The Lamp Is Lit

by Ruskin Bond

  Undeterred, Kamal fed little balls of flour to the fish. They were huge, completely tame, and came to the bank in shoals to be fed by the bathers. Sometimes they fought amongst themselves, and a few of them were a raw pink where they had been savagely bitten.

  That night we slept in the open, on a wide ledge above the riverbed. The lights from the temples and ashrams on the opposite bank reflected gently on the water. There was a human quietness everywhere. The sounds were of the river—the distant roar of the rapids, the nearby lapping of water on the bathing steps.

  * * *

  We bathed again in the river, as the sun came up over the mountain known as Manikoot Parbat. There is an unbroken ridge along the top of this mountain, stretching all the way to the snows of Badrinath, some two hundred miles away. Only a few hermits live on the mountain. It belongs to the elephants who sometimes visit the river in herds, to bathe and drink.

  Jhardhari had returned, looking quite fresh after a 150-mile bus journey; and he offered to take us up to Narindernagar, a little town on a hilltop, which, though smaller and less central than Tehri, is the capital of the district. The former Maharaja had preferred it to the less congenial valley-town of Tehri on the banks of the Bhagirathi; and Narindernagar became the Maharaja’s summer capital.

  The buses were all full, and we had to travel up separately, one to each bus. First Kamal, then I, and last of all Jhardhari.

  Narindernagar is only ten miles from Rishikesh, but it is also two thousand feet higher, and the bus has to climb a dizzy, winding road on which there can be no two-way traffic. But the buses go faster than their counterparts in the plains. With speedometers conveniently out of order, buses and trucks come downhill at a speed of thirty to thirty-five miles an hour. But, as I have said before, Garhwalis are very good drivers. Along the main highways of the Punjab are the wrecks of numerous trucks, some jammed up against trees, others in head-on collisions. But in the hills there is no driving at night, and the drivers prefer smoking bidis to drinking rum or country liquor. Mechanical failure is usually the cause of the few accidents that do occur.

  From Narindernagar we went on for another eight miles, and eventually got down at Agra-khal, a pass in the mountains at a height of about five thousand feet. The motor road, soon becoming kaccha, continues to Tehri and Dharasu, and from the latter, pilgrims must proceed on foot to the shrines and temples of Gangotri.

  After eating some hot puris, we walked back to Narindernagar, leaving the main road, and hiking through a forest of oak and pine. Kamal, who was seeing real mountains for the first time, was very excited and asked me innumerable questions about plants and streams and trees and rocks. He chattered away until Jhardhari said something flattering about his many and varied interests, and this embarrassed Kamal so much that he stopped talking altogether. I enjoyed the shade of the gnarled, untidy oaks, and the soft, slippery carpet of pine needles.

  But after the forest there was bare hillside, the sun was scorching hot, and we had soon emptied the water bottle. So we rejoined the main road and stopped a truck going down to Rishikesh.

  It was the first time Kamal and I had sat in the back of a truck travelling at speed down a mountain. It was impossible to anchor oneself on the floor. A kindly sadhu, also at the back, placed his blanket on a tyre and invited us to share it with him; but at every hairpin bend the tyre slid violently about the floor and we were pitched off it. Kamal and I clung to each other to avoid being thrown against the sides of the truck; Jhardhari hung on to an iron bar; we were all feeling quite sick. Only the sadhu appeared unperturbed. He retained his seat on the tyre, even when it went skidding from one end of the truck to the other.

  When we reached Rishikesh we went straight to the river. Never had Mother Ganga’s waters been so refreshing. The giddiness disappeared. Then we lay down on the sand, and Kamal, like the sleepy giant Kumbhakarna in the Ramayana, did not come to life until it was time to eat.

  We slept well that night. In the morning we would go to Lachhman Jhula and, passing the suspension bridge, walk a little way up Manikoot Parbat.

  * * *

  As the sun rose, turning the river to gold, we climbed into the boat that took pilgrims across to the temples on the other bank. The oarsmen sat in the prow, straining against the current, and the people in the boat raised the same ageless cry: ‘Ganga Mai ki jai!’

