Soiled

Bansi cycled away at an easy pace through the streets of Varanasi. It had been an hour since the school bells had clanged on announcing yet another day calling it a close. As was his won't, Bansi had strayed off to the Ghats instead of returning straight home. He quite liked the hubbub here. Visitors often had mixed reviews about the Varanasi Ghats. Although impressed by the ancient and sacred aura of the Ghats, they often cringed at the ‘unwholesome’ atmosphere here. Bansi only scoffed at these fools. Cleanliness! What could these imbeciles of outsiders possibly know about the wonders of the mystic ancient city! All they could care about was some pomp and show and display disdain for age-old traditions. The essence of this spiritual land couldn’t surely be defined by how it physically appeared. Bansi, though only a teenager, was determined to not get influenced by the superfluities that his peers were unfortunately undergoing. That was precisely the reason he had stored only Bhajans on his computer, never lusted after non-vegetarian dishes, diligently prayed early in the morning, no matter the season and had gone through the great Hindu epics and mythologies time and again.

That was also the reason why he had taken up to chewing betel leaves too assiduously. He had watched his father and grandfather following this practice since childhood and had taken a fancy to it. Chewing those lush green leaves wrapped around the fragrant spices seemed to give him a sense of pride and a stronger hold on traditions. Paan is indeed an unequivocal jewel of a snack for Varanasi and Bansi ensured that he imbibed such pertinent matters of heritage. Just as on other days, as he cycled through the Ghats beside the mighty Ganga, he took out a paan (betel leaf) from his pocket that he had bought earlier from the expectant paanwala sitting across the street from the school and tucked it into his waiting mouth. He breathed in the riverine air. As scents of garlands-fresh and dried up, incense sticks and cow dung floated in, he spat out paan residue with a relish onto the banks and the waters lapped up the red fluid obediently. His wristwatch told him that an hour had passed by already. Ma could go berserk if he tarried any longer. He spun around homewards. But could not continue for long. Something or rather someone had caught his attention.

A strange looking Sadhu with disheveled hair and a grisly beard was staring intently at him. Now Bansi was quite used to being stared at and even befriending Sadhus here on the Ghats. There were undoubtedly plenty of them available here and Bansi’s unrivaled knowledge about the holy Hindu scriptures at his school could be attributed to the long hours spent with these ascetics. Nevertheless, this particular hermit had an inexplicable sort of aura about him. Bansi could feel his gaze bore into him and the nape of his neck begin to prickle-and indication that he was helplessly nervous. A strange mixture of fear, anticipation, and curiosity drew him towards the Sadhu. The Sadhu acknowledged him with an odd knowing smile while Bansi’s anxiety peaked up all the more. Why on earth did he feel so uneasy around this man? And yet couldn’t get himself to leave? The Sadhu was seated at a relatively quieter spot on the stairs, protected from the heavens by the roof of an old derelict temple. The babble of the crowd was faintly audible, making the gurgle of the river more pronounced. Bansi crouched down beside the man who still held his gaze and forced himself to utter out-“Why do you sit here all alone Baba?”The man’s eyes now emitted a fervent passion. His bushy eyebrows only emphasized their intensity. Not to mention the sinister lopsided grin shrouding his visage. Bansi’s courage seemed to be failing him every second. What was worse, the Sadhu had not spoken at all. The atmosphere itself seemed to be weighing down upon the boy. He was about to let go and make a run for it when the Sadhu gripped his wrist firmly. The hand felt cold and clammy on his wrist. The man while keeping his grip on the boy’s wrist whispered hoarsely- “Black and soiled…” and released his grasp abruptly. Without a word as to his conduct, the ascetic rose and began walking away, his sack slung over his back. Bansi’s eyes could only follow after the Sadhu’s disappearing form.

In a daze, Bansi got up and paddled away towards home. The home appeared to be the safest and friendliest place on earth. His beloved Ghats now possessed a threatening quality to them. Even the crowd gathered there and the gently flowing Ganga appeared alien. Ma’s words censuring him about coming home late sounded like music to his ears. Silently, he stepped into his room and flopped on to his bed. His routine of having lunch, going for a refreshing bath and sitting down to a chapter of the Ramayana for the umpteenth time had gone awry. All he could ponder upon was his strange encounter at the Ghats and how relieved he was at the moment to be ensconced in the protection of the home. He still couldn’t wonder why the Sadhu had whispered what he had. The poor fool must have lost it in the head. That was the only plausible explanation Bansi could arrive at. He stared at his wrist where the ascetic had gripped it firmly.

Ma wasn’t hurling abuses at him anymore. No matter what her son did, he was otherwise an obedient boy and very unlike the rowdy teenagers one would encounter these days. Not bad at academics either, he would be a complete package of filial piety, if not only for his paan chewing habit. This was something that even numerous and severe reproaches hadn’t been able to amend. His father, though an avid consumer of the betel himself, so much so that his teeth had assumed odious shades did not wish his son to have the same fate either and discouraged him from the practice. Bansi’s obstinacy in protecting the heritage of the paan, however, proved too much for them. With time, they gave up all hope of persuading him to do otherwise. Today, Ma could detect something distraught about Bansi’s bearing. Bansi wanted to gain the solitude of his room and to avoid maternal surveillance, quickly took in his lunch. However, he forgot to praise his mother for her jack fruit curry- another of his traits, thereby succeeding in escaping suspicion only partially. Back in his room, he took to the Ramayana in an attempt to restore his schedule. He dozed off soon.

When he awoke, the sun had not quite set yet, lending the city an orange-red glow. Bansi felt drowsy and headed to the washroom to water his face and freshen up. As he turned on the tap, he noticed his palms. They wore a weird red-black hue. Bansi couldn’t understand what was on. Impulsively he put them under the tap and began scrubbing. But the color wouldn’t come off. He thoroughly lathered his palms with soap and began watering them vigorously. And yet the sickly hue wouldn’t wash off. The shade of his palms resembled that which the streets assumed when paan juice was spat on them- a dastardly mixture of coal tar with crimson liquid. The Sadhu’s words reverberated in his ears-“Black and Soiled…” Bansi screamed but no sound would come out.

The color began spreading up the arms now, crawling up further towards his face, like a horrifying sickness spreading rapidly. Bansi staggered and fell upon the floor, hard.

When he came to himself, he was stretched out on his bed, perspiration beading up on his forehead, the Ramayana lying open by his side. Tentatively, he held up his palms to his face. They were clean and gave out the fragrance of the soap he had washed them with after having his lunch. Rising up, he went towards the bedroom window. The Ganga swept past in the distance. The fast sinking sun painted her orange. Bansi’s eyes fell upon a spot on the street close to the window. Someone had spat Betel residues there, coloring it red-red upon black. The sight of the spreading sickly colors filled up his mind and he winced.

The paanwala never got back his faithful customer after that. Somewhere far off, a Sadhu’s eyes twinkled knowingly.