by Ami Bhat
“Liar!” screamed the stranger as he stood up in rage. The winds began to howl, and the calm waves of the river began to rise dangerously. A flash of light blinded the Brahmin, and when his vision cleared, he saw him in his tiger-skin-cloth, matted hair, and the familiar hooded snake around his neck. He trembled and fell to his feet, screaming, “My Lord! Forgive me, my Lord Shiva. I did not know it belonged to you!”
“Thieves like you don’t deserve to be Brahmins. May you and your future generations live the life of the lowest level. You will no longer be respected, and no one will want to touch you. Begone!” thundered Lord Shiva.
“Please, my Lord. Forgive me. Here is the thing that you are looking for. Please don’t punish me for that small moment of weakness. I knew not that this belonged to your beloved. For the love of her, please have mercy on me,” whimpered the cursed Brahmin, handing over the powerful ornament of Sati.
It was the sight of that little piece that softened Lord Shiva. His rage slowly left him with the tears from his eyes. He looked down at the Brahmin and replied, “It is only for my love that I forgive you. While I cannot take back the curse, I can grant you an eternal gift. Take this flame of moksha and keep it burning. As long as your generations keep it aflame, you will have a purpose in life. It is this flame that will free you from this circle of life.”
The Brahmin wiped his eyes and accepted the new turn of fate on the ghat that came to be known as Manikarnika.
1000 BC - Kashi marketplace
“Ten mohurs22.”
“Thirty mohurs.”
“I will give fifty.”
“Anyone offering more than fifty for this fine young man?” asked the auctioneer.
“Seventy-five mohurs,” claimed a pot-bellied landlord. “He will do fine in the fields,” he smirked to his flunkies.
“I hear no bid for more than Seth Hariram’s. Seventy-five…one, seventy-five…”
“A hundred mohurs,” someone shouted from the back. The auctioneer craned to see the new bidder. He did not have to struggle as the crowd parted to let in a dark, burly, bare-chested man wearing a necklace made of skulls. His unkempt, matted hair added to his furtive looks, and his wild darting eyes send out eerie vibes, causing all the marketplace babble to come to a sudden halt.
He came right to the podium and stared into the eyes of the auctioneer. “I will take him for a hundred mohurs.”
“Err…yes, of course,” replied the auctioneer, snapping out of his reverie. He turned to the crowd and said, “Sold for a hundred mohurs to Dom Raja.”
Dom Raja gave his new slave a once-over and pulled out a bag of mohurs to pay for him. He flung it on the ground near the auctioneer and signaled to his slave. “Follow me.” He flung his long, matted hair to one side to reveal a wheel-shaped red birth-scar. Dom Raja turned around and walked away from the market with his new slave in tow.
They walked for quite a distance away from the main town. The chirping of the birds had long died, and all one could hear was an eerie silence. The deathly stillness was broken by the creak of a gate through which the master and slave entered a compound marked by circling vultures. A foul stench rose from the land—a mixture of rotting flesh and burning wood. The slave tried to keep a straight face and followed his new master to the other end of the grounds, only to emerge on a Kashi ghat. The gently flowing Ganga offered some solace to the troubled slave, who stood by the steps while Dom Raja washed his feet.
Once done with his ablutions, Dom Raja walked to the logs of wood by the ghat. He pointed to the largest of the piles and ordered his apprentice, “Get this entire pile cut into pieces fit for a pyre in the next prahar23.” He turned away and walked back into the compound, leaving the slave to begin his new life.
“A hundred mohurs for three-hundred kilos of wood and two-hundred mohurs for the sacred flame. And yes, I need two pots of ghee to purify the departed.”
Dom Raja negotiated with the minister’s family.
“That is a little too much. You did not charge so much for Lala Ji’s mother last month. Why so much for…,” said the man to Dom Raja.
“The price of the eternal flame is nonnegotiable. They just took lesser wood and no ghee,” replied Dom Raja. “Of course, I cannot guarantee moksha if the whole body does not burn. And I cannot stop the vultures and the dogs from eating the remains. It is your call.”
