Waiting in Line to See God

In Kedarnath now the high season has ended, as the school holidays are over and the monsoon has begun. Locals slip away for a few days to see family, and now everyone is talking about all the exciting things that will happen in the month of Shravan (now it is Asharh), when lots of Garhwalis will come here and the Shiv Purana will be recited and locals will head up into the mountains above Kedarnath, having bathed and with bare feet, to bring back Brahma-kamal (Brahma-lotuses) that are one of the special things offerred to Shiva here in Kedarnath. It is said that VIshnu himself offerred Brahmakamal to Shiva here and, finding himself one flower short of the required number, completd the count by plucking out his own eye.

So now I'm looking back over the high season, feeling myself in the present of no longer being at the beginning of living in Kedarnath, thinking about how to proceed. Thus, I have the opportunity to write about something I've been meaning to write about for some time: the phenomenon of waiting in line at the Kedarnath temple. During high season, when 10,000 pilgrims a day are coming through, there was a great deal of tension surrounding the line, or queue. You see, the temple has two doors, a front door and a side door. Most yatris go in through the main door, and during high season would have to wait about 1-4 hours to get in. Some yatris, for reasons of money and/or prestige and/or connection, enter through the side door, from which everyone else exits. Enter the phenomenon of "gusna"-- or as we would say in American "butting [in line]". Many pilgrims, without even blinking, try to either butt in line or enter through the side door. Sometimes they give money to locals and are helped in their endeavor, and sometimes, either by invoking the privileges of age, gender, socio-economic status, simply forge ahead until someone stops them, at which point they either plead, get angry, claim a disability, or lie ("I was here before"). As a result, other pilgrims get extremely angry, the police have their hands full keeping control over the line and their own tempers, and various local factions (such as the organization of pilgrimage priests and the governmental body responsible for administarting the site) come into conflict about who has the right to grant entry through the side door. Knock down drag out shouting was common and there were even several instances of fisticuffs.

I had my own experience of all this. My father was having a cataract operation on the 30th of May so I decided that I would have a puja done the day before, feeling my distance from my own family at that time very keenly and thinking that it couldn't hurt and could only help. So I went and got in line at 5:30 (the temple doors open for general darshan at 6 am). By the time I got to the door, two and a half hours later, I was extremely annoyed, my temper frayed to the point of breaking by the numerous times I had had to verbally and sometimes physically prevent people from entering the line either directly in front of me or directly behind me. The worst was when a woman approached me and said, oh I've come back from putting my sandals and started to get in line directly behind me, and steadfastly stuck to her lie in the face of all I could muster, then succeeded in getting into line 5 spots behind me. The second worst was when local pilgrimage priests approached me twice and asked in low voices if I would let one of their clients come in front of me, to which I angrily refused. So as I entered the door to the temple I felt very troubled: in such a state, what is the use of doing a puja? This doubt continue, and grew, as I proceeded in line through the anteroom and up to the doorway of the inner sanctum, the garbagrha. Then, everything changed. At the same moment I saw both the Kedarnath linga and the priest who would do my puja-- my annoyance and anger were somehow transmuted into strong relief and for reasons I still cannot parse I started choked weeping (much as I tried to hold it back). Some of what I was feeling at that point, as I listened to the mantras said by the priest and clutched his knee as I fought for position in the crowded space, was a very strong memory and love and concern for my father, and the rest of what I was feeling I simply cannot name. I then left as quickly as I could, did parikrama (circumabulation) of the temple, and went back to my room without speaking to anyone and stayed there for several hours, sitting in the dark. Several days ago I told this story two a group of pilgrimage priests whom I was trying to interview (I say trying because it was really more them interviewing me). Their response was that I had experienced "sakshat darshan"-- actual, before the eyes vision of Shiva. I responded that for me this wasn't conclusive, that my experence didn't contain any information, emotional or cognitive, that denoted Shiva per se. They waved away my objects-- you had sakshat darshan, they said. That's all there is to say about it.

I've waited in the queue quite a few times by now, and observed many more, and I've formulated a theory about people's behaviour that I've told to others here and they seem to find it plausible. There are different moralities at work in the queue. According to one, in going before Shiva one's person and behaviour should be pure and one should suffer at least a little (i.e. by waiting in line in the cold). Access to the divine should be utterly democratic and not contaminated by privilege. According to the second view, darshan (seeing and touching Shiva in this case) is powerful and precious, and if getting that darshan means pushing in front of others in line, paying to jump the queue, lying, well then that's not even worth a second thought. I came to this conclusion after a great deal of observing, especially observing that the majority of those who had jumped the queue by one means or another, or who were trying to, did not seem to feel they were doing anything wrong at all.

