Aavarana- The Veil

by S L Bhyrappa

  Later, she saw him walk towards the Dashashwamedh ghat. She looked to her right and saw a row of boats tied to what looked like wooden poles. She sat on the step she was standing upon until now and gazed in the darkness, at nothing in particular. She lost sense of time. The moon had now moved westwards and had grown duller. She forgot what cycle it was in. She didn’t even know what today’s day was according to the lunar calendar. She decided to learn how to read it. Perhaps Subbanna could teach her. If he didn’t she was sure she could learn it from Sastri Ayya. She had to learn it as quickly as possible. He’d leave the village for good to stay in Tumkur with his daughter.

  The darkness didn’t frighten her. She reminded herself how she had taken perfect shots of street rowdies in less than three takes. And then it flashed to her instantly. Ah! Hamdullah Kuhfi should accompany Khwaja Jahan to Kashi to witness the destruction of the Vishwanath temple.

  I told Hamdullah Sahib of my desire to witness the demolition of the Kashi Vishwanath temple with my own eyes and prayed to him to facilitate my speedy journey to the place. He told me to give him a day to think it over and asked me to meet him tomorrow. When I met him, he said, ‘I’m very pleased with you. Your enthusiasm is infectious, my boy! I can’t sit here now, let’s go together! Let me accumulate some more virtue by watching the supreme edifice of their dark faith crumble before my eyes. I will write a request to Vazir-e-Azam right away. In it I’ll tell him that I must leave for Kashi immediately to witness the holy act of demolishing the kafir structure and to record every minute detail of this pious deed. I’ll also tell him that you will be of valuable assistance by accompanying me. Let’s see what happens.’ His request was approved that evening. As a surprise, he was informed that arrangements were made for them to travel with the messengers travelling to Kashi.

  Monsoon was severe that year and the flooding river forbade travel by boat…

  ~

  In the morning, the three of them took the holy bath in the Ganga, offered their prayers to her and climbed up the steps of the Dashashwamedh ghat, heading towards the Vishwanath temple. Sarma and the panda he had brought along walked with them. Had she come here alone, Lakshmi would’ve done none of this, including the impending worship at the temple. Her ideas about God and religion during her formative years were shaped by her father’s deep conviction that non-violence was the only faith and the rest were cultist practices. She had converted to Marxism in college and believed that religion was the opium of the masses, and then developed an almost-religious fervour that the love between a man and woman was the only true religion and from there, was convinced that only Islam guaranteed the purest form of socialism. And then she was convinced that both Islam and Christianity were aggressive imperialisms imposing their beliefs on the world. After travelling this far, she found it hard to practise the rituals and the innumerable forms of worship in Hinduism. She had abandoned them long ago and they didn’t come to her naturally now. But she thought it was improper to stay aloof when Vishalakshi and Subbanna, simple people really, were offering worship. This was also her chance to spiritually boycott the imperious Gyanvapi masjid standing with its feet on the grave of the original Vishwanath temple. She found no better way of expressing this boycott than offering a few drops of the Ganga and flowers to the lingam.

  As they continued to climb the steps, Vishalakshi stopped in her tracks and yelled in surprise, ‘It can’t be you! You’ve come at last, brother!…but…but you had to come. That’s the pull of the umbilical cord…Shankaracharya was right. The debt we owe to a mother is the greatest debt. That has brought you here…’ Lakshmi had seen him first and suspected it was him but Vishalakshi’s non-stop gushing just confirmed it. Professor Sastri stood before them. Black trousers. Red kurta. Green shawl wrapped around his shoulders and a Japanese camera in his hand. All the traces that had previously distinguished him as an intellectual were gone. With his head completely shaved and not a trace of facial hair, he looked as if he was somebody else. It was clear that he hadn’t expected to see them here. His face showed shock, discomfort, confusion and began to turn progressively red.

  ‘…I know I know why you came here directly. If Father wasn’t so stubborn, I know you’d have done the rites in the village! We have the ashes in the rest house. You come with us to Prayag tomorrow and do the immersion rites with your own hands.’

