The Hindu Priest

Temples




Waiting for the Aarti





Bathing in the Ganges



Chanting



Offerings



Burn baby burn




Aarti




DEV!



We’re in Haridwar – God’s Gate or Gateway to God. This is the first large city where the Ganges river comes spilling out from the Himalyas into the flat Ganges plain. Devotees flock here every day to bathe in the river and wash away their sins. Most people come here once a year to do so. Every 12 years there is a Kumbh Mela where literally millions show up. During the Kumbh Mela I’m told they cannot park closer than 30 kilometers so they have to walk and/or take a rickshaw. There’s a huge statue of Shiva by the town.

We parked at a nearby garage and took a rickshaw into town. I don’t like the rickshaw’s, but Kovi was in an automobile accident as a young man that kept him in a coma for six months, his recovery leaves him a bit wobbly and his voice is slurred. Sometimes people are rude because they think he’s drunk.

I sit outside the hotel while Kovi gets the room. Better to negotiate before they see an American and triple the price. A sadhu walks up to me and begs for money. A small time pushcart merchant stands nearby rearranging his wares and cleaning them.

I’ve been broken of giving beggars money now, it’s become obvious that any generosity on my part is met with further demands from the masses. Every now and then if I see someone seriously in need, I’ll quickly sneak them some money before anybody notices. Otherwise I’m deluged with people and I can’t tell who’s in real need or who’s just a scammer. What’s also become obvious is that it is true that some parents/guardians cut off their children’s hand or foot in order for them to become more productive beggars. The wounds are always in the same place.

I refuse the Sadhu money, he looks like he’s in good shape, unlike a beggar woman against the wall. The Sadhu finally walks away and the merchant gives him the evil eye. I know that look, it says, ‘Get a job hippie’.

We got a great hotel with a room overlooking the Ganges. Right here the river is channeled into a large canal cemented on both sides. The river runs surprisingly fast and is thick with the minerals from the Himalayas. Not to mention the trash from upstream.
Walking across the bridge I noticed a sadhu throw some garbage into the sacred Ganges. Kind of explains a lot about India.

This is it, The Holy Ganges. I’ve seen films of this since I was a kid and now I could experience it myself. It’s pretty much as you would imagine. Thousands of people kind of camped out, if you can call sitting on the ground in the open air camping. Beggars, touts, rickshaws, sadhus, tourist shops, restaurants, the works. The sights, the sounds, and the smells overwhelm you. Life is in your face 24/7.

I’ve been in India over a week and have not been to a real Hindu temple. Kovi said there were a bunch in town so off we went. The first took me by surprise because it was brightly painted, large, and fairly new. It turned out to be a copy of a temple in Kashmir. We followed a prescribed path, through, over, and around the temple. Gods and goddesses were arranged for proper viewing. After about 20 minutes we emerged back in the front. That was odd.

Next door was another temple, brightly painted, and fairly new. Not much there to see though, just one big room with some statues.

We walked down to a third temple and this one had a fee to enter a certain area. Inside were roboticized plaster of paris representations of Krishna and other deities, telling their life story. Finally I was able to make out what was going on. I was surprised to find robots in a temple, but on reflection I realized European churches did the same thing with paintings, frescos, and stained glass. They were there to tell a religious story to an illiterate people. This was for the visitors.

“These temples are new”, I told Kovi. I wanted old temples.

“These temples are not new, they’re 50 years old”.

Oh, I get it, they were built in the time of Disney, no wonder they seemed so Disneyesq.

“They remind me of Disneyland”, I say.

“Americans do not have many Gods, therefore they need Disneyland”, he responded. There’s some wisdom there.

Afterwards we drove away down the same road I saw what looked like a Hindu Fisherman’s Wharf, games, attractions, and food.

Around dusk we made our way to an area sitting across a small conduit of the Ganges from an old temple. That’s the temple I want to see, ancient, almost 1000 years old. People bought small plastic mats and we were told to sit down and crowd closer to the edge. Many people had bought flower filled leaf baskets with candles in them to float in the river. People across the river had gotten in and were splashing around and dunking themselves.

“Would you like to go in?” Kovi asked.

“No way I’m going in that water Bubba”. I knew what was really in that water. We sat for a long while and I was wondering what was the point of all this. That and where was a bathroom if some of these thousands had to go? Oh, yeah, nevermind.

Finally a loudspeaker started up and the people responded as one.

“DEV!”

Another chant and, “DEV!”, again. This was the formal beginning of the Aarti.

There’s something about thousands of people raising their voices in unison that sends shivers down your spine. This was pretty cool. Some girls next to us covered their heads as part of the ritual. There was lots more chanting and then a chant of Hari Ganga (Holy Ganga) was played. I relaxed into it and began chanting myself.

After a few minutes I realized I was one of only a few chanting, at least where we were sitting.

“Why isn’t anybody chanting?” I asked Kovi.

“They’re mostly tourists, not devotees” he answered.

“Hmmm, I must be a devotee”, I thought and continued chanting.

Now when I say tourists, I don’t mean Western tourists. During my whole stay in Hardiwar I only saw three other Westerners, and they had obviously gone native and been living here for a few decades. Their clothing was old and soiled and their hair matted. You know guys, you can always bathe in the Ganges.

