Ashes for the Elephant God

by Vijaya Schartz

  I remembered the lesson well. After spending many years upholding this principle, I just discovered there was more to life than hard facts and logical explanations. Only now did I lift the barriers imposed on my childhood, to visit the faraway land of my daydreams.

  As I stepped out of the plane onto the ramp at SaharAirport, I stopped, stunned by the night heat, blinded by the floodlights bathing the tarmac. My dry eyes stung, irritated by desiccated contact lenses. I had suddenly walked into an oven smelling of spices and ginger blossoms. Sweat made my khaki jeans and tank top stick to the skin. Down the steps I carried my canvas bag, then walked along the line of armed men in beige uniforms, who directed the flow toward the customs building.

  While waiting in line behind tired passengers of European and Indian descent, I stretched stiff muscles. None of it seemed real. I almost expected to wake up in my small apartment on Rue Pasteur. What possessed me to go off to a strange land of legends and myths? Of course, I did it to honor my brother's last wish, but I felt a little reckless, as if a sudden burst of freedom had loosened the seams of a well-controlled life.

  I kept thinking about the booklet I found on Jean‑François' bed. Was I fooling myself into believing he left it there? I could not discount the blue beings of my vision, however. Besides, nothing in my life had ever felt so right. In front of me in the line, an Indian lady in a pink sari carried a cardboard box on her head, reprimanding a small child in a language I did not understand. Her husband smiled and wagged his head, the diamond in his nose sparkling under the white neon light.

  A pudgy and smelly uniformed man with a black moustache checked my passport, visa, vaccination certificate, and asked a few questions while scrutinizing me suspiciously. In the luggage claim area, the air conditioning didn't seem to function properly. How could people tolerate this heat? Imagine how hot the middle of the day would be!

  After retrieving my suitcase from the chaotic carousel, I went through another line for customs. Would the officers question the urn of ashes in my luggage? To my surprise, they asked no questions, nor did they open my bags.

  Soon, I found myself in the airport lobby and gagged at the smell. Hundreds of people, some in rags, some in colorful but soiled clothes, lay on the dirty floor, sleeping, impervious to the flow of travelers stepping over them with more or less success.

  A dark skinny man, in a filthy pastel polyester shirt over a skirt wrap that reached mid calf, grabbed my luggage.

  "Eh!" I stopped him and slammed down the suitcase, which escaped his hand.

  The little man backed up a few steps and bowed, his fingers forming a triangle in front of his forehead. "Namaste," he said in apologetic greeting. "Come this way, Miss. I am knowing a good money changer and I am finding you the most magnificent taxi‑car in Mumbai."

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed a wave of similar men, all filthy and dark, like birds of prey falling with servile insistence on the tourists fresh out of the plane. Coolies, lowly workers, outcasts, I remembered from the travel guide. The local passengers shooed them away rudely. I needed help, since I didn't know where to go, and gestured for the dark man to take the luggage nevertheless and lead the way. He smiled widely with black gums. I guessed it would cost me a little more than it should, but I didn't see any gracious way out of this predicament.

  Following the limping man out of the building, I kept a wary eye on the suitcase, ready to intervene at the first sign of foul play. Outside, the heat from concrete and tarmac reached my feet through the soles. The oppressive crowd overwhelmed my senses. I felt immersed and lost in an alien world. The coolie dropped me at the curb with the suitcase and hailed a parked cab. The two men yelled a few foreign expletives, then money changed hands. I followed the transaction, worried about my welfare. Was the coolie selling me like merchandise? I hoped it was only a kickback.

  "One dollar." The coolie held his hand.

  "I have only French francs."

  "I am knowing good money changer, good rate. Follow me." The man grinned. I couldn't get used to the reddish-brown shade of his gums and scarce teeth.

  "Not tonight, thank you." I gave him a five francs note, the rough equivalent of a dollar, knowing that it was too much, probably several days' pay, and stepped into the cab.

  The man turned the bill in his hands suspiciously, put it in his shirt pocket then hobbled away. I checked my watch. Almost midnight, local time. I had to find a room for the night.

