The Pilgrimage

A blue bus driving on the highway to Varanasi,

to the holiest of holy cities in India,

carrying the load of nine uneasy passengers on nine heavy seats

who were strangers to each other but shared one thing in common.



The back seats of the bus

are occupied by three college friends—    

the noisiest of them all,

not because of the excitement they have for the journey.

Their noise is evident in their nasty remarks

made on every girl who passed by the bus.

Everyone inside has shut their eyes and everyone outside has shut their eyes,

for what choice do they have, do they?  



Just ahead of them,

at the four seats in two rows, one on each side,

sat an old woman in her late seventies, her two sons and eldest daughter-in-law.

She is the quietest of them all,

not because of the eagerness of her kids in finding her a new home

and taking a holy dip later.

Her pale face, bereft of all the hopes she had for her children

and her closed lips, yelling to them that she does not want to be alone.

 

In front of the old lady,

there lies an old man,

most contented of them all,

not because of the milestone he is going to achieve 

by completing his last fatherly duty

of disposing of his daughter's ashes

in the holy waters of the Ganges.

Her soul was ripped by none but the man holding her,

for honour matters more than life, he says.



On the left side of the old man,

there is a young lad,

crying the most among all,

not because he has turned into a widower at such an early age.

He is running away from the police

after smashing his wife's head against the glass window of his house

and killing her to death

for she tried to elope with her paramour  



And let us not forget the driver—

the happiest of them all,

not because of his least detrimental deed

in the world's eyes. 

He is here for the rituals, the holy rituals of a wedding,

the approval for which came after a settlement

by him with the bride's family over the phone

just like a minister negotiating a bribe.

Perhaps, a sacred union at a sacred site.



Not all who visit a holy place are unblemished, it seems

And not all who dip in the Ganges actually wash off their sins, it seems



And the irony does not end here 

A text shining at the dazzling back window of the bus

reads "Beti Bachao, Beti Padhao",

a veneer of the civilized characters,

embossed with red,

a colour of assertion,

of survival and

of vigilance.