There was more chanting, and a couple of songs. Then they lit some big cauldrons with fire by the temple and everybody oohed and ahhed. It was pretty cool. Some people took their flowers down to the river a few feet away. Then it was over. Not that long, but pretty interesting. Thank goodness it wasn’t Stations of the Cross.

We were getting up to go when a priest type person came up to us and told me I could have a prayer. Cool thing.

I’ve always told people I’m a Hindu at heart. My friends have brought me small statues of Hindu Gods over the years. I have such a collection on my desk that people who don’t know better, think an Indian sits there.

Western religions are exclusive, our god is the right God, your God is wrong. Hinduism is inclusive, all are accepted. Also the multitude of the Gods in Hinduism is really just different manifestations of the one God Brahama, the eternal, unchanging, infinite, and transcendent reality which is the Divine Ground of all matter, energy, time, space, and being (I stole that from Wikipedia). The individual Gods are more like Catholic Saints, each one with their own special story and powers.

My friends took me to a Hindu temple in Livermore years ago and I remembered that one of them had paid for a prayer. I was a bit taken aback because she literally had to pay at a desk for the prayer and then she gave the priest the receipt. I’m not sure that’s quite legal from an IRS perspective, I thought it has to be a donation, not a fixed fee. The priest chanted his prayer while she sat and meditated. The priest looked bored and was barely paying attention.

I’m told Hindu priests have no power in the Hindu religion, another plus as far as I was concerned. They don’t get to tell people how to live their lives. They don’t get to interpret the Vedas to suit their own political/social philosophy. They just recite the prayers, that’s it. And this priest was bored out of his mind, he’d done this prayer a dozen times today and would do it a dozen more.

After it was over I told my friend that the priest wasn’t focused on the prayer.

“That’s okay”, she said, “I was”.

Wow, in Christianity you really feel reliant on the priest, after all, he’s got God’s good housekeeping seal of approval. If he screws up the prayer you’re in trouble. You’re always worried that after you leave he’ll tell God, “Nevermind”.

Hinduism is very personal. If you really talk to Hindu’s about it they will tell you you’re not praying to a God up in the sky or in the idol, you’re praying to the God within you.

So now I get my own prayer at the River Ganges no less. I take off my shoes and the priest brings me down to the cement steps in the river. I’m only going ankle deep. That’s as far as I’m getting in the water, and my first prayer is that I don’t fall in. That water is rushing fast.

I fold my hands together and he starts the prayer. I don’t know what to do, so I repeat what he says. He asks me my name. Then he asks me my father’s name. Then my mother’s name. Then my sister’s name. Then my Grandparents names. This goes on for about a minute.

“Donation”, he says.

I’m pretty sure the prayer isn’t finished, so I pull out 50 rupees ($1) which you have to understand is a lot of money here. A bottle of water cost’s seven cents, not two-fifty like the states.

“500 Rupees”, he says.

“What?” I can’t believe my ears. That’s about a weeks wages here. No way I’m paying that much, my hotel isn’t that much more. I look at Kovi to see if that’s a correct amount, he indicates I shouldn’t pay it. I pull out 100 rupees and hand it to him. He takes the money.

“500 Rupees”, he repeats.

“No, one hundred”, I’m irritated.

“500 Rupees. Prayer is for your whooooolllle family”. He reaches out and places his palm on my chest. There’s a couple of other assistants with him and they’re all touching me and telling me to pay.

I’m really getting pissed now. This Priest scumbag is holding my family hostage? I’m sick of this. All you want is money?

No wonder you guys can’t convert anybody. Do you realize if I were dealing with a Mormon Priest (most adult males are priests) he would take me in, feed me, wash me, clothe me, get me a job, and provide shelter for me all in the hope I might convert? And all you guys do is paw at me and hassle me for more money because I’m an American? You call yourself a priest? Get the fuck off me! I push them away and climb the stairs to go.

Another priest begs me to go back, “It’s okay, no problem. No problem”, he repeats again and again. I want the prayer finished and Kovi indicates I should, so I relent. I walk back down, put my feet in the water, and face the priest.

“200 Rupees”, he says. His assistants chime in.

That’s it, all anybody has done since I’ve come to this country is hassle me for money. There is no Holy India I realize, just a country filled with fast talking hustlers. The beggars all know better English than anybody else. You call this a religion? I turn to go again.

They realize the game is up, I’m not giving in. They shove the flower bowl in my hand and light the candle. I toss the bowl in the river disgustedly and immediately the candle goes out.

“Yeah, well I’m not to thrilled with you either Shiva”.

I’m furious on the walk back to the hotel. To make things worse these guys on motorcycles think nothing of driving at high speed through the jam packed crowds in these tiny streets. Touch one of them to balance yourself and they glare at you. I’m so ticked off that I take to kicking their exhaust pipes while they pass. Two guys on one glare back at me.

Yeah, give it a try buddy. You think you’re tough? You’re looking at a pissed off American. Did you see what we did to Iraq over nothing? Just give me a reason. I’ll bring down a house of pain on you like you wouldn’t believe.

See that statue there? That’s a nice club. And the bronze of the cosmic dance of Shiva and all those sharp points? Lots of soft tissue work there. And in the end I’ll be able to bribe the police to have you keel hauled in the river. I’ll make you regret you ever so much as honked your horn at me.

I got back to the room, washed up, and looked in the mirror. My clean white polo shirt had sooty hand prints all over it. It had been sullied by the hands of the Hindu priest, just like he’d sullied my clean pure soul.