  The cab driver spoke a singsong English I could understand well enough. Finally, my language skills would come in handy. "Sheraton Hotel? Taj Mahal Hotel? Holiday Inn?"

  On a budget, I didn't want to blow money on a five star hotel. Besides, I might as well get used to the local fare. "Take me to a small inexpensive hotel," I told the cabby who gave me a suspicious look.

  Fifteen minutes later, I regretted my decision. The Juhu Hotel looked decent enough from the outside, but the small room lacked everything. A rectangular hole under the window attested to an air-conditioning unit, removed long ago. A single yellow bulb swayed from the ceiling, lighting a dirty brown carpet and nondescript blanket on a small bed.

  I dropped the suitcase and opened the bed, half expecting to see something crawling out of the gray sheets. By the feeble light, I saw none. No nightstand, no curtains on the windows, but the small balcony had a rusted chair.

  The bathroom came as a surprise: a rather large windowless room, painted turquoise, with nothing in it but a sink and a tiny mirror. The Turkish toilet reminded me of those in the oldest cafés in France: a small round hole in the ground with two pads for the feet. You had to crouch and aim for the hole. From the middle of the bathroom ceiling jutted a battered showerhead, and in the center of the blue floor was a drain. Talk about Spartan quarters.

  Too tired and excited to care, I dropped suitcase and bag on the bed and took off my clothes. A cool shower washed away the grime of the trip, the apprehension, the mistakes of the past... The lack of hot water didn't bother me a bit. By the time I had donned a clean oversized T‑shirt and sat on the balcony with a towel over my wet hair, the night had cooled somewhat. The balmy fragrance of gardenias, mixed with spicy smells of cooking food, struck my nostrils. I breathed deeply

  The ancient city never seemed to sleep. Despite the late hour, the din of mopeds and pedestrian traffic had not ceased. In the distance dogs barked, and trains whistled and rattled the tracks.

  Now more relaxed, I marveled at the series of coincidences that brought me to India. Within a few days, I’d obtained vaccinations and papers that usually took months to get. Every single detail fell into place as if pre-ordained. With Kristelle looking after the apartment and the cat, I felt secure. And my contract money would go a long way, since living at the ashram cost so little by western standards.

  I peeked, two floors below, over a wall covered with midnight glories, into a private garden filled with tropical plants and palm trees, alive with chattering monkeys. There, under the full moon, a young man wearing only a white loincloth bent over a well to draw a bucket of water, then bathed slowly, reverently, as if following a sacred ritual. Water glistened on the dark skin of his sinuous muscles, conjuring the vision of another dark body.

  Amidst a lush jungle, hot springs whirled into a secluded pond. I let out a clear laugh as a young man splashed me, and I returned the favor. Rivulets of water glided on the dark skin of his lean chest muscles. I couldn't see his face clearly, but his long fingers pulled back a handful of black locks as he smiled, eyes filled with a love that made me feel whole.

  The lustful vision stirred feelings of guilt. I was here on a sacred journey. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I might never return to the country of my birth. What if I found happiness in this foreign land? Not so farfetched, since according to Swamiji such coincidences marked a strong destiny. Would I spend the rest of my life in an ashram, in beatific meditation? I considered the thought then rejected it. Shamelessly, I kept watching the young man in the garden below, even when he re
moved the loincloth to wash it in the bucket.

  *****

  The next morning, I ordered a cab at the front desk from a nonchalantly smiling clerk in a lilac polyester shirt.

  "The taxi will not be liking going to the country for at least two hours, Memsahib," he said in a lilting voice as he hung up the phone.

  "That's all right. I'll go ahead and register with the French Consulate and change some currency. I'll be back in plenty of time."

  The clerk smiled, wagging his head in acknowledgement.

  Clutching a small tourist map, I ventured on foot into the busy streets. Already affected by the heat, I walked leisurely, in leather sandals and white summer dress, assaulted by the heavy scent of frying coconut oil, curry, decomposing garbage, and unwashed bodies. People swarmed everywhere, pressing, touching, sticking to me like leeches, or just gawking at me candidly. Curiously, I felt safe, bathing in their friendly anonymity.

