❝She is an art, dare you look away from her.❞

22 April 2009

That night, Kashi was set ablaze; I stood like a mere spectator.

I stood silently, keeping my hands behind my back, for every rebellious muscle within me that twitched upon the gruesome sight itched to jump out of my arms and embrace the burning moors. My eyes were drawn to the ground, as if each question that screamed its way into my head might trace the answers across those flaming ghats.

I didn't want any of those hundreds of faces meeting mine. Their eyes––gazes, that dripped of curiosity, hatred, sympathy, disgust, and even fear. They were bound to know I was different, or that I was someone who knew more than anyone else present there. They possibly envied me over how much more an outsider mourned for burning Kashi than those who resided there. They were the ones who called Kashi their home. I was a mere wanderer.

Kashi.

I could never get enough of repeating the word. The bane of my existence amid the cruel world. The madness with which a recluse adhered to his solitary confinement, or a hermit's madness to touch the elixir of divinity in seclusion; I could keep repeating her name with as much passion; repeat it even more than a divine chant.

Instinctively, a small smile made its way onto my lips. Any other set of eyes that were to fall on me at the very moment might have labelled me as someone who traded for his sanity. Someone who had fallen, who was lost beyond the sanction of reality. I knew better than them. I, indeed, was lost but not at expense of my sanity. I was lost in bliss. I was mourning the burning ghats of Kashi, but all the same, I celebrated the start that was impending for a while.

With each passing minute that the flames started dying, the crowd heaved a collective sigh of sadness and withered around. They mourned, but momentarily. They mourned for the loss of their comfort, but the intensity of their loss was for a blink only. By the following day, no one was to remember what happened there last night. The screams, the cries, the fire, the ashes, they all would become a story to be travelled mouth to mouth, and ears to ears. Maybe, in near or far ahead in time, someone daring was fated to tumble across and rebuild that ruined side of Kashi, but that had be it. No one was going to remember what happened that day in Kashi... with Kashi.

The crowd disappeared. Whispers went silent. Even the lights dimmed. Except for me, no one remained there. I stood frozen on the topmost stair of the now-ruined ghat. Below me laid the ashen, barren land, still some flames danced occasionally––not strong enough to cause a fire again, but strong enough to not let the screams fade, just yet.

Every now and then, tides from the vast, pristine river Ganga crossed the bamboo restraints and touched the ruins, taking away the ashes with them. With the tides came the familiar sandalwood fragrance. My smile deepened.

"Kashi," I whispered.

My eyes were the last of senses that could take her in. She came with the same appearance; the red saree, embroidered with gold threads, the golden earrings of a shine that resembled a devoted lover who brought the moon down to earth and hung it to his subject of devotion. Her eyes, those twinkling pairs of kohl outlined wide eyes, as if the stars couldn't accept the distance from the moon and they, too, stepped down the cosmos. A set of smiling lips that held so much hope, I wondered if they ever failed to leave a long-lasting effect on anyone who crossed her. Hairs that surpassed her waist, those wild waves of raven black, complementing her dusky charm.

"Kashi." As if I was nowhere near to achieving the satisfaction, I spoke her name again. Much softer this time.

She smiled then, the same happy and hopeful stretch of her mouth I had come to recognize as home. I stood by the top stair, she walked across the ruins––the bottommost flamed stair. Her feet submerged into the water every alternate step, yet she walked with continued elegance. Neither her smile faltered, nor did the intensity of adoration from my eyes. Only when she had covered the entire distance of the ruins, did her back disappear into the night, making reality shake me within the spot.

I still stood there. This time sadness engulfed me. Again.

Those ghats that I had come to find my solace in, now laid in complete ruins. Destructed.

Even after so many years, today, when I narrate the story of those twenty days, no one understands. I don't expect them to. They tag me as a sad, poetic lover and move on. Very few of those who sit by me and listen to the whole story, just scratch their heads and confess their lack of understanding. Seeing their expense, I happily label myself as a sad, poetic lover and ask them to move on. The only thing that remains constant is a blunt fact.

That night, Kashi was set ablaze; I stood like a mere spectator.

ITALICIZED WORDS:

Saree: sari (sometimes also saree or shari) is a women's garment from the Indian subcontinent, that consists of an un-stitched stretch of woven fabric arranged over the body as a robe, with one end tied to the waist, while the other end rests over one shoulder as a stole (shawl), sometimes baring a part of the midriff.

Ghat (gh-aat): stairs or a passage leading down to a river. Here, it's about the ghats of Kashi (Banaras).