“It was her last wish to be scattered in Ganga,” whispered the younger of the two men to his companion. “We must give her respect.” The older man nodded and turned to Dom Raja. “Fine. Keep the wood ready. We will bring her after her last rites puja.”
The slave watched his master pour ghee over the remains of the body. Clad in a red saree, she looked as if she were sleeping after attending a fine family function. Her golden jewelry, soaked in ghee, glistened brightly in the sun.
I hope she was as happy in her life as she seems in her death, thought the slave as he helped his master cover her body with the freshly cut logs. While he arranged them over the body, the lady’s older son, dressed in white, walked with the priest to complete the puja. Dom Raja signaled to his slave to continue adding the logs as he walked away to a small hut on the ghat.
Moments later, he emerged with the eternal flame. He handed over the burning piece of wood to the oldest son, who had already circled the pyre five times with the water from Ganga in his hands. Slowly, the son lit the last of his mother and stood by the side, watching the flames release her soul.
Once the logs had reduced to ashes, Dom Raja rummaged through the grey remains. He picked up the glistening gold ornaments, and once he was sure none were left, he collected the grey dust in a container. He pocketed the ornaments and handed over the container to the son.
He walked up to the slave and remarked, “That is what you will be doing from this day on. What you collect is your own. And your reward for today…” He handed over a small earring from his pile to the slave.
Weeks passed by, and the apprentice soon became a master. Dom Raja assigned a small section of the neighboring ghats to his ward to conduct cremations on his own. While all the collection was left for the slave, the price negotiation for the eternal flame remained with Dom Raja. No one but him was allowed into the hut of flames.
Cut off from the world, the slave was the only person who stayed with Dom Raja. The burly master did not have any other friends. “How did you get into this business? You make so much money, yet you stay away from the society?” asked the slave. They were sitting by the ghat, watching a pyre burn.
Gazing into the distance, Dom Raja replied, “That is the curse I live with. I have money, but no one wants to touch me. I have wealth but no dignity. My eternal flame gives salvation to the souls, yet it is the very thing that traps me into this existence.”
He turned to the slave and said, “Something tells me that you will be the one to release me. Someday, on your ghat, Harishchandra24, I will find my freedom.”
20th Century - Varanasi Ghats
“Ram Naam Satya Hai, Ram Naam Satya Hai25…” The chanting continued as a small group of men lowered the body at Manikarnika ghat. Weeping women stood a few feet away from the body, while the men coordinated with the old Dom Raja for the logs and the eternal flame.
A little away, a pair of eyes watched the proceedings. He stood respectfully as the oldest son circled the pyre and put fire to the remains of the elderly-man in white. He sat down and watched the orange flames turn into black smoke. Every time flames reduced, one of Dom Raja’s men would come and poke corners with a pole, causing them to rise higher.
The family of the departed had all left but for the son. Once alone, the son looked around and saw the middle-aged man in a white kurta sitting afar, watching the burning pyre. Catching his eye, he raised his hand and beckoned him. The middle-aged man approached him, and the two of them sat together to wait for the pyre to reduce to ashes.
“You should have been the one to light the fire, Suresh bhaiya,” said the son to the kurta-clad
man, who had been watching from afar. “It would have been the right thing to do.”
Suresh turned his tear-stained face and replied, “He might have been my father, but no one ever recognized me as his son. To everyone, I was the offspring born out of lust. While he helped me earn a living by educating me, he could never erase the stigma of being born from the seed of a Dom Raja’s daughter.”
He turned to the smoking pyre and watched Dom Raja’s assistants scour for anything valuable. “Today, I have earned the respect by being an educated businessman, but society has still not accepted me as their own. I have millions, yet I crave for that recognition.”
He turned to his companion, his hands folded in a plea. “Shankar, you have never had any qualms about accepting me as your own. And with that, I am content. My only wish that you can help me fulfill is when I leave this world, please, be the one to grant me my salvation.”
And with that, he got up and took his leave.
