Banganga
…where the year really begins for us, every year, in the first weekend of January, as we walk down the winding lanes of Walkeshwar…
Here, in this corner steeped in history and faith, where legend says that Rama’s followers, on their way south, built a sand Shivalinga, a Walluka-Eshwar; and where Rama shot an arrow into the water to draw out the Ban-Ganga, the Ganga of the Arrow, from the dry earth.
This is one of the few places in this part of the city with a real sense of community. Where the doors are kept open in the evening, women smile and chat as they gather up the dry clothes from the line, and children dart in and out of each other’s houses, carrying thin paper kites, trailing twine, tinsel and laughter.
Where people can buy fresh dahi and buffalo’s milk daily, farsan and bhel, just outside their houses. And Makara Sankranthi kites with pictures on them: Amitabh Bachchan, Priyanka Chopra, Mallika Sherawat, even a picture of a puppy and a kitten together.
Through an open doorway I see a man lying on the floor, watching television; beside him, in the little room, are two cats seated in the typical meditative pose of cats, what the Bengalis call "beral-tapasyi".
We pass dozens of temples. New temples; old, decaying and deeply lovely temples. Temples inside buildings, inside houses, on the seafront, on the walls, under the trees. A wide-eyed, orange Hanuman. A lamp smoking before Walkeshwar. Chappals outside the Parashuram temple. A roadside shrine, a swayambhu stone deity painted with orange paste and flowers.
A peepul tree rises before us like a cloud of tiny green birds.
As we turn into the area just before the Banganga tank, affable policemen look at our passes and point us to the entrance. We step carefully down the red coir carpet that has been stretched tight across the stone steps of the tank. We’ve brought a dhurrie, the same blue chenille that we’ve brought along to Banganga every year for all these years; we used to bring cushions, too, but now we come too late to get the good seating along the walls.
The halogens dim. Hundreds of little yellow lights strung up along the branches and walls brighten up the darkness. Across the dark waters of the Banganga tank is the dais for the musicians. Long ropes of marigolds and jasmine are draped all the way into the water.
From open windows all around, from houses and temple balconies, men and women lean out to listen and take in the notes of a Pilu on the flute, a sweet Pahadi, a deeply reflective Puriya Dhanashree. White birds float on the dark water; above us, an owl floats past in the air.
And then the sounds of the city float in, too: the ringing of temple bells, the squawk of a bird, the shout of a child, the barking of dogs, even the hiss of a pressure cooker from a nearby kitchen. But none of these sounds are out of place. The music surges and encompasses them all, takes them along in its great rush, takes us along on an unending journey across the centuries.
*****
(first posted Jan 2006)