  The professor struggled to find his voice and when he spoke after a minute, the effort showed, ‘I came here to conduct a workshop at the university and…Razia! You’re a film-maker! Didn’t it occur to you to carry at least a basic tele-camera when you knew you were visiting the Benares ghats? I mean, the Benares landscape means ghats, monkeys, bulls…you’ve heard it, right? Raand, saand…and…and….well…’

  The panda who heard this saw the professor struggling to recall the rest and came to his rescue, ‘Raand, saand, seedi, sanyasi.’ There was a certain rhythmic quality in the way he intoned each word. ‘Sahib has gone to Gaya before coming here?’ The professor turned ashen. How did he know? Bloody fellows! There’s no language these pandas don’t know. Or they get hold of pilgrims who speak the same language. This shrewd ruffian has figured our relationship just by listening to what Vishalakshi told me.

  ‘…it’s called Tristhali yatra in the scriptures. The pilgrimage includes a visit to Gaya, Kashi and Prayag—all these three places. I’m sure you have come from Gaya. If you haven’t done your puja yet here in Kashi, accompany your sister. I’ll take you to Prayag,’ the panda’s words shook him out of his reverie.

  ‘You please carry on. I don’t believe in all this. I came here to shoot some photos.’ The professor lifted his camera to his face, turned away from them and walked off. Did he really go to Gaya and get his head tonsured? Would he go with his sister to the temple if I wasn’t here? And then he called me Razia, not Lakshmi…what was that again? Lakshmi! My girl from my village.

  They went to Prayag the next day and immersed the ashes. Vishalakshi and Subbanna managed to get confirmed reservations for the train that left four days later. Lakshmi would stay in Kashi for two more weeks. She could stay in this rest house for a week and then stay in a similar one that the rickshaw driver Sarma had promised he would reserve for her. Vishalakshi and Subbanna spent the four days visiting temple after temple on their own. Lakshmi’s mind reverted to the novel. She already had a fairly clear idea about how she would shape the portion about the Vishwanath temple destruction, and she intuitively knew the details would come when she actually sat down to write. She’d already digested an enormous amount of research material. Now she would see the place by foot and learn about the history of each mosque and each temple that was destroyed and then rebuilt. And then the Ganga had her own story to tell. She decided to try and write this portion sitting here in Kashi once Subbanna and his wife boarded the train.

  13

  I told Hamdullah Sahib of my desire to witness the demolition of the Kashi Vishwanath temple with my own eyes and prayed to him to facilitate my speedy journey to the place. He told me to give him a day to think it over and asked me to meet him the day after. When I met him, he said, ‘I’m very pleased with you. Your enthusiasm is infectious, my boy! I simply can’t sit here now, let’s go together! Let me accumulate some more virtue by watching the supreme edifice of their dark faith crumble before my eyes. I will write a request to Vazir-e-Azam right away. In it, I’ll tell him that I must leave for Kashi immediately to witness the holy act of demolishing the kafir structure and to record every minute detail of this pious deed. I’ll also tell him that you will be of valuable assistance by accompanying me. Let’s see what happens.’ His request was approved that evening. As a surprise, he was informed that arrangements were made for them to travel with the messengers travelling to Kashi.

  Monsoon was severe that year and floods had peaked. It was impossible to travel by boat. We got a horse each and we had couriers to accompany us. In the beginning the massive horse was a bit of a challenge as I didn’t know what comma
nds this beast obeyed and then I was conscious of the two couriers who I knew were watching my riding skills. If I was an ordinary fellow, they would’ve wasted no time poking fun of me and who knows they would’ve complained to the chief courier that they couldn’t ride with an imbecile like me. But I was with Hamdullah Sahib, he of Persian descent with marble-white, clear skin, flowing beard and blue eyes; anybody could tell that he was a well-learned scholar of Arabic, Persian, Koran and Hadis. And I was his chosen assistant. And I was also a prominent eunuch of Udaipuri Mahal herself. That showed them their place. They displayed immense patience and respect and taught me all the commands. Within three hours, I had a confident hold on the horse and I noticed Hamdullah Sahib was at ease with it. He apparently had long years of practice. The letter the couriers were carrying had the badshah’s royal seal. It was neatly rolled and placed inside a bamboo pipe, reinforced with wooden covering and sealed with wax and placed inside a cloth-bag, which was stitched to the teeth and sealed with the Badshah’s royal seal. The couriers’ job was to just carry them. They had no idea of the message inside that bag. Only Hamdullah Sahib, under strict orders of secrecy, had authorized knowledge of the contents of the letter and through him, I had unofficial knowledge of it. The journey was a fair bit but it was thankfully on the highway. The direct highway from Delhi to Benares continued even beyond Benares. The couriers told Hamdullah Sahib that to reach Benares they had to touch Shahabad, Ghaziabad, Dana, Hapud, Bagsar, Gad Mukteshwar, Bagadi, Amaroha, Muradabad, Rae Bareilly, Sela, Kada and Dalmavu. The highway was a well-known trade route and it had rest houses for Muslim travellers to stay over, have meals and perform namaz. It had separate facilities for people travelling on government work. Our journey was quite smooth and pleasant though it rained at times. The couriers took special care of the bag they were carrying whenever it rained. We changed horses a few times and reached Benares without event.

