Night of 25TH

CHAP 51: Wisdom in Wrinkles

Past:

Shubman

As we made our way to the aarti, the moon was already hanging high in the night sky. My petite best friend, with her infectious enthusiasm, tugged at my sleeves, pulling me through the lively crowd. Determined to find the ultimate spot for the aarti, she scurried with a mission.

After a bit of navigating through the throng, we stumbled upon a hidden gem—a perfect corner that offered the most enchanting view of the candle-lit Ganga Maiya. With a satisfied grin, she came to a sudden stop, pulling her pallu over her head in anticipation of the spiritual spectacle about to unfold.

Setting down the bags, I joined my hands, bowing reverently to the sacred river of India. As the familiar strains of traditional hymns filled the air, a deep sense of reverence enveloped the atmosphere. The priests, draped in saffron robes, took their positions, each holding a brass lamp.

The flickering flames from numerous candles and diyas created a captivating play of light on the calm waters of the Ganges. The spiritual fervour of the gathered devotees was reflected in this mesmerizing dance of illumination. Drums and conch shells added their voices to the celestial melody, blending seamlessly with the pulsating heartbeat of the divine celebration.

Above, the moon bestowed its silvery glow upon the scene, casting an otherworldly light on the riverbanks adorned with strings of marigolds. Devotees, with closed eyes and folded hands, swayed gently to the soothing rhythms, lost in their personal connection with the sacred river.

As the priests began the aarti, the air became charged with an intense spiritual energy. The ascending flames painted warm hues on the faces of the diverse crowd. A collective devotion filled the space, erasing individual identities and creating a unifying bond among the gathered people.

The aarti unfolded like a celestial dance, with each movement of the priests carrying profound symbolism. In response, the river rippled gently, mirroring the spiritual vibrations saturating the air. The echoes of bells resonated through the night, harmonizing with the collective prayers of the devotees.

In that sacred moment, time seemed to stand still. The usual clamour of daily life melted away, replaced by a profound stillness that connected everyone present to a divine realm beyond themselves. The Ganga aarti became a timeless ritual, an offering of gratitude and devotion to the sacred river, carrying with it the essence of spirituality and ancient wisdom.

I opened my eyes, peeking at Chucky, who was singing the verses of Ganga aarti with eyes closed, clapping her fingers. My heart smiled knowing "Jo sukoon dosti mein voh pyaar mein nahi" Alizeh was right when she said "Pyaar mein junoon hai aur dosti mein sukoon."

I felt an elbow poking at my waist. When I turned, I found the same old lady from earlier. She beckoned me to bend down with her old wrinkled finger. Bending down, I looked at her, raising my eyebrows.

"Ramesh ji bhi hume aise hi dekha karte the pyaar bhari ankho se," her old hoarse voice spoke.

"Dadi, sirf dost hai hamari," I said, pointing at Chucky, who was engrossed in aarti.

"Dhatt pagle, tum usse pyaar man chuke ho bas kehne ki himmat nahi hai," she said, adjusting her pallu, pouting her lips as she didn't have teeth.

"Dadi, aise kuch nahi hai," I said, standing straight, feeling embarrassed.

"Sach toh yehi hai beta, aise hi baal safed nahi ki hume tajurbe se bol rahe hai pagal ho chuke ho pyaar mein, but koi rok raha hai tumhe," she said, laughing and patting my lower back.

I looked at her shocked because she decoded the whole of me in just a few minutes.

"Kaha tha na aise hi baal safed kiye," she said, laughing.

"Kaise kaise nazarein hoti hain pyaar mein, beta. Hum samajh sakte hain," she said, her eyes twinkling with wisdom.

I awkwardly smiled, not quite sure how to respond to her insightful remarks. Chucky, still lost in the aarti, remained blissfully unaware of our conversation.

"Pyaar hai, izhaar karo, warna pachtaoge," she warned, her old eyes shining with the wisdom of experiences. I was about to respond, but she moved back, smiling.

"Har gange, Har gange," she recited, moving away and waving as the aarti concluded. I continued to gaze at her figure until it disappeared into the crowd, unable to find words. I stood there, contemplating her words, yet struggling to fully comprehend the significance of her last lines. My hands remained joined, my gaze fixed on the spot where she had vanished.

"Manny," I felt Chucky shaking me out of my reverie.

"Kahaan kho gaye ho, ho gayi aarti aur tumne darshan bhi nahi liye," she said, holding her hands in a gesture as if carrying a pail of water.

"Haan, sorry, just got distracted," I replied, picking up the shopping bags, ready to move.

"Wait, take this," she said, caressing her hands over my face and muttering, "Har Gange"

"Tumne nahi li thi, toh maine le li tumhari liye aarti. Ab chalo," she said, picking up her saree and climbing the stairs.

As I ascended the stairs, my gaze fixed on the girl who seemed destined to remain beyond my grasp, my eyes welled with emotion at her unwitting gesture. Lost in a trance, I followed Chucky who unexpectedly carried echoes of my mother's poignant moments. Recollections flooded my mind of my departure for my first international match, my mother's hands joined in prayer to Rabji, whispering heartfelt blessings. I could vividly recall her turning towards me, her hands caressing my face, imbuing every prayerful wish she had sought from Rabji. In Chucky, I discovered a semblance of my mother's love—a smaller, yet poignant, replica that resonated with the profound affection she had bestowed upon me.