So the second part of my theory, then, is that one can read the foundation story of Kedarnath, the story of the pursuit of Shiva by the Pandavas that I described in I think my first or second post, through the typology of the queue I've just set forth. In many versions of that story the Pandavas grab Shiva (who has assumed the shape of a buffalo as he slees from them, unwilling to give his darshan) by the hindlegs as he dives into the earth, and it is his back portion that has become the lingam here in Kedarnath. In some versions Bhima, angered by Shiva's behaviour, hits that back portion with a mace and then later, repenting, applies clarified butter (ghee) to the wound in an attempt to heal it. I ask people about this story, do you think the Pandava's behaviour was appropriate? Most reply yes, the Pandavas were trying to get darshan of Shiva and they did what they had to do. But some reply no, their behaviour was innapropriate-- one shouldn't try and get darshan by force, it is disrespectful. It is because the Pandavas chased Shiva and did not wait respectfully for the right time that they only received darshan of his backside.

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In other news, the monsoons have arrived below and promise to arrive here soon, which presumably means even more indoor sitting, conversation having, chai drinking time. I have moved in to the second phase of my Kedarnath time, which involves spending more time with locals and not just trying to have conversations with pilgrims. Also, physically, I've been getting fitter (I think it has to be mostly as a result of metabolic change as a result of high altitude living, and maybe also a bit to do with exercise). I would say that right now I look like a fit person who is starting to get just a little chubby, as opposed to an overweight grad student who has a hard time finding pants in his size. I'm hoping the trend continues. In the same vein, I've gotten (re)acclimatized to the altitude, and now can go for little walks and day hikes around the area without losing my breath, a very good sign for months to come. I also continue to struggle with the discipline it takes to wake up here everyday and go about my business, especially now that internet availbility has reminded me of the breadth and vastness of the world again. On the one hand, local friends keep saying things like "just stay here-- we'll get you engaged at the next Krishnajanmashtmi Mela". On the other hand, I am reminded that I want to study more Hebrew, and learn a bit of Urdu, and am missing riding my bike and playing tennis, and am reminded that someday I'll have to try and find a job. I am reminded that I'm no spring chicken (though by many standards I of course AM, if not a spring chicken, then definitely an early summer chicken). At the very least, I'd really like to be in the same place as someone with whom I'd like to be in the same place as (how's that for good grammar?). But, on the other hand, this time continues to be very good for me in many ways-- purification of self on many levels. So part of me wants to just unplug the internet and just be here, part of me knows that then that will just make things difficult for me in a different way, and part of me realizes that I just need to continually, processually make my peace with the fact that I live and breath in multiple worlds, and just keep on keepin on. Today, I took a "vacation", which meant that I slept very late, blatanly read an english novel in a restaurant in the bazaar, and spent much of the day in a kind of half snoozing / half daydreaming state in which I sometimes can make choices within dreams and at the very least sustain a kind of running commentary on my own dream life as I move in and out of wakefullness. Today's adventures were fascinating -- unfortunately I don't remember enough of what happened to write down. :( What I do remember is in late afternoon coming into wakefullness by hearing singing, played over the temple loudspeaker. In this case it was Ram Katha (recitation of stories about Rama) by the noted kathavacak Morari Bapu, a mix of story, sermon / drasha, and song. The song had the gentle swaying of the bullock cart beat of many devotional songs from the plains, and the sound, unlike the too polished, overly sweet and clean sound of todays' commercial devotional songs, was scratchy and there was earth and bark and longing in the voice, the voice of someone who has a a wonderful voice but the voice itself is not beautiful so much as character-ful, and it is what is coming through the voice that is beautiful. I recall once in Jerusalem talking with a friend about another friend's singing voice: he remarked that during services his voice was poignant and melodic but the rest of the time he couldn't sing a lick. Something like that.

Well, that's the news from Lake Wobegone, or perhaps more aptly, from Gandhi Sarovar (a local glacial lake), or as they call it in Garhwali, Chorabari Taal.

Gandhi Sarovar / Chorabari Taal

The same lake.

From a little further up


This is where I live!

The view from outside my door / hall, now in green!

I know them from Jaipur and we met in Kedarnath!!!

My Kitchen.

Laundry Room.

Bed / Office