  As a group of women passed by, a whiff of sweet perfume followed the flowing silk of skillfully draped saris. In bright yellow, cerulean blue, deep purple, hot pink and turquoise, they moved gracefully, in a jingle of bangles and bells. On impulse, I followed them for a while but soon let them go. I had to remain focused.

  In the multicolored crowd, I noticed the brown robes of the Buddhist monks contrasting with the faded saffron of the Hindu garb, the white dhotis and bare cordoned chest of the Brahmin priests, and the splendid turbans of the Muslims. Many men walked in pairs, holding hands like children, the poorest of them smiling and laughing, with seemingly not a care in the world.

  At a traffic circle, a huge bearded Sikh in khaki uniform and red turban directed the chaotic traffic from a central booth. Where did these people learn to drive? Fearless bicycles, rickshaws hand-painted in gaudy colors, and outdated taxis competed for the space. Bright blue double-decker buses overflowed with people hanging from poles and windows. Old colorful trucks emitted thick black smoke. Scooters, mopeds, motorcycles, and luxurious limousines ran in every direction, horns honking in a happy frenzy.

  I took a pedicab to Nariman Point, the modern business center of Mumbai, where The Banque Société Générale had its office. There, I changed all my francs into Rupees. It seemed a lot more money now, and I held my purse tight as I walked across Madame Cama Road, wary of traffic coming from all sides.

  Suddenly, a group of children spotted me. Bare-footed, skinny, in rags, they shoved each other and yelled as they ran. When they reached me, talking all at once, a dozen dirty little hands pulled at my dress to get attention.

  "One rupee, one rupee," they begged, "only one rupee."

  Although I had been warned not to, I couldn't help but give them a rupee. I realized my mistake when each of them wanted a rupee and started calling to their friends.

  "One pen, one pen," they asked when I ran out of change.

  They finally let go of me after I gave them my only pen. Doubt crept into my mind. What was I doing here? Had I made the right decision? France seemed so far away, did it still exist somewhere? What if I could never return?

  At a street corner, a mature woman in lavender sari, with a red bindi between her eyes, stood in front of a laundry shop, balancing a heavy basket of clothes on her head. Huge brown eyes artfully lined with black kajal stared at me. Long shiny hair hung loosely down her back. Slowly turning her head, she erupted into happy chatter with a young girl inside, who gave the shirt she laundered a vigorous beating. Through the open door, musical laughter flowed into the street.

  Next door, a cloth merchant in white silk sat cross‑legged on the immaculate cotton mat lining the floor of his open stall, three steps above the littered sidewalk. He smiled benignly. "Come inside, Memsahib, and be sharing my tea," he offered in heavily accented English.

  Baffled, I stared at him. What kind of invitation was that? Did his syrupy voice and shiny eyes apply to business or personal matters? When I declined with a smile, his eyes hooded over, expressing much regret. Only then did I recognize his disappointment at the loss of a possible sale. I chided myself for misinterpreting his intent.

  Tired of the crowd, I hailed a cab. Soon, the gardens and modern concrete structure of the French Consulate appeared in front of me. Registering proved a simple formality. For a fee, a bored fellow citizen explained, I could eliminate a lot of red tape in case of an emergency return to France. I filled out the form, paid the fee, then thanked him and left.

  I still had time before the cab for Ganeshpur showed up, so I walked back to the hotel. A cacophony of drums, conches and cymbals from a nearby temple caught my attention. Musky incense smoke wafted into the street from the wide-open mouth of the pregnant building. Golden onion‑shaped cupolas topped the garishly painted walls. The gaping entrance called to me. Garlands of orange and white flowers hung in vertical strands from the top of the arched door, adding their sweet perfume to the thick atmosphere.

  I wanted to part the flower curtain that fluttered in the gentle breeze of the fans cooling the dark interior. While I hesitated, however, the moment passed. When the musical tumult stopped, a monotonous chanting started. On each side of the gate, scattered on the steps, I noticed hundreds of slippers of all sizes, colors, and styles, awaiting the return of their owners in the hot dust of the street.

