In the course of your travels, you don’t often engage in a conversation that opens before you a new perspective of life. The facets towards which these chance encounters lead you are not exactly ‘the fall of the apple’ moment, but, as the writer discovers in Maheshwar, they make you pause and wonder and ask yourself –’Could life be this simple?’

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We were shooting a television feature on Maheshwari saris when I met Sadhu Gyananand. He was sitting on the edge of one of the stone ‘ghats’ that lined up the bank of River Narmada in Maheshwar in Madhya Pradesh.

The river was extremely wide – its aqua green waters, slightly rippled, appeared calm and pensive, and juxtaposed the saffron-robed figure of Gyananand. He was a ‘Sadhu,’ a wandering ascetic searching for truth.

Gyananand made a wonderful profile. His unkempt beard, matted locks fluttered as he paid obeisance to the river considered by many in India holier than the holiest River, Ganga. Feeble sounds of the temple bells and hoarse voices chanting the glory of the River imparted an aura of divinity to the setting.

In one of the temples, not far off, widows in white, starkly in contrast to the sedately colourful Maheshwari saris that ‘clickety-clack’ handlooms in the town weave, engage in gossip. Forced to banishment by their reluctant sons and recalcitrant daughter-in-laws, at the life’s end, often after their husbands have passed away, they are biding their time and waiting for death to transport them to heaven, considered to be a particularly auspicious when it takes on the banks of the Holy River. As in other similar towns—Varanasi and Vrindawan—‘Mothers,’ it seems, are more in need of Mother Narmada’s grace than the men.

Also prominent on the ‘ghat’ are stone memorials, of women who killed themselves and committed the ‘highly admirable act’ ‘holy’ act of sati. Another flight of steps leads to Kaleshwar, Rajarajeshwar, Vithaleshwar and Ahileshwar temples.

Maheshwar – The Legacy

At another side, on a mound high above the ‘ghats,’ the eponymous Fort towers over the landscape. Situated about 90km from Indore in Madhya Pradesh, it was the capital of the Holkar Principality during the reign of the pious Queen Ahilyabai (1766-1796).

On the other bank of the River, flanks the pre-historic site of Navadatoli (c.1750 B.C.). In ancient times, Maheshwar, also known as Mahishmati, has been an important Hindu religious centre. It still is, though overshadowed by Omkareshwar, one of the Dwadash (or Twelve) Jyotirlingas, 65 km upstream. The peals of laughter and urgings of the young urchins as they leap into the river turned the landscape into a heady scenario.

I waited for Gyananand to complete his prayers. As he finished, his eyes met mine. I request him to maintain his position for just 2 minutes. Wondering how he would respond to my request of taking his photo, I was somewhat conscious as I spoke to him.

As fast as I could, I adjusted my position to be at his level, set the focus of my SLR, checked the aperture and the shutter speed, and clicked. Mumbling thanks, just as I was leaving, I heard him say, “But you haven’t taken the picture of my face.” Speaking thus he turned towards the camera and posed with an adorable smile for a portrait. I pressed the shutter-release button. A childlike glint appeared on his face. He was very happy.

After I finished, Gyananand asks me what I would do with his picture.

“Most probably they would get published somewhere, in some newspaper or some magazine,” I replied trying to be curt and respectful at the same time.

My answer excited him and almost bubbling with enthusiasm said to me, “You mean to say everyone will see my photo!”

That got us talking.

Maheshwar – Gyananand’s Moment of Reckoning

“Yes,” I say to him, “But tell me, you are a ‘Sadhu,’ and have renounced the world, and yet are so excited about a thing as mundane as your photo in a magazine,” I pause and watch his expression. “Which, perhaps you won’t even get to see?”

He lowered his head and took time. He was thinking. Pensive. Perhaps, he was forming words.
When his reply came a while later, it was rendered dramatically.

“My name is Gyananand. I am from Tikamgarh in Madhya Pradesh.”  His face got grave as he spoke. “And I aspire to be a ‘sanyasi’ (ascetic).”

Still thinking his eyes looked down. Then all of a sudden, he lifts his head up almost giving it a jerk, and focuses his eyes intently on mine, and speaks with a voice that quivers. “This world still pulls me back…!”  A pause. And he resumes. “I am not sure whether I have made the right choice.”

He went silent thereafter. All sound, it seemed, had ceased. It felt as if he had heaved a weight off his chest. For a fraction of a second, the world, it felt, had freed itself of its yearnings.

It also brought us to the end of our conversation. I invite him for a cup of tea. He acquiesces. The tea vendor throws a sullen face. Gyananand is impassive.

“My ‘Guruji,’ my teacher and my guide,” he takes his name reverentially, “forced me to become a ‘Sanyasi’ and to wear saffron robes instead of white.”

He continues in between the sips.

“‘For at least,’ as he explained to me…,” what followed next was a revelation, “‘seeing the colour of your garment* people will provide you with food.’”

Seeing your saffron robe, people will at least provide you with food. Click To Tweet

*Saffron robe, in Hindu religion, is associated with renunciation, and is therefore, preferred by the Sadhus.

Photos: Anand Jha