  Climbing ashore, we passed through groves of mango trees, planted by rich pilgrims for the benefit of the sadhus. Then, leaving behind Lachhman Jhula, we walked along the pilgrim route to Badrinath until we came to a dharamshala called Garur Chatti. Here we drank tea, the inevitable but welcome tea, and set off up the hillside in search of a waterfall Jhardhari had told us about.

  It did not take us long to reach the waterfall. Set amidst rocks and ferns, it fell about thirty feet onto a platform of smooth yellow rocks and pebbles. Here it formed a small pool, about waist deep, into which we leapt without hesitation. The water wasn’t as cold as the Ganga’s, and we could splash about for as long as we liked, while the waterfall sprayed down on our heads. The water was very clear and fresh, though it had a slightly bitter taste, evidence, I suppose, of a strong mineral content.

  Further down the stream we found a lot of old bones, which Kamal insisted were the remains of a tiger’s kill; as, indeed, they might have been, tigers having been seen on the mountain. But no tiger troubled us; only a band of langurs, swinging from tree to tree, seemed resentful of our presence and urged us to leave.

  This we did at our leisure and, after more tea at Garur Chatti, and a visit to a small temple, where the courtyard floor was so hot to our bare feet that we had to skip about in agony, we trudged back to Muni-ki-Reti.

  It was our last night sleeping beside the Ganga, and we rested with our chins in our hands, watching the river move silently past us, surging onward, India’s lifeblood, inexorable and irresistible.

  They say that if the Ganga ran dry, all life in India would cease. But, nourished by the eternal snows, it is the one river that can never run dry. As long as the mountains stand, the Ganga will flow to the sea, and millions will come to pay homage to its holy waters.

  (1960)

  Mathura

  Mathura, sacred above all cities, stands on the right bank of the Yamuna river, north-westward to the city of Agra. All men speak of it with reverence, for it is said, ‘If a man spend in Benares all his lifetime, he has earned less merit than if he pass but a single day in the sacred city of Mathura.’

  One cannot pierce the fog which hides the date of the city’s birth, but holy it has always been, as the capital of Braj and the birthplace of Krishna who is the ‘teacher and soul of the Universe, destroyer of the earth’s tyrant kings and the First of the Spirits.’

  We could not fail to be impressed by our journey to Mathura. All nature was alive and strange, and beautiful birds swept every now and then through the air to perch on the swinging telegraph wires: little birds with plumage the hue of emerald green; the long-tailed kingcrow; and innumerable doves in shades of blue and grey. And, resting on a telegraph pole, the great brown white-headed kite, which some say is Garuda, Vishnu’s favourite steed. Resplendent too were the green and gold parrots, from among whom Kamadeva, the god of love, chose his steed. Armed with his sugar cane bow with its string made of bees, Kamadeva still rides at night over the plains of Mathura. Many and far are the journeys he makes on the nights approaching the full moon; he knows the way of men and women, and, like Cupid’s, his bow is always ready to assist the ardent lover.

  Legend tells us that Kamadeva, taking Spring as his companion, started out one day to climb the mighty peaks of Himachal, and when they reached those snowy heights, the spring flowers bloomed around them although it was not the season of spring. Here they found great Siva; and the mischievous love-god, drawing his sugar cane bow, took aim at the mighty deity.

  Siva, perhaps, would have pardoned the impudence with a great laugh, shaking all the world with its sound, but at that moment a lov
ely maiden, Parvati, the daughter of the mountain, came out to gather flowers to place as an oblation on his shrine, and anger consumed the great god. Siva’s third and central eye gave forth a terrible stream of fire, and Kamadeva was burnt to ashes. This is what the holy books tell us, but when the westering sun finally lights up with its mellow radiance the temple walls of the holy city, Kamadeva is again ready to begin one of his nightly journeys on his resplendently plumaged parrot. Perhaps Parvati, the Maid of the Mountain, pleaded to the great one to restore the love-god, and Siva, forgetting his anger in her presence, gave back life to Kamadeva.

  Journeying to Mathura, we could not fail to notice, in the tanks and jheels, an innumerable variety of game birds. All life is sacred for many miles around Mathura and not even the bird trapper is permitted to lay his snares. Every sheet of water is covered with a multitude of wild fowl, herons, cranes and many other waterbirds; while strutting underneath the shade of an aged tamarind tree are Krishna’s sacred birds, the brilliant peacocks, who, long centuries ago, gave the city their name. Today Mathura is still called the Peacock City.

