Tapestry of Flames and Waves
Adi wobbled slightly as a frolicking wave nudged him as if to jerk him off his reverie. He was so little, he thought, as he continued with his rituals in waist deep holy Ganga. He shouldn't drop the aarti, he'd have to float it gently.
~~~~~
'Adi, be careful, you must hold the aarti with care, float it ever so gently, and let Ganga Maiya do the rest,' uncle's firm and gentle voice echoed. Adi cautiously held in his little hands aarti - dry sal leaves roughly stitched with twigs holding a motley of soft vibrant petals mellowed by the dim yet warm glow of diya in the middle. Gingerly he stepped on the slippery water-drenched stone steps, weaving through the crowd with exaggerated care - lest he fell, lest the diya snuffed, lest the mighty Ganga Maiya was incensed! He never turned back, his laser focus only on the diya, he had to reach the banks and float it. And uncle? The gangling middle-aged man was his cocoon - when does a chrysalis ever leave his home until it sprouts wings? Adi hurried, his uncle at his wake, to let the tiny flame of his aarti carry his prayers to Ganga Maiya before the grandeur of Ganga Aarti commenced with pomp.
As the twilight-smeared sky gave way to the tenebrosity of a nascent evening, devotees walked to the eastern bank of Ganga in droves to witness the awe-inspiring Ganga Aarti by ecclesiastical pundits. A hundred red-white painted steps of the ghat leading to the banks of Ganga, were a sea of heads - variegated – grey, black, brown, bald, curly. Holy water sloshed through interstices between pointed sterns of boats, filled with devotees who opted to witness the panoramic spectacle of majestic Ganga Aarti from the darker depths of the revered river.
Adi quickly and deftly floated his little aarti in the quieter waters and offered his prayer silently as the mild torrent carried the diya further away, 'Ganga Maiya, do keep us well, look after our forefathers, and nurture those that are yet to arrive.' It was the same prayer every day; he had to recite, no escape from his uncle's vigil. As his little flame joined Ganga's torrent, he turned to join the crowd with his uncle. Adi never dared to look back - what if the diya blew off and his prayers were unheard, condoned?
Seven conch shells resonated through the air as the priests began the rituals of the renowned Ganga Aarti. Adi watched wide eyed, his little hand safely clutched in his uncle's fist. He felt tiny amidst the gargantuan congregation, but his uncle had his back. The air was impregnated with the aroma of sandal incense sticks, thick fumes spiralling from censers, peals of rings from hand held brass bells, cymbals, and rhythmic hymns sung by the mass. The 7 priests' impeccable orchestration in offering their prayers, gratitude, deferential respect to Ganga Maiya through various mediums of water, fire, and flowers was jaw-dropping. Adi's eyes were, however, eagerly waiting to be alight with the finale of 7 gargantuan aaratis - 7 gleaming metal stands, each holding 108 firey wicks that upstaged everything before them. Thousands of eyes gravitated to the hallowed rings as the priests' resolute arms moved the tongues of fire in circles, in unison. Their brilliance impaled the sable blanket wrapped Ganga, rest of the world was only a silhouette.
'Do they get more blessings than us? They have so many more diyas,' inquisitiveness would get the better of Adi.
'Adi, remember, holy fire and holy water - a drop or a spark heals as much as the whole; they harbour life. When you grow up, light a little diya every evening no matter where you are, what river flows by you, or who you are surrounded by.'
~~~~~
The waves of the Ganga echoed in Adi's heart, and the flickering flame of a diya in his hands glistened. Those hands that enfolded his little ones were no more. Adi didn't need a quelling voice to guide him anymore, he didn't need a hand to clutch on to, he wasn't afraid of his diya being blown out - what on earth was forever? But he wondered if his uncle could still be there. You could be anywhere when you leave the corporal shell, he deliberated over his thoughts. Maybe, he was in the flames of his diyas, in the drops of the holy Ganga, and in the vibes of Ganga Aarti.
'A drop or a spark heals as much as the whole, keep my uncle well wherever he is, Ganga Maiya’.
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