  On the second day of my stay in Benares, I saw a sudden rush of pilgrims from many different lands who come for some major festival. Pilgrims always outnumber the locals in any pilgrimage city and this was Kashi, the emperor of pilgrimage cities. And if it was a festival, the number swelled enormously because devout Hindus believed that a pilgrimage to Kashi on such days earned them far greater merit than on normal days. ‘Child, ever since Muslims began to rule Hindustan, every king imposed pilgrim tax on Hindus—except that infidel Akbar! Hindus are largely an impoverished people. And those Hindus who are in business have to pay twice as much tax as Muslim businessmen. And then they pay jaziya. That leaves them with nothing to go on pilgrimages. You see how many thousands have come here from very far off kingdoms! All by foot. They aren’t allowed to ride horses. And then they have to pay pilgrimage tax. And despite all this, if so many have come here, imagine the depth of their dark beliefs!’ Hamdullah Sahib was completely astonished at the crowd he saw.

  The kotwal visited Hamdullah Sahib, although he was not sent for. He knew his manners before people who came directly from the Badshah’s office. He respectfully did mujra. Hamdullah Sahib told me later that even a lowly officer in Delhi gets this kind of respect when he visits a suba. The kotwal took Hamdullah Sahib to be the officer sent to supervise the temple destruction. He stepped close, bowed and almost whispered, ‘There’s a festival now. You’ll understand the madness of these Hindustanis only if you stay in Benares. We can’t break the temple now…or we’ll have hundreds of thousands of people at our throats. I know truth is on our side but their numbers are greater. Let’s wait for a week. Once the festival is finished, most of the pilgrims will return…Wait…we should wait. And then when they’re gone, I’ll issue a farmaan to evict any outsiders who’re still here. After that, I’ll put our men to guard every street and corner. Then I’ll carry out the badshah’s farmaan. Please beg the pardon of the badshah on my behalf. Please also tell him that I pray to him to not be angry with this humble servant.’

  ‘When the work concerns faith, the opposition of even a hundred thousand men shouldn’t count. They must be slain. That in itself is faith. But when our numbers are small, we must use strategy. Yes. I agree. You are after all, experts in warfare.’

  The kotwal’s face lit up.

  We were treated like royalty in the special guest mansion. I hadn’t eaten this kind of food even in Delhi. Variety was limitless. Benares was blessed with a bounty of fruits in both quality and quantity compared to Delhi. It was the mango season. I feasted on an incredibly delicious mixture of mango pulp, ground jaggery and cardamom. Hamdullah Sahib forgot his age and gorged on bowls and bowls of this divine mixture and quickly paid the price. He lay in bed for a couple of days, trying to recover from an upset stomach.

  I roamed the streets alone every day. I wanted to explore this holiest of Hindu pilgrimage cities about which I had heard from my days in Devagarh. I couldn’t explain what tugged…it was more than just a tug, it almost bordered on a deep sense of attachment, despite my hatred for the religion that had failed to protect me. I thought my feeling had to do with the fact that my ancestors regarded Kashi with extreme reverence. Actually, it was that. I felt that in the first few moments after setting foot here. And I felt it even now although I had learnt to suppress it. In my mind, Kashi had meant just the Vishwanath mandir. But this…this city…it looked like Kashi was immersed in temples. And though they knew from my dress, manners and language that I was a Muslim, people answered any question I asked. Every face that answered my question showed a different expression: of fear and respect because I belonged to the ruling race. Of contempt because I was a mleccha, a foreigner, an alien. Of servitude in the hope of pleasing me and getting some crumb in return. Of guile, like lying in wait for a chance to plunge a dagger in me. Yet other faces showed an amalgam of all these expressions. They were cows tamed with repeated beatings of the stick. Obedient, faithful and helpful but with the latent rage in the eyes that said that it would gore horribly at the first sign of the master’s weakness.

