Kashi

5. 2009

❝Hear the silence, love, you may find yourself in there!❞

1st April 2009

As if the February winter, that fading chill traveling down the arms and leaving goosebumps occasionally, something far but enveloping kept igniting my hopes.

Hopes I didn't know what for.

I could feel the breeze of Ganga colliding with my cotton-clad body and covering me in a pleasant, nostalgic essence. The last I was genuinely happy and surrounded by my family was our trip to Rishikesh, the year I was done with my schooling. Having no embrace of father, oftentimes we had been told to shift with my grandparents and relatives who housed a remote village in Bihar, and help them in housekeeping. However, family from our father's side wished to make no acquaintance with us. My mother who was born and raised in a relatively poor, lower division of the Bengali family, happened to be a thorn in our relatives' orthodox eyes.

We had been sympathized with, but neglected. Underestimated. Completing my schooling, rooted in the same place, was my way of shutting those voices.

Rishikesh was our way to remember my father being our guide, even if physically afar. Whenever a breeze passed us, anywhere we went, Maa used to stand still, a smile always playing on her lips, and she would mutter in a voice loaded with awe, "Tomar baba tomake ashirbaad korte esechhen." The breeze was our way of believing that he was always watching us, still falling into the role of a guide.

I couldn't keep the smile off my face when the breeze seemed to embrace me. It was a burn as well; a memory, a tragedy, a sadness of losing him to uncured internal wounds after a foggy morning road accident.

Just like the February winter, when we feel the cold, not enough to tumble and tuck within layers of blankets, nor less to roam like a wild soul in the streets––February, the last traces of numbing chill––even the breeze didn't let me lose hope over an undecided journey. As if making me understand, the struggle was far from over, but at the same time, I was going to get through.

My trance of bliss was broken by the rhythmic footsteps, coming from the bottom stairs. The sounds had us both sitting upright in a snap. We acted in a much-needed haste and alert. I scooted closer to Siddhant and we both had our bags clutched tightly between us, legs wide apart in a protective stance, while hands fisted on the side and a calm "let's see" thought going afloat.

Possibly it was a subconscious reaction, emerging from the memories of news we had heard a few days back. A group of three or four dacoits roaming across the ghats of Kashi. Their news had traveled faster than the gasps. None knew where they came from, or where they went afterward; every midnight they would scatter around and snatch the belongings, sometimes leaving only a pair of pants on the unlucky ones who roamed for aesthetics or night-stays on the stairs. There had also been news about violence, those who defied the goons, or put up a strong fight had been slashed with an edged knife over their arms and chest. There was an unfaithful news of one death as well.