December 14, 2022. We were all packed and ready to leave. But there was still about an hour before the car would come to take us to the airport. This was the third day of our short trip to Haridwar.
The morning was cold, as usual.
Once you get used to the grandeur of the Ganges, you begin to go deeper and get calmer. For both of us, this was that day. But we were already stretching to catapult back into the chaos. We should have stayed for longer.
On the very first day of arrival, in the evening, we visited a small ashram by the banks of the Ganges. Swami Keshavananda's ashram, where Sri Lahiri Mahasaya's mortal remains are consecrated under a small Shiva temple. For the uninitiated, he was the spiritual Guru of Sri Yogananda who wrote 'An Autobiography of a Yogi.
It had felt good, and we also figured it was very close to our hotel, just across the river that flowed in between.
So this morning, with a free hour in hand, I told Neena I'd take a walk to the ashram and sit there for a while. She was reading a book and was not inclined to walk in the cold.
So I set out alone
A narrow pedestrian bridge close to the hotel immediately took me to the other side of the river. While one side of the bank is littered with houses, each with its own private little connection with the river, the other side is a long, broad, unencumbered stretch of a concretised embankment.
The morning sun drew patches on the path through the trees. Soon I was across the hotel. I could see Neena looking at me. She called on the cell. "I also want to come."
I said, "Sure. I'll wait here."
I could see Neena hurry back inside to get on the road behind.
I looked around, camera ready. There was a small group of old Sikh gentlemen. Not too well-off. Looked like weary long-stay pilgrims. You can make out who are locals and who are in transit. Also, who are on short stays and who are on extended stays. Who is a sadhu, and who is not. The eyes, the body language, the clothes, and the colour they wear hold clues to these. It was intriguing that they looked neither local nor like a group of travelling pilgrims. Their pace was slow and relaxed. They were quiet. They looked lost, even though few were huddled beside each other in the cold and talking.
My eyes fell on a lone Sikh gentleman.
He was near the river, seated on the ground with a fancy walking stick near him. He had white dreadlocks in his beard, like Sadhus. But he wasn't one. He looked at nothing in particular. The needy usually look out for the next patron. This man did not care.
I came close to him and started a conversation. I could see Neena get on the bridge on the far side. Soon she would be with me.
The man said he did not have anyone. He was here to live his last days. I asked him where did he stay? He gestured with his chin to some place, "We live there."
"Do they feed you?" I asked, trying to make sense of the system this man was embedded in.
"No. Just stay. They don't have money to feed us. Once in a while, they give us a meal."
"So, where do you eat on the other days?"
"Whatever is there. Nothing, or sometimes hotels send us their leftovers."
"Where are you from?"
"Punjab."
"Since when have you been staying here?"
"I don't remember. I have no one in this world. Everyone is gone. I am alone."
I imagined my day. Soon I'd be on a flight. Once back in Bombay, there would be a hundred chores to attend to. The next day was Neena's 50th Birthday. There would be a party the day after. The children were planning something of their own. Some of my work-related clients had to be called. A script to finish. Books to read. Mails to send. So many pictures to process… An endless stream of things that would never get over and forever only pile up.
And here was this man. At the end of that run. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. No one to talk to. Quiet and lost. Maybe hungry too.
He was neither enthusiastic to talk more nor reticent. I had nothing more to ask, and he had nothing more to say. So we stayed in each other's presence.
After some time, Neena joined. She found us in the circle of distance where people talk. But here we were silent, yet close.
"What happened?" She asked.
"Nothing," I said.
I did not know if it would be appropriate to offer him money. He did not look like a beggar to me. Yet, at the moment of separation, I reached out for my purse and pulled out a 100 rupee note.
"Can I offer you a little money?" I asked the man.
He took the note.
I did not want to embarrass him by waiting for a thank you. I moved on
The previous evening we visited the famous 'Harki Pauri' to witness the 'Ganga Aarati'. It was an average weekday, and yet the place with milling with thousands of people who
had come to see the ritual. The grandeur of the whole thing was no doubt extraordinary, but what marred the experience was the presence of uniformed men who moved around in the crowd with receipt books of various denominations, soliciting donations. It was such an organised drive that they were trained to poke people emotionally to extract money from them. They were not embarrassed doing that.
But this morning, the man had not even asked and here I was, embarrassed to offer him help.
Neena and I went to the ashram and sat there for a while. Everything was beautiful and perfect.
Soon it was time to return.
On our way back, we saw the same man counting money as we approached the same place. His old hands shook. It seemed like all the notes would soon fly in the breeze, off into the Ganges, if he was not careful.
As I passed him, I asked him, "What happened, Baba?"
"I am short of 300." He said. "Someone gave me a 100 just now. But I am short of 300 for my medicines." The sun had loosened his phlegm. He coughed, and we could sense the crazy congestion in his lungs.
He was looking at me, but he did not recognise me. We had met not more than half an hour back. I have seen Dementia closely.
I handed him 300 more and stroked his back. He smiled back at me.
When we were back in the hotel, and I looked across the river, the man had left. Hopefully to get his medicines.
Life is a string of rendezvous. But, unfortunately, we forget most of them.
But the man came up when I was processing my Haridwar pictures.
I don't want to meet him again, but I hope he is okay.
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