Five years later, Shankar stood in front of another pyre, this time at the Harishchandra ghat. He watched Dom Raja lift a body and place it onto the pile of wood. The white angavastra got pulled off the body and revealed a wheel-shaped red birth-scar near the shoulder. The assistants arranged the body and moved away to let Shankar have his last moments with the departed.
“I am here, Suresh Bhaiya, as promised. It is time to release you from your circle of life. May this eternal flame bring you peace. May your soul find the salvation that you always sought.” And with those few words, Shankar lit the pyre with the eternal flame and watched the flames rise high into the sky.
VARANASI, UTTAR PRADESH, INDIA
Manikarnika Cremation Ghat as seen from Ganga
Varanasi, also known as Kashi and Benares, is widely acknowledged as one of the oldest cities in the world. Its heritage ghats are fraught with legends; the most popular among them being the origin of Manikarnika Ghat (‘Mani’ means gemstone; ‘karnika’ refers to an earring). It is said to have come into existence when Sati’s severed earring fell on the banks of Ganga and was found and hidden by a Brahmin. Lord Shiva cursed his community to live the lowliest life of Dom Rajas. Since he could not take back the curse, he gave them the gift of the eternal flame.
The Doms has become a sect today. They are the keepers of the eternal flame that has been burning for centuries. As per tradition, the cremation pyre on Manikarnika Ghat has to be lit by this eternal flame. No matchsticks are ever used. The entire ceremony of cremation lasts hours, starting with the purification of the body to the scattering of ashes in Ganga. It is believed that the one who is cremated in Varanasi is freed from the eternal cycle of life and death.
The clan of Dom Raja controls the cremations at two major Varanasi ghats of Manikarnika Ghat and Harishchandra Ghat. The latter is named after the famous king Harishchandra, who was taken on as an apprentice by Dom Raja. Even today, Dom Raja decides the price of the funeral, and that varies with the social standing of the departed. Once the body is burnt, all the valuables on it are taken by Dom Raja.
He is one of the wealthiest in Varanasi, yet is considered to be the lowliest as far as the societal castes are concerned. The ancient world considered the people of his creed as untouchables, and while the twenty-first century has changed this abominable practice, Dom Rajas still live away from the crowd, protecting the eternal flame and upholding the tradition of Hindu funerals.
Additional Reading
The Divine Beauty & Heritage Landmarks of Varanasi Ghats - https://thrillingtravel.in/banaras-kashi-varanasighats.html
Conquering Emotions
Bo Sang Village, Chiang Mai, Thailand
100 AD – Wat Bo Sang
His eyes watered as he stared at the rising steam. The frenzy of the popping bubbles seemed to emulate the one building within him. The faster they rose and burst over the moist brown mulberry bark, the more impatient he got. Annoyed, he reached for poker and gave the bark a sharp prod. The semi-hard bark caught its jagged end and started a tug-of-war with its offender. Fretting and fuming, he coerced the offending bark to release his stick. He finally resorted to a strong jerk that caused the entire vessel to overturn.
CLANG! WHOOSH!
Somchai slapped his forehead and hastily turned only to find a set of watchful eyes. They reflected a certain calm but, at the same time, showed disapproval. Somchai bowed shamefully. “I am sorry. It was an accident. I shall start over now.” The eyes closed with a silent agreement.
Somchai picked up another vessel and began filling it with water, ready to start his task all over again.
Somchai sat there in front of the boiling bark for the fifth time. The first time, he had not heated it enough, leaving the bark still hard. The next time, he had fallen asleep and overcooked it. The third time, he had not filled enough water, and the fourth was he overturned the vessel.
Not once did the wise monk get angry at him. He would give him a small smile and gesture to start over again. How he wished that Phra26 Intaa would say something. The silence was infuriating.
How did I get myself into this situation? he thought. The rapidly rising bubbles sent his train of thoughts to the happenings of a week back.