  The peacocks know, in their regal pride, that they are the chosen of Krishna, and in twos and threes they may be seen spreading out their tails, brilliant-hued and fan-shaped, seen to perfection against a background of soft, rich verdure.

  Here too, in the branches of the tamarind trees—and most of the trees of Mathura are tamarind—may be seen the light brown bottle-shaped nests of the weaver bird, lighted at night by the glow of the firefly, while on the surface of the water of marsh and lake floats a crimson waterweed.

  Kamal and I sat in the shade of a thorn bush and watched a pair of Sarus cranes prancing and capering around each other: tall, stork-like birds, with naked red heads and long red legs.

  ‘We might be Saruses in some future life,’ I mused.

  ‘That would be nice,’ said Kamal. ‘I wouldn’t mind being a beautiful bird. I am not particular about being a man again, but I would not like to leave the world altogether.’

  After a pause, he added: ‘I’d like to be a sacred bird. I don’t wish to be shot at.’

  The Saruses were playing and making love. That appears to be their principal occupation apart from feeding on insects and small reptiles. The birds pair for life and are always very devoted companions. It is said that if one is killed its mate will haunt the scene for weeks, calling distractedly. They have even been known to pine away and die of grief. That is why they are held in such affection in the villages. Caught young, they can become delightful pets, and are as good as many watchdogs, emitting loud trumpet-like calls when disturbed.

  ‘Many birds are sacred,’ said Kamal, as a bluejay swooped down from a tree and carried off a grass-hopper. Both the bluejay and Lord Siva are called Nilkanth. Siva has a blue throat, like the bird, because out of compassion for the human race he swallowed a deadly poison which was meant to destroy the world. He kept the poison in his throat and would not let it go any further.

  ‘Are squirrels sacred?’ asked Kamal, curiously watching one fumbling with a piece of bread which we had thrown away.

  ‘Krishna loved squirrels. He would take them in his arms and stroke them with his long, gentle fingers. That is why they have four dark lines down their backs from head to tail. Krishna was very dark-skinned, and the lines are the marks of his fingers.’

  ‘We should be gentle with animals,’ said Kamal. ‘We should not kill so many of them.’

  I agreed with him: but while it is important that we do not kill them indiscriminately, it is also important that we respect them. We must acknowledge their rights on this earth. Everywhere, birds and animals are finding it more difficult to survive, because we are destroying their homes. They have to keep moving as the trees and the green grass and the forests disappear.

  * * *

  In Mathura was born Krishna, the ancient, the pure and the immutable, who by his powers alone could annihilate the whole world. A mighty god was Krishna, and he lived in an abode upheld by the winds ten thousand millions of leagues above our world. But further and higher in the celestial paradise lived the beautiful Radha, his bride. But there arose a strife between her and Dharman, the demon spirit with lotus-red eyes, and Dharman cursed the beautiful maid, saying, ‘Take thou a human form! Thou shall become a woman, to wander on the face of the earth.’

  Radha appealed to Krishna, her lover, ‘Dharman has cursed me, Lord. Tell me, O destroyer of fear, how can I endure life without you? You are my sight, my strength, and my highest riches.’

  Krishna comforted Radha, saying, ‘I too will go down to earth. Since you must be born there, descend with me. I will walk in the woodlands of Braj, waiting for you.’

  Radha, riding on a boar, came to the face of the earth, and with her came Krishna, her Lord, the ruler of all the world. Krishna came to the city of Mathura in the kingdom of Braj, near the Yamuna river, and became the eighth son of Vasudeva and his beautiful wife, Princess Devaki, and his brother was the giant Balaram of many achievements.

  There reigned at Mathura at that time the wicked tyrant Kamsa, the brother of Princess Devaki, who had thrust from the throne his father Ugrasen, and boastfully reigned in his place. No human monarch was he, but a mighty demon disguised in the form of a man. There was no safety then for priest or cattle, for he slew them all till the temple courts ran with blood.

