Sitting under a full moon on a velvet black sky, on the silent banks of a silver river, waiting for the music to start …
 

It’s the last night of the Mahindra Kabira festival, celebrating the poetry and music of the 15^th-century mystic- saint, beloved by the Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims, who claimed God does not reside in a temple, gurudwara or mosque, nor in the mountains, sky nor in outer space. ‘I am within you, I am within you … ‘main to tere paas mein, main to tere paas mein.’
 

So says the song … but it seems that, to millions of devout Hindus, God still resides in the sacred river Ganga, and in the holy city of Varanasi on its northern banks.
 

We had arrived three days earlier, in the city which Kabir had called home for most of his life. It was our first visit to the famous and infamous city; famous as the city of the Gods, the city of the Ganga, the holiest of rivers, infamous as the filthiest of cities, on the most polluted of rivers.
 

We did not know what to expect; we had heard that the city and the river had both been cleaned up, but also, that they were still as filthy as ever. What was the truth?
 

Having arrived a day before the festival began, we decided to explore on our own. Slipping off the main road, we started navigating the side-streets and alleys, with the help of our trusty Google maps. ‘Hey,’ I thought, ‘this is not so bad!’ Fearing garbage-filled, smelly gullies, we were pleasantly surprised to see that they were reasonably wide, reasonably paved (though potholed), and not so dirty; of course, this is India, so ‘clean’ is a relative term, but still …
 

After a few wrong turns, we eventually came to Assi ghat, and here again, were surprised to see the beach quite clean, and the Ganga too, a pale blue-grey reflection of the sky; the water was churned up at the banks by devotees taking dubkis in the holy water, and of course, there were the flowers and other offerings caught in stagnant eddies by the shore, but still …
 

A family group caught my eye. They stood waist deep near the river bank, eyes closed in devotion, reciting mantras as they scooped up the khaki water in their cupped palms, which they raised to the sky, before reverently pouring the water back into the mother river. After doing this several times, they held their noses tightly shut and immersed themselves in the murky flow, repeating this ritual three times. As they helped each other back out of the water, I saw that their eyes were flooded … with emotion and with Ganga jal.
 

I was struck by the difference between our very different perceptions of the occasion. For us this was just a pretty scene, a river flowing past large, flat sandbanks on the other side, with trees on the far bank just visible in the distance. It could have been any beautiful river, flowing through its wide flood-plain. For them, it was the Holy Ganga, the mother Goddess, the river of rivers; to bathe in its waters was to have one’s sins washed away; to die and be cremated on its ghats, and to have ones remains immersed in its flow, was to attain nirvana, to be released from the endless cycle of rebirth. How emotionally different it was for them, a sublime and transcendent experience. We were tourists, they were pilgrims.
 

An interesting aside - though Kabira lived in Varanasi for most of his life, he moved to another city, Maghar, before his death; this was in accordance with his belief that dying in a particular place would not, and should not, guarantee Nirvana. It is the way one lives, not where one dies that is important.
 

We walked on down the ghats, passing Harishchandra ghat, where piles of wood were piled high against the walls. Three bodies were being cremated, the flames leaping high in metal structures that looked incongruously like toast-stands. This ghat is named after the legendary king Harishchandra, who gave up his kingdom, his wealth and even his wife and son, to fulfill a promise to the sage Vishvamitra, and took up the position of a caretaker at a cremation ground. He is celebrated as a symbol of truth and integrity.
 

Turning away from the river-front, we again found ourselves in a maze of gullies. Google maps to the rescue, we said … but didn’t realize that our trusty guide couldn’t tell the difference between narrow gullies and narrower gullies … and even narrower … hemmed in between high walls, no sunlight reached the ground, no splash of cheerful colour broke the drab grey of the stone paving and the faded, peeling walls. It was a scene of unrelenting squalor. The air was cold, dank and stale, as little fresh air could wind its way around all the sharp bends and turns. At one corner, a litter of puppies huddled in a large pile of garbage which served both as their home and their source of food. I was overwhelmed by a feeling of deep dejection; for us this was a short walk through an alien landscape, but for the inhabitants, as it was for millions of our fellow countrymen, this was Home, an inescapable daily reality. How could they retain their sanity in this joyless place!
 

Suddenly, my thoughts were interrupted by a cheery ‘Hello, good morning, bye-bye’; a small boy, about five or six years old, chirped and grinned at us, did a happy, show-off cartwheel, and gave a delighted whoop. I was blown away, my thoughts and feelings turning head-over-heels too.
 

The boy, like the puppies, had been born here, and had known no other environment. This was not some terrible squalid place, but their comfort zone, their home. Yes, joy and fun and laughter could, and did live here.
 

