River Town Chronicles (8 page)

There was no lab at the hospital to check a sample of Pat's blood to see if she was free from the inflammation of her liver caused by the hepatitis, so I boarded a train and took a sample of her blood to a larger hospital in a neighboring state. The results confirmed that the inflammation had subsided, and she was finally able to leave the hospital and return home.

I made arrangements for us to get out of River Town for a couple of weeks so Pat could recuperate in Delhi. As soon as she was ready to travel, we loaded the kids and a suitcase on the bus for a five hour bus trip to Delhi, where we all looked forward to a hot shower, three meals a day and some relaxation. This sounded good from a distance, but after a few days in Delhi, we were bored and anxious to return to River Town. Despite the perils of living there, the human bonds we established in the town were much more rewarding than the conveniences of life in Delhi. The anonymity, the exhaust fumes, the traffic, the noise, the haggling and chaos that takes place in a crowded city in India was not that enjoyable. Worst of all, Tim followed me to the market one day without my knowledge, and was struck down by a scooter rickshaw as he tried to cross the street. In an act of kindness, the scooter driver stopped, picked up Tim in his arms and carried him unconscious to the lawn in front of Fonseca's, where he quickly regained consciousness. Soon after that, Pat said she had had enough of Delhi and begged to return to River Town, to what seemed to us now to be our normal life there.

T
HE WINTER MONTHS
of November, December, January and part of February were bitterly cold in River Town. Wind swept down off the Himalayan foothills and onto the Plains, spreading a blanket of cold air over everything. Inside the house people huddled together and outside they wrapped wool blankets around their shoulders and scarves around their heads. At night, we piled on the
razaaiis
(cotton quilts) to keep warm. A cold night was measured by how many
razaaiis
were needed to stay warm. During the morning, bathing under the hand pump or with a bucket of cold water was almost unbearable.

Life moved more slowly during the winter, and people's thoughts seemed to grow more contemplative and spiritual in the broadest sense, for almost everything in River Town had some spiritual element attached to it. Take, for example, the name “River Town.” I puzzled over the name for months. I circumambulated the town, scoured the countryside surrounding the town but never saw a river, or even a stream! Why the name “River Town”? Where was the river? When I would ask this question, people would shrug their shoulders. Eventually, I was referred to a
sadhu
(holy man) perched next to a small shrine on the outskirts of town. When I asked him where the river was, he pointed to the ground. “The river flows underground. You can't see it, but you can feel it,” he assured me. He pointed to a large, stagnant pool of water that, he said, was connected by an underground channel to the sacred Ganges River. “You can't see it with the naked eye, or from your house in the bazaar, because the river flows underground.” I knew that if I was going to learn anything more about the sacred dimensions of River Town, I would have to suspend the urge to resist the unknowable and let myself go with the current to see where it would lead me.

I followed the
sadhu
to the western edge of town, to the Gauri Shankar Mandir, a temple dedicated to the god Shiva. The
sadhu
told me the story of how the area was once covered with jungle cascading down from the Himalayan foothills. One day, a woodsman was chopping down trees for fire wood. “All of a sudden, the woodsman struck a tree with his ax and water shot straight up out of the stump of the tree.” The
sadhu
looked me straight in the eyes to see if I understood what he was saying.
“Samjee jii?”
(do you understand?) He continued by explaining how the woodsman was frightened and swung his ax again and again until he had leveled the stump to the ground. But the next day, when he returned, he found that the stump had regenerated and stood straight up from the ground. For several more days he continued to swing his ax and level the stump only to discover that the stump reappeared the next morning. Finally, the frightened woodsman told his story to a
rishi,
a mendicant doing penance in the jungle. The
rishi
determined that what the woodsman witnessed was the work of the god Shiva. “That tree stump you tried to chop down was Shiva's phallus and the water you saw was Shiva's semen, which he uses to regenerate himself. The
sadhu
took me inside the Gauri Shankar Temple. “Look,” he said. There on the floor of the temple was the stump of a tree. “That is Shiva's phallus, in the same place it has been since the beginning of time. Even attempts by Muslim armies failed to destroy it.” I made an offering at the temple, thanked the
sadhu
and returned home with new insights into the enigma of the name of River Town.

The conversation with the
sadhu
made me aware of River Town as a sacred place. It is a deep layer that exists beneath the other layers of political and economic history that follow on top of it. Pools of water, tree stumps, monuments and shrines seem to provide the foundation for everything that came after the sacred origins of the town. As I became more familiar with this layer, I could see how pervasive it was. By the 1960s there were thirty six temples and shrines located in the merchant neighborhoods. They surrounded the inhabited world of River Town as persuasive, physical evidence of the sanctity of the town. People visited these places, I was told, for the purpose of
darshan
(meaning “to see, make known and visible”) and the attendants at these places, the
darshaans
(Brahmans, or preceptors, who make one “see”) use their
mantras
(sacred words) to illuminate the town with the sight of knowledge. All of this seemed worlds apart from the day to day business of the merchants and artisans of River Town, and yet it seemed to support and provide the sustenance for all of their activities.

