#32 Searching For God...

400 million people are gathered on the banks of river Ganga this month for the Maha Kumbh fair. This puts pressure on a severely polluted Ganga, on whose waters 600 million Indians survive.

Welcome to the third edition of All Things Indian, where I unpack the complexities of contemporary India. Each post is a short piece of fiction based on real people I have seen, heard of and met during my decades of reporting. Each story will give you a short insight into the state of affairs in India today.

By the time I turned east from Kanpur, I had already travelled 1000 kilometers. There is only so much an old body like mine can take. I felt like a camel who had traversed the entire dessert without rest; like a dog lying in front of tall buildings waiting for someone to throw a piece of bread its way; like a sparrow flying from electric wire to electric wire, hoping to spot grains to peck on.

But, I kept going.

I kept going because I knew she was just round the corner. By the time I would reach Allahabad, she would reach there too. She had traveled a longer distance, over gigantic mountains, through dangerous gorges and past poisonous cities. She filled joy into my parched existence.

We have done this for years now. We meet at that particular corner in Allahabad, from where we can see the magnificent fort that the great Mughal king Akbar built. We can see the expanse of sand that reaches to the edges of the university town. We can see young couples walk around holding hands, sometimes they are even busy burying their heads in books.

But, it never gets old. We like meeting there. We like the shadows of the fort. We like the chaos. We like the whiff of freshly cooked rotis. Flat breads.

Eternal romance.

We meet. Sangam.

She forces me to lose myself, just like sugar that dissolves in milk. Her enthusiasm infuses life into my frail body. She loses herself in me too. She once told me that when she first heard chhap tilak sab cheeni, she thought Amir Khusro had written the song for her. That I took away her identity by just staring deeply into her eyes.

I am her. And she is me. We.

It is perhaps this love - unadulterated, unconditional- that draws so many people to us.

They say the Gods reside where love is abundant and pure. Perhaps They do.

But, we are not sure They have been found.

Over the years, the search for God has become violent and vicious. People come in troves, trampling upon us, disregarding our vitality, strangling our spirit. They sucked every drop of existence out of us, looking for divinity.

We never complained. After all, we are women. Have women ever complained?

It is time to bellow though.

Ganga, they called me.
They said I am the fountain of their civilisation. I accepted.
They called me mother, for I give them life. I didn’t protest.
They said a dip in my bosom would cure them off all ills. I complied.
They filled me with chemicals, saying they would clean up later. I waited.
They said they would meet, pray and party on my banks every year. I made space.

Little do they realise that the Kumbh robs me of the little dignity I have left. It feels like someone put their palms inside my stomach, to pull out my intestines. Like they stripped me naked and paraded me in a crowded market place.

What makes it worse is this year is that they are gathered in Allahabad. And it is not just my dignity, but the dignity of the Sangam that is ravaged. The sacred space where Yamuna and I become one.

We have led long, happy lives. We were never a burden on anyone. We were always helpful. We fed them, clothed them, provided shelter. We were generous and never sought anything in return.

If Gods indeed exist at the spot where two lovers meet, then it is time They hear the cries of our incapacitated bodies.

And put us to rest.

Would that mean the end of their civilisation? The end of their identity?
So be it.