Thinking about it later, I also realised that this system of urban design, while uncomfortable in the short, sharp winters, was ideal for the long, brutally hot summers, when the sun was an unwelcome visitor, and the many sharp turns stopped the burning hot wind, the loo, from blowing unchecked through the streets.
 

That evening we were picked up at our hotel and transported by taxi to Assi ghat, where we were escorted onto a boat which was to take us to the festival venue for the opening function. We were really impressed by the efficient and thoughtful organisation; there were many smiling young volunteers to guide us, answer all our questions, and help us onto the boat.
 

As we sailed down the Ganga, the sun cast an ethereal glow on the river, as it sank into the hazy dusk on the far horizon. Our guide pointed out the different ghats, temples, mansions and palaces we passed, bringing them to life with their histories and stories; the lights of a myriad sunset aartis lit up the banks, a magical sight.
 

As the boat approached the venue, Guleria Kothi, we faced a stage erected on the ghat, on which sat classical Hindustani musicians. In front of them stood four broad-shouldered, saffron-clad young men, each holding aloft large brass lamps ablaze with dozens of small flames. They started performing an aarti to sublime devotional songs that filled the night, twirling their heavy lamps in large circles, clockwise and then anti-clockwise, turning their bodies to face left, then right, the lights of the lamps creating ephemeral patterns in the air. But I couldn’t help feeling that it was a choreographed performance, more a show than a living ritual, unlike the authentic, spontaneous aortas we had passed on the river bank.
 

The organizer of the festival was there standing on the ghats in a thin white dhoti and silk kurta, an exquisite shawl on his shoulders, his distinctive shoulder-length white hair wafting in the chilly night breeze. He welcomed each delegate personally with a warm smile and a namaste.
 

We then settled into our seats on the ghat, for the inauguration of the Kabira festival. After the introductory welcome speeches, we were treated to an evening of music based on Kabira’s poems, in different musical styles.
 

The festival arrangements were excellent; behind the seating, there was a refreshments area where hot beverages and snacks were always available, and later, a buffet dinner was laid out in a long balcony overlooking the river. The simple vegetarian fare was outstanding; I have seldom had such tasty vegetarian food.
 

On the boat trip back to our hotel, the mansions, temples and mosques stretched out along the river were lit up, an impressive panorama.
 

Next morning, we set off at 6 am for a second program of music. A cold sun shivered in shawls of mist; it hovered above the silver river, watching large flocks of squawking gulls as they wheeled and circled, swooping down in unison to settle on the water, to feed on breadcrumbs thrown by tourists as they sailed past.
 

At the festival venue, hot beverages and snacks energized our bodies, while gentle morning ragas refreshed our souls. A couple of hours later, a sumptuous breakfast was laid out, with an array of south Indian and north Indian offerings. The piece de resistance was one of the desserts, malaiyo, a frothy, creamy, north Indian delicacy, which can only be made at night during the three coldest months of winter. The process is started the previous night, when the milk is boiled in large, shallow iron pans. It is then left outside, where the cold night dew (and some say the soft starlight as well!) sets to work its magic. Early next morning, the milk is flavoured with cardamom powder and saffron, and then laboriously whisked into a light-as-air, melt-in-the-mouth, lacy foam. It is far-and-away the most delectable dessert I have ever tasted. It must be consumed before eleven in the morning, when the sun begins to change its texture; all attempts to use refrigeration to make it or to prolong its shelf-life have failed, and it remains an ephemeral, much sought-after luxury.
 

At breakfast, on the verandah over the river, we found ourselves sharing a table with a group of single young women. As often happens on such occasions, we struck up a conversation, and I was amazed and delighted to find that they all belonged to the tiny community of Konkani speakers from north Kanara to which I belong; it is unusual to meet my jaat-walas in north India, and to run into a group in Varanasi was most unexpected. We chattered away, happily discovering common friends and acquaintances, as always happens in India. We met several times over the next two days, exchanged phone numbers, and promised to keep in touch and meet whenever we next visit Goa, where they live.
 

After the music session, the delegates were divided into two groups, depending on their previously indicated choices; one group was to visit the Kashi Vishwanath temple, while our group was to go on the Panchganga walk. We were further subdivided into four smaller groups, to make the numbers manageable, each group led by an experienced guide. Those who didn’t want to join either walk stayed behind to attend book readings and talks on the history and culture of the city, and on Kabir’s life, philosophy and poetry.
 

