Floating Fire

Tejdipto Bose
12th March, 2001

The floating fire made its way, through the rough waters of the Ganges, a fragile boat in the hands of a turbulent wave.

Haridwar[i] never looked more holy.  The water looked alive with hundreds of tiny flaming flickers.  I had come here for a month, away from the dusty, busy, filthy city down south.  Tonight was my last night here.  In the distance, I could hear the chants, I could see the evening masses gather around the temples spread around the ghat[ii] , with their prasad[iii] and flowers.  Some were lowering their offerings in little leafy packages and letting it float with the Ganga down the wide stream, letting the mighty river goddess decide its fate.  This is where I saw her.  She was never late.  Like yesterday, and the day before, and earlier still, she was at the ghat, with her leaves for the boat, complete with its sindoor[iv] , two paisas[v] , a small part of a prasad, and an oil deepak[vi] .

Like everyday, she kneeled down, over the flowing icy liquid, closed her eyelids for a brief moment, more in discomfort than prayer, and then she picked up her possessions.  She looked at them for a few fleeting moments.  I looked at her from a distance, with an artist’s perspective.  Everything seemed so enchanted.

It was dusk, early seven in the evening.  I stood over the ghat, a rocky outcrop over the Ganga.  From the corner of my eye, I could see the pilgrims, represented by their burning lights, waving almost in unison to the eternal rhythm.  The spirals of the thousand and one temples broke the horizon at a thousand and one places.  The two footbridges cast more shadows over the moving mass of liquid.  In front of me was the Ganga.

This is Haridwar.  Ganga comes out just from the Himalayas and makes its way down through this place, unmarked out of its birthplace, fresh and icy, and pure.  It was illuminated faintly by the glow of the dhoop[vii] and deepaks of the pilgrims behind me.  But the darkness occasionally flickering with the faint reflections created an omnipotent presence of Ganga.  The chants filled the air, apart from the melody of the water itself.  Everything was in harmony.  Below me, to the right sat the lady, old, yet dignified, worn out, yet proud.

The ghat was not crowded, but there were quite a few people on it, with their floats in their hands hurriedly going to the edge of the river, to set their possession afloat.  Most of the people I saw were with family.  To my left, a middle-aged couple with two teens was busy fixing their floats, all four of them.  One was set off; it sank after just five meters off the rocks.  The second faired much worse.  The third made it to at least twice the distance of the first.  The fourth seemed to be the most successful.  It kept going.  The family seemed satisfied.  They made their way up the rocks towards the other singing pilgrims.  I kept on looking.  The fourth float sank soon afterwards.

I turned my gaze to the old lady in white.  She didn’t look rich.  She had a cheap khadi[viii] white sari on, proclaiming to the world that she was a widhwa[ix] .  She looked at least seventy, and she seemed worn out and her eyes were tired.  Even in the enveloping darkness I could tell her face was emotionless.  The wrinkles were still, her eyes still steady, as she folded two green moist leaves up together, and after a series of slow but skilful moves ended up with a container that would act as her boat.  She carefully put in a small pack of sindoor, two paisas, some gur[x] prasad, a slice of an apple, and a lit deep.  The deepvi was small, set on a clay plate with a little depth, pointed with a thread going up, lit bright, fueled by a pool of oil.

She took the creation in both her palms, looked at it almost lovingly and then let it into Ma Ganga.  The float made its way through the chaotic currents as we looked on.  She followed the float’s trail with her eyes, as did I.  The waves were high, compared to the float, causing it to waver.  The old lady slowly got up.  She looked on as the little boat went through the turbulent waters, under the bridges, towards the horizon.  Towards eternity.  She left soon afterwards.  I guess her eyes couldn’t track her lit float anymore.  She made her way up the rocks into the busy bazaar beyond the bridge.  Clockwork like everyday.  I closed my eyes, trying to conjure up her image in my mind.  That was the last time I saw her.  I turned my sights back towards her floating entity on the Ganga.

It kept going.  It never sank.  The light never flickered.  Was she a sinner?  Was she a saint?  Was she just very skilful after years of practice?  Was she another old person?  Was she lonely?  I think she was lonely.  And tired.  But she was God’s chosen.

It remained afloat….as far as my eyes could see, the tiny flicker of flame was braving the liquids.  My tired eyes could see no more.  As I began to make my way up the rocks towards the temples, I began humming the chants that flowed over Haridwar.

[i] Haridwar - A hilly town at the edge of the Himalayas.  This is the first major town the Ganga goes through after it comes out of the Himalayas.  It is very holy to Hindu pilgrims all over who come at all times of the year to pray and bathe in its waters.
[ii] Ghat - A ghat is the banks of a river in a city.  It is usually cemented or has steps, but sometimes it is just rocks.
[iii] Prasad - a food offering to God, eaten after prayers, usually a fruit, or a sweet paste called ‘mithai’.
[iv] Sinoor - A red powder, marking the forehead of a woman, usually a married one.
[v] Paisas - Indian coins.
[vi] Deepak, deep - A small oval clay container holding oil that lights up a thread at its peak.
[vii] Dhoop - burning incense.
[viii] Khadi - local made cheap cotton cloth.
[ix] Widhwa - A widow, who always has to wear white.
[x] Gur - brown sugar made from sugarcane.

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