T
HE WINTER MONTHS
brought on a flood of illnesses. Ram Swarup was complaining of ulcers and his teenage daughter, Saroj, complained of a buzzing noise and pain in her ears. She was nearly hysterical, covering her ears and running around the courtyard moaning. I asked Ram Swarup what was wrong with Saroj. He assured me nothing was wrong, but a real concern was reflected in his eyes. Saroj got worse that afternoon and lay on a
charpoi
moaning and crying out loud. I couldn't stand seeing her suffer like this, and again approached Ram Swarup with the offer to take her to the hospital for treatment. “It wouldn't do any good,” Ram Swarup answered. “This is just something that happens to young girls her age.” And then he added, “she has been visited by a
bhut
(an evil spirit).” I had recently heard about a girl in the merchant neighborhood who had died from the malevolent action of a
bhut.
“Let me take her to the doctor and get some medicine,” I said. “Maybe this will scare the
bhut
away.” Ram Swarup was not moved by my pleading, but
bhabhi
gave in to my insistence that Saroj see the doctor at the hospital where Pat had been treated. I hailed a rickshaw from the bazaar and Saroj and I made the trip to the hospital. The doctor looked in her ears and without hesitation confirmed that she had a bad ear infection. He gave me a prescription to get filled and said she should be fine in a few days. Saroj and I made our way back into town and I went to the chemist's shop in the bazaar to get the prescription filled. I told Ram Swarup that Saroj would need to take the medicine every day for ten days. He looked at the bottle suspiciously and nodded his head. I imagine he was wondering how the contents of this small bottle could drive away a powerful
bhut,
but, as if to please me, he administered the first dose of the medicine, and I watched to make sure he gave her the full dose.

The next day, Saroj seemed to be feeling a little better. She was more like her old self, shouting instruction to her sisters in a loud voice and demanding that they do things for her. Later that week, Ram Swarup handed me the bottle of medicine, with several days supply still in the bottle. “No need for this
angrezii diwaii
(English medicine),” he said. “The
bhut
decided to leave on its own.” I was worried that Saroj would suffer a relapse, but fortunately she recovered fully after a few more days. The infection in her ears had run its course. The
bhut
had fled the scene and the medicine had worked its magic.

O
CTOBER BRINGS FORTH A ROUND
of religious festivals that are celebrated with great joy and enthusiasm in River Town. The most important of these is
Dushera,
a ten day festival that celebrates the trials and tribulations of Rama and Sita, the two main characters from the epic story of the
Ramayana.
According to the story, prince Rama was exiled, along with his wife Sita and brother Lakshman, from the kingdom of Ayodhya. While roaming the forest in exile, Sita is abducted by Ravana, the demon king of Lanka. Rama and Lakshman eventually join up with Hanuman and his army of monkeys and attack Lanka in order to rescue Sita. A fierce battle takes place between Rama and the mighty forces of Ravana. Ultimately, Rama, with powerful magical weapons, prevails by destroying Ravana and rescuing Sita, after which he returns victorious to the capital city of Ayodhya.

Each night for ten nights during
Dushera,
a grand procession of characters from the
Ramayana
snaked its way through the narrow lanes of River Town. All of the characters were boys in their early teen years who performed the roles of both male and female characters from the
Ramayana.
They stood motionless and speechless as they passed through town on animal or tractor driven carts. There were no actions performed to convince the audience of their characters. Instead, the boys were mere vessels for the essence of the characters they portrayed. Rama's army was equipped with bows and arrows, demons wore hideous masks, and Hanuman, the monkey god who assisted Rama, rode along with them with his long tail attached to the rear end of his costume. With drums leading the way, Hanuman's army marched through the lanes of River Town on its way to rescue Sita, Rama's wife.

During the ten days of
Dushera,
tableaux scenes from the
Rayamana,
called
jhankis,
were displayed in every corner of the bazaar. Each of the
jhankis
represented a different event and geographic location mentioned in the
Rayamana.
There was a scene of Rama and his brother Lakshman living in exile in the forest. All vestiges of their privileged life in the city of Ayodhya were stripped away. Instead, they were dressed in simple bark clothing. There was a scene with Hanuman, the monkey god, who led Rama's army to ultimate victory. And there was a scene of Ravana who, using deception and magic, stole Sita from Rama and carried her off to his fortress in Lanka. The mood of the crowd was festive as it made its way among the blinking lights and familiar scenes of the
jhankis.