Our group first walked along the ghats, our guide pointing out the mansions, havelis and other points of interest. We visited the Alamgir mosque and the Bindu Mahadev temple, then entered the bowels of the city, a maze of narrow alleys lined with small shops selling all your daily requirements. We had to walk almost single file, pushing our way past shoppers haggling over the prices of fruit and vegetables, flowers and puja items, clothes and footwear, large buckets filled to the brim with fresh milk and yoghurt, dairy produce, sweets and savories, snacks … you name it. To add to the noise and confusions, motorbikes threaded their way through the crowds, roaring and honking, having to stop and crawl their way past bikes going in the opposite directions, dodging children, brushing past skinny dogs wagging their tails hopefully in front of snack stalls, and narrowly missing fat cows examining piles of rotting garbage for tempting tid-bits, before ambling along unhurriedly as though they owned the gullies, which of course, they do. A veritable kaleidoscope of colour, sound, texture, smell, taste, movement.
 

What was remarkable was that, in all the crowded confusion, there was no sense of threat, hostility, irritation or tension; there was a pervading air of relaxed, good-natured acceptance. Our straggly group of obvious outsiders was greeted with smiling ‘Ram-Ram’s.
 

Some citizens whiled away the time, sitting cross-legged on the stone counters of the stalls, sipping tea, snacking, gossiping. We noticed one of them placing small bits of food just beneath the low wooden patra on which he was sitting; intrigued, we paused, and suddenly a tiny nose poked out and snapped up the morsel, and disappeared. Before you scream in horror, it was not your horrid, big urban rat that eats babies and brings plague; it was a cute little mouse, like those that helped Cinderella, with a pointy nose, bright beady eyes and rounded fan ears. “Arre, is he your pet?” we asked. “Yes, he’s my little friend, and I feed him every day,” he smiled. Live and let live!
 

Then the guide directed us to enter an even narrower, covered passage leading off the alley; we were astonished when it opened out into the huge, airy, open courtyard of the Sherwali Kothi, in the centre of which stood a Krishna temple. It was surrounded by several stories of open corridors leading to individual dwellings. Some of the dwellings belonged to the temple and were used by the priests, and also as a dharamshala by pilgrims; a complete contrast to the warren of small, dark, airless rooms we had imagined lay behind the dark, narrow alleys! An area, not of darkness, but of light and air!
 

Quite exhausted by the long walk, and overwhelmed by the multi-sensory assault on all the senses, we opted to return to the hotel after lunch, where we passed out. We decided to skip the evening music performance, and had an early night.
 

The next day was a repeat of the program, with different performers lifting our mood with morning ragas. At breakfast, we forgot our diets with lashings of malaiyo, before setting off on our morning walking tour, this time to the famous Kashi Vishwanath temple. The original temple was demolished several times throughout history. The current structure, with its stunning architecture and gold-plated dome was built by Maharani Ahilyabai Holkar in 1780. It is one of the most significant pilgrimage sites in India, being one of the twelve Jyotirlinga shrines. We walked along the ghat to the temple, where we joined streams of devotees queuing up for a darshan. As we had been told, the approach road to the newly built temple had been widened and cleaned up. Our group all wore tags on chains and yellow scarves around our necks, to distinguish us from the crowds. We were very impressed with the orderly and efficient way in which the Festival volunteers steered us through all the checks and formalities. Depositing our shoes was a bit of a struggle but, considering the crowds, it was not too bad.
 

The temple is constructed in the traditional style, with intricate carvings on the little shrines surrounding the central courtyard. Several streams of devotees snaked their way through the courtyard, sometimes flowing side-by-side, then parting, occasionally intersecting, without any apparent design or logic; they were like the strands of a braided river flowing towards the sacred confluence at the central shrine. Such was the pressure of the crowd, that the single stream was propelled forward swiftly, so each person barely got a glimpse of the deity, a Swayambhu lingam emerging from the ground; no time for reverence, contemplation or communing with divinity. And then the river dispersed into a widening delta, and made its untidy exit into the ocean of people outside the temple walls.
 

The Mahindra Kabira festival had been a superbly curated and organised feast for all five senses, as well as for the mind and heart.
 

And then, all too soon, it was the closing night of the festival.
 

Sitting under a full moon on the silent banks of a sacred river, we waited for the music to start … a full moon dotted the ‘i’ in Kabira, on the neon sign above the stage.
 

That night, there were two regional folk-rock bands, from Bengal and from Kerala. Both managed to combine the devotional poetry of Kabira with modern electronic beats … and soon the area between the audience and the stage was a sea of flailing arms, twisting bodies, stamping feet, clapping hands, thumping hearts …
 

The lead singer of ‘Fakira’, the band from Bengal, then broke into the world premiere of their version of a Kabira song ….
 

…. 'Where do you search for me, friend? I am not in (a) temple, church or mosque, not in mountains, sky nor in outer space; I am within you, I am within you … main to tere paas mein, main to tere paas mein…'