Santanu Mitra

Kathmandu, March 7:

As an ardent admirer of the lord god of them all, Shiva, more as a concept than the real god that dwells in the hearts of the millions of Hindus across the globe, my first steps into the periphery of Pashupatinath filled me with excitement. After all this time, for the first time, I was at the celebration of the oldest concept of all, Pashupati, pre-Aryan, a deep forest dweller, clad in tiger skin, covered in ashes. And I wasn’t disappointed. His hordes were there. Sadhus from the far reaches of the mighty Himalayas, in their tell tale dread locks smoking cannabis gathered around dhunis — ceremonial fire — piling huge logs in anticipation of a long night.

Old hands averred that this time, too, cannabis is aplenty for the hardcore bhakts. In the middle of all this, shining in the harsh mercury vapour lamps, stands Pashupati. The feel is there, the narrow lanes barricaded to regulate mass movement, men in uniform patrolling, more lights for decoration as well as for visibility within the nooks and crannys of the wonderful but heaped architecture that surrounds the shrine. Two cremations lighting up the sluggish river; probably the men had the good fortune of attaining moksha. Clanging of bells, sonorous and far away. Many a foreigner, clustering with old acquaintances from Kailash, sometimes being shooed away — rudely — by the police. As Evan, an old Nepal hand, sadly said, “Its just impossible to sit around with the sadhus, some of whom I’ve known for over 30 years.” Sauntering Nepali boys singing out loud ditties to their lord; all in all, a sure sign of the morning to come. One more year. One more Shivaratri.