  As I walked away, a pathetic beggar gazed up at me from the stone steps where he sat, a tin bowl beside him. The old leper, dirty and half naked, missed a few fingers and toes. A pang of pity assaulted me. Then, I remembered that beggars were skilled professionals. This one had refined the look and mastered the art over years of experience. Where did I learn that piece of trivia? It felt as if I always knew it. I smiled and gave the man a small bill. His face lit up, then he bowed profusely, one hand on his heart.

  Further down the street, the smell of spice from a food stall reminded me I had skipped breakfast. Stopping for deep‑fried vegetables in spicy batter, I ate as I walked back to the hotel.

  Once in the lobby, I was told the taxi would be there soon. After two hours of staring at the walls, my western impatience started to show. "At what time is the cab coming?"

  "Soon, Memsahib," the clerk volunteered with the most charming smile, as if indulging a child.

  The cab finally showed up. I debated over the price, then the driver loaded my luggage in the car, before taking off on the left side of the road, a disorienting experience. We headed north, riding in the slow traffic past several square miles of cloth-roofed makeshift shelters in the open air. It resembled a crowded ghetto of cardboard boxes and torn, faded rags floating atop skinny poles.

  "What an awful place! Who are these people?" I asked the driver.

  "Oh that? It's the cardboard shanty where the Dalit live."

  "The Dalit?"

  "It means oppressed or downtrodden. The Dalit used to be called Untouchable, Outcast." The final tone allowed no further question.

  Through the cab’s open window, I stared in disbelief, overwhelmed by the Dalit’s destitute state. In the meager shade from the blazing sun, sheltered by cardboard and cotton screens, old naked men crouched in small groups. Others lay on rough wooden crates, while women cooked over small outdoor fires.

  Near the intersection, on the grass of the middle strip, lay the carcass of a once white cow, stiff legs sticking out oddly. My stomach heaved at the stench. The corpse, buzzing with flies, had been left alone, I supposed, out of respect for things sacred.

  Fighting a wave of nausea, I wedged myself in the back seat and breathed a sigh of relief when the car picked up speed. Soon, we left the city for the farmlands of northern Maharashtra. Hopefully, Ganeshpur would prove more bearable.

  *****

  After two hundred kilometers of bad roads strewn with broken-down trucks and busses, the taxi reached Shree Gurudev Ashram in the early afternoon and pulled up along a wrought iron fence surmounting a low wall. The arched gate stood open and people of all races, including a good number of westerners, came and went with nonchalance.

  "Here yo
u are, Miss," the driver declared, while I attempted to make sense of the rainbow-colored bills I held up to him.

  "Is this the village?" I asked, indicating the few structures lining the road on both sides. My throat felt parched from heat and dust.

  The driver took the money, stepped out of the cab and opened my door. "No, Miss. Ganeshpur proper is being located about three kilometers farther down the road. These are being the fancy shops surrounding the ashram, for the excellent convenience of its worthy residents."

  Getting out of the cab, I squinted through the bright sun at a few wooden shacks bleached by sun and rain, some without a roof. The signs overhead read laundry, restaurant, teashop, beauty shop, and SilkPalace. Glamorous designations for such dilapidated dumps, I thought. The only solid building besides the ashram was a bank.

  The driver extracted my suitcase from the trunk. "I hope you will be enjoying a most wonderful stay in Ganeshpur." The cab driver smiled, wagged his head, then stepped back into the cab and drove away.

  Standing at the gate beside my suitcase, I shaded my eyes to look beyond the fence at a rectangular stone structure. On its white walls, flat silhouettes of vibrant blue danced, contorted in yoga postures. I gazed in disbelief, recognizing the bright red lips and black-lined eyes of my vision. It seemed so long ago, so far away. Did my native country still exist in this strange universe? It didn't matter anymore. My heart beat faster as I realized I had come to the place of the blue gods.

  "Need some help to carry that?"

  I turned around at the pleasant voice to find a young swami in orange robe, with a shaved head and a red bindi between the eyes. He had already picked up the heavy suitcase as easily as if it were full of air.

  "Beautiful frescoes," I said in a dreamy voice.

  "Yes," the swami concurred cheerily. "The colors have a life of their own. They vibrate for people attuned to their inner self. The deities look as if they could move at any moment but choose not to."