The dasha-shwamedh main market slows down as if the city of 12 Lakh is suddenly in no requirement of clothes, shoes and hand bags anymore but the city doesn't remain isolated or empty for long.
In a week or two after the monsoon arrives the holy mon...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
For every time I see the sky I am aware of belonging to the universe rather to just one corner of the world. -Ruskin Bond( In search of perfect window)
For some its just a season, for the people of Banaras though the monsoon is an emotion. Yes, quite dramatic but then I have always believed that beauty lies in acceptance and acceptance is something the Banarasis had been always good at. While the world cried and complained about the water logging, this city had always enjoyed the showers as something magical.
The vegetable bazaars and stalls closed down as the water continued to pour for hours and I had always enjoyed the simple meals of rice, lentils and curry of gram peas or kidney beans when fresh vegetables could not be found and water reached up to knees an the roads and streets.
The dasha-shwamedh main market slows down as if the city of twelve Lakh is suddenly in no requirement of clothes, shoes and hand bags. The shop vendors stop hollering their regular, "Two in hundred... Two in hundred..."
The famous moga Chaat stall and other snack shops remain empty where sometimes during a normal day its hard to find breathing space inside.
The most unfortunate amongst this monsoon chaos though, are the poor animals and clueless tourists. The smelling bulls (since they never take a bath in their life time) and street dogs that belong to none but 'Mahadev' (the father and protector of the city) who roam the streets freely throughout the year are suddenly at the loss of shelter and food and have a hard time to last the monsoon.
While the milch cows and their calves return within the safety of the houses of their owners, the bulls have nowhere to go but bear the continues rain on their skin.
The tourists are in another type of quandary altogether, stuck in a small city, unable to get out since the trains are cancelled and the buses and cars no longer work in knees deep water. So the French, German and American hippes( with numerous pierced rings at odd places and matted hair that Banarasi children specially adore to look at) walk around with their fancy large cameras snapping pictures of everything that they find bizarre from the free bull fight shows near the garbage bins to the naked children splashing happily near the public water taps or how the people of this city worship the river Ganges, the evening 'aarti' attended by thousands of people who sit upon the wet stone stairs that leads to the Ghats adorned every evening like a new bride, the Sanskrit songs ringing along the synchronous melody of the large bells hanging around.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Most of the tourists naturally avoid this time of the year to visit, yet the few unfortunate ones who gets stuck here are even more amazed to see children leaving for schools sunk half deep in water. For the concept of 'rainy day' can be used for a day or two but since the whole season is spent the same way year after year, the parents and children both come to accept it as a normal circumstance too.
The city doesn't remain isolated or empty for long though. In a week or two after the monsoon arrives, the holy month of saavn starts and every nook and corner room of the city is filled with the pilgrims, the 'bool bum' (lord Shiva) flooding the city in bright orange shirts and sareez. Women, men and children all in large numbers barging in to get a glimpse of their 'Mahadev' in the auspicious hours.
The city that had felt empty for a week or two, once again gets into a flurry of activity clothing, feeding and sheltering fifty thousands to one lakh extra people every day.
No room in any hotel, motel, inn or hostel remain empty any longer. Every vegetarian restaurant and food stalls are flooded with people at morning, noon and night, so much so that even some of the non-veg food hubs starts serving pure vegetarian meals without onion or garlic for the pilgrims.
And if you ever stumble in here in this time of the year you can watch the bare footed orange jerseyed pilgrims passing by you in the muddy streets splashing thorough the logged water and continue to hear their loud chants of, "Har-har mashadev!" And "Bol bum!" long thereafter.
This short essay glimpses into a strange lifestyle of the oldest city of India where love, life and spirituality is intertwined like two threads that can never be undone.
If the words took yours fancy please vote and comment.