  This made me very uncomfortable and I briefly thought of dressing like them—dhoti and a cloth covering the chest. Kashi was anyway a famous centre for cloth trading. There was no dearth for shops and I had enough money to buy some. But I struck off the idea because it was senseless. I could dress like them but there was nothing I could do about my beard, which indicated my religion. And if I shaved it, I knew what lay for me at Hamdullah Sahib’s hands. I could tell him I shaved it so I could pass off as one of them and spy on them more conveniently but he wouldn’t believe this. These were dangerous experiments.

  Every street had at least four to five temples. Some had at least ten. Then there were private temples inside people’s houses. Annapoorna, Lakshmi, Parvati, Gowri, Kali, Chandi, Chamundi, Durga…goddesses. And then the names of the lingams were likewise, countless: Brihaspatishwara, Kameshwara, Panchakeshwara, Andhakeshwara, Shanteshwara, Valmikeshwara, Chyawaneshwara, Karkotakeshwara, Bhairaveshwara…tens…hundreds of them…maybe thousands; who knows? I stopped at the Markandeshwara temple and asked a man standing at its entrance the name of the temple. He was about twenty years old.

  ‘Khan sahib, my name is Dadicha Bhatt. I will show you all the temples in Kashi and narrate their powers. You can give me anything you please.’

  I looked at him. He had the sacred ash on his forehead and sported the round tilak made of sandal paste in its centre. His head was completely shaved except for a small tuft in the shape of a cow’s foot.

  ‘You will need four full days to see all the temples in Kashi just from the outside. That is, if you want to see each temple without the puja. I know in your religion you don’t go to temples. So I’ll stand outside with you and narrate the history of each temple. Is that fine?’

  I nodded and promised to pay him two rupees. He was very happy.

  ‘I have heard that Kashi is full of really well-learned scholars and eminent pundits. Is that true?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, that is true. It has pundits in Vedas, Vedanta, grammar, Mimamsa, poetry…and not just th
ese…we have Jain and Buddhist scholars and gurus too.’

  ‘What is the reason that so many of these eminent pundits have made Kashi their home?’

  ‘Reason…hmm…’ he paused and looked at me with suspicion ‘…I don’t know. I’m not all that learned.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Bhattji. I am not a spy. Whatever you tell me will not reach another ear. I swear on Allah.’ This seemed to convince him.

  ‘After the Muslims demolished the temples, stupas and basdis and killed thousands of Hindu scholars, gurus and teachers and Buddhist bhikkus and saints, those who remained fled from faraway lands like Kashmir, Takshashila, Purushapura, Kanyakubja and Sthaneshwara towards the east to save their lives. Kashi gave them shelter. When Bhaktiar Khalji demolished the Nalanda University and beheaded thousands of Buddhist teachers and scholars there, those that could manage to escape, fled to Tibet, Kashi and Saranath. Then there is the belief that is as old as Time that death in Kashi grants one the freedom from the cycle of birth and death. From the earliest times, people of different philosophical schools from all parts of Bharatavarsha have come to Kashi and some have stayed back permanently. This is why you see such a huge number of scholars here, in Kashi.’

  I was astonished—a mere boy, he knew so much. Maybe he’s picked it up from listening to the older scholars. He has learnt the Vedas. And he told me he knows all the panda rites very well.

  ‘In each story about the temples you’ve shown me, the rakshasas, the demons that fought the gods and died in battle, have a lingam and a temple built around it to honour them. Why? I mean, what is the meaning? In that Madhu-Kaitabha story, Madhu and Kaitabha are demons. And here there is a Madhukaitabheshwara temple.’

  ‘Khan Sahib, a person might hate God and think him to be an enemy as long as he is alive. But it is in God’s nature to grant a good place in heaven to even such a person. God doesn’t hate anybody. Is that not so, Khan Sahib?’