that.
We think of returning to the guest house, but the boatman will not take us back till we’ve not seen the temple. He will not take no for an answer and we aren’t loth to see it. I move on.
A typical Hindu temple scene.
The Ghats are swarming with people. The temple steps take a dip right into the river. The brightly lit and vibrant temples reverberate with the chimes of bells, chants, ‘artis’ and ‘shankhs’ (conch shells). A lifetime of conditioning prompts my being to respond to these, I do not disappoint it. I can immediately feel the presence of God (or at least the authentic signs of God – a theory derived from the Semiotics of Tourism!).
I have been taught to look out for such signs. As a choir, organ, candles, the loud gong of the big bell would signify God to a Christian, the smaller bells et al. signify God to me. It is difficult to describe that feeling. I cannot say why, but I feel God. I have learnt to look for God in those signs. And I experience all that religion meant me to. Only I’m, not sure whether experiencing these signs of God is the same as experiencing God himself, herself, itself. The pristine black waters had inspired a very different feeling. Yet I cannot in all honesty say that I wasn’t a bit awed by the temples too. In my defence - it as an acquired experience.
A strange spot in the middle of the river. Temples of different Gods all around me on the banks, and right in front, a temple nestling in the very bosom of the river. I go around it. Everyone else is asking for ‘mannats’ in frenzied whispers (‘IIT ki seat maango’!). Busily trying to take in as much as I can, on my camera and mind, I omit to ask for a boon.
Damn (as I think later)! I always have a long list of wishes which I seek piecemeal at different places – mandirs, mazaars, the back of my hand, beneath the bridge with a train passing overhead.
A current catches us. The Narmada warns us not to take its placid disposition at face value. The boatman tells us that the monsoon swells the waters considerably. A slight breeze brings the heady fragrance of fresh flowers and incense to us. A gift?
My more romantic side certainly warms to the idea, my more prosaic side thinks of it as a contrived play on words.
I start back, the journey is faster. Another futile attempt at shooting the enchanted tree. On one side of me people discuss hydraulic pumps, motors, on the other side people sing gustily. My mother prods me to join in. I do.
I sing, yet I listen to the theories on valves being dished out. I try and pull out all that I had learnt at school to make sense of it. My mind is present at both places, yet it isn’t. I keep thinking about something else.
A lurch and I am jerked out of my reverie. The side of the boat had scraped the banks. I climb out gingerly, so as to maintain the balance. The steps leading up to the guest house seem much brighter from below.
Not for long, I know. Once the rains arrive, the Narmada will glide up the steps and try and reach the guest house. Its tide of fortune will rise. It time will come. The Narmada shall rise again.
posted by daviejones at 12:57 PM
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