  Krishna grew up to manhood, and at length he slew the tyrant Kamsa and restored the throne to the aged Ugrasen.

  * * *

  No one visits Mathura without also seeing Brindaban—the forest of Vrinda, who was once a mighty goddess. Brindaban, says the botanist, means a forest of tulsi trees.

  Here, in this forest of Vrinda, lived Krishna and his brother Balaram as boys, and they ran wild in the woods, playing on their shepherds’ pipes.

  Brindaban lies north of Mathura on the same bank of the Yamuna. It stands on a tongue of land surrounded on three sides by the river, which has curved here in a strange fashion. Legend tells us that Balaram, the hero of great strength, once led a dance on the Yamuna’s bank, but moved his giant limbs so clumsily that the river laughed aloud and taunted him: ‘Forbear, O clumsy one! How can you hope to dance as Krishna, the youth divine?’ Balaram was very angry with the river, and laying hold on his great plough, he traced a furrow, from the very brink of the stream, and so deep was the furrow, that the Yamuna fell into it, and Balaram led the river very far astray.

  * * *

  A small temple marks the birthplace of Krishna, ‘whose face is like the moon in an autumn festival’, but more interesting are the remains of what are said to be the ruins of the palace of the tyrant Kamsa.

  To this day visitors to the city of Mathura will be shown the mound where Kamsa’s throne was set and the arena where his champions and his elephant were defeated by Krishna and Balaram.

  We wandered in the streets of the city, past shops gleaming with the wealth of Mathura brasswork, while monkeys gambolled around seeking dainties. Passing through narrow streets, the river is at last reached. From the bridge one can see the riverface of Mathura with its innumerable temples. Below, on the banks of the sacred stream, are many bathers, and in the centre of the city’s riverfront is the Vishram Ghat, ‘the landing place of rest’, where the two boy heroes rested after dragging the body of Kamsa down to the water’s edge so that it might be laid on its funeral pyre. And near by is the watercourse, the ancient channel which the body of the demon king left in the riverside ground as he was dragged down to the water.

  To see the majestic tortoises of Mathura we entered a boat and floated slowly down the river, gliding past bathing ghats and palaces and temples. We felt a thousand eyes were on us, and looking over the side saw the tortoises watching the boat and its occupants with grave interest. Often a bather would seize one of these long-necked creatures and hold it up to view. Immediately the tortoise would draw its legs into its shell, illustrating the Hindu tenet that nothing is annihilated but only disappears, the effec
t being absorbed in the cause.

  (1960)

  Jaipur

  As we still had a few days left of our holiday, and a little money, and as neither Kamal nor I was anxious to return to Delhi earlier than was necessary, we decided to sneak off to Jaipur for a day or two. We had both been to Jaipur before, but it is a city that one can visit again and again without ever tiring of its charm.

  There is an atmosphere about Jaipur—once the most beautiful city in India, and one of the earliest planned cities in the world—which even to the casual visitor distinguishes it from other towns. This is probably due to the almost entire absence of any European or Western influence in the architecture and planning of the town.

  Founded in 1728 by the brilliant astronomer-king Maharaja Jai Singh II, it is quite unlike any other town in India or Asia: no tortuous gloomy streets or squalid overcrowded bazaars. Its six main streets are very wide and straight, one running the whole length of the town, the others crossing it at right angles, dividing the city into rectangular blocks. These are enclosed by a high wall, its parapets loopholed for musketry, into which are set seven entrance gates.

  On the north-west side the hills rise sheer beyond the city, bearing on their summit the Nahargarh or Tiger Fort. Not needed now for purposes of war, it houses much of the wealth of this former state’s ruler. Guarded not by troops but by men of the robber caste, this wealth lay hoarded for centuries, potential but never used capital, typical of the ways of the East.

  In the city itself, narrow streets are found in plenty, for a network of them connects the wide main roads. So narrow are some, that the bougainvillae sprawls from the upper storey of one building to its opposite across the way. But curiously enough, they are nearly all straight, and a passing glimpse from the main street reveals their whole length. Sometimes these lanes are full of little shops, but many of them contain only private houses, where occasionally a half-open door reveals a glimpse of the grass and fountain of a garden or courtyard beyond.