A Week Prior – Bo Sang Village
Eyes closed, he lay sprawled under the shade of Rain tree, listening to the twitter of orioles. He tossed uncomfortably, missing the cool breeze of his usual haunt by the little lake. But he dared not go there, just in case his mae27 found him. She was sure to put him to work when all he wanted to do was sleep.
Just when the soporific heat began its magic, he felt a sharp poke in his ribs. “There you are, you lazy bumpkin. Get up, Somchai!” screamed his mother. “I told you to get the new goods packed so that I can take them to the market. And you sneak off to lounge in the sun. Don’t you realize how we are losing customers because we get late to the market?”
With no other choice, he reluctantly followed his mae home. He recklessly started flinging the wooden idols into a sack. The sooner she left, the faster he could get back to his nap.
“Stack it well,” she yelled from the other room. “The last time, two of the pieces were missing their hands, and one had a cracked skull.” Somchai just rolled his eyes and closed the sack. He loaded it onto the little hand cart before escaping to his favorite spot.
Bo Sang Market
His soft brown eyes looked concerned as he nodded sympathetically to the weeping woman. “His mind is never on his work. He is always in a hurry to finish. And to do what? Just sleep!” She sobbed and continued. “Last week, I could sell only three of the ten pieces I made because the rest were broken. And today, half were missing; he did not notice the hole in the sack when he was filling it. I work so hard every night to carve these idols. With Somchai’s pa gone, there is no one to earn. Whatever I make with these old hands is all that we have to make do with. Every night, I carve, and during the day, in this heat, I drag the handcart to the market. And that son of mine, he just…”
She wiped the tears from her eyes. “Phra Intaa,” she addressed the monk. “You have traveled far and wide. You have so much wisdom. Please help me with Somchai. Tell me how I can teach him to be patient and hardworking. I need him to be independent. Please, help me.”
Phra Intaa looked at her with his kind eyes and, in a soft voice, said, “Bring him to me at Wat Bo Sang tomorrow. Let him stay with me till I feel I have shared all that he needs to become a better man.”
The woman joined her hands together in respect and bowed to the learned monk.
It had been a week since he had seen his mother. While he missed her, what he was missing at this moment was the cool breeze of his favored haunt. Sweating profusely, he examined the boiling bark. While he was busy dreaming, it had slowly changed color. Cautiously, he prodded it with his poker stick. This time, the pointed end slid in and out easily. Very slowly, he removed the vessel from the fire. As instructed, he pulled the bark out and left it in the sun to dry.
With his task finished, he presen
ted himself in front of Phra Intaa. “O Wise One! I have finished the task. Now may I leave for my home?”
The monk smiled. “My permission will depend on the answer you give me. Tell me, what did you learn today?”
Somchai scratched his head and said, “The color of the right bark is light brown after boiling.”
“Is that all? Nothing else?” asked the monk.
“Um, water takes a long time to boil. And yes, you have to be very careful about prodding the bark. If it is not done so, your rod can get stuck,” Somchai replied.
“And what does that tell you about life?” probed Phra Intaa.
“Um…um…,” stammered Somchai, unable to answer.
The monk smiled at him and said, “Clearly, we have a lot more to learn. It is not yet time for you to leave. I will see you tomorrow. Get some rest.” The monk then closed his eyes and began meditating.
The sundried Sa28 paper had slowly started peeling from the edges of the sieve. Somchai hesitated as he reached for the little corner popping up. The last time he had attempted peeling the paper, it had torn into pieces. Prior to that, it had disintegrated into tiny fibers. Each of these failures had cost him over ten days in the temple, not to mention the calm and disapproving look of his monk teacher.
Not wanting to risk another failure, he pulled back his hand from the paper and decided to wait a bit longer. As he sat looking at it, his mind drifted to the first day of his new task.
It had started with the boiled bark that he had prepared. The monk had taught him how to beat the bark and convert it into fluffy fibers. Then, he had him soak the fibers into a tank of colored water. Once the color had set in, it had to be filtered with a large sieve and then left to dry in the sun. The monk had demonstrated how the dried fiber could be pulled into a single sheet of Sa paper.
