The fourth in Benares is the magical man. He’s the highest paid of the shoulder-bearers. He is so difficult to find— sometimes a neighbour will say: ‘Come, I’ll do it.’ And, brother, I tell you, such men are less rare in Benares than you think.
But, by the time Madhobha has come down from his attic — and he seems ever awake — the boss is already measuring down the plunge-weight firewood. It has been raining a steady big rain for a day and a half, and the water cleverly seeps even through the protective panels of the shed. Water is clear-minded, you know; anyway how can anyone protect you from that bitch, the monsoon? ‘Is not that so, Panditji?’
Jamnalal is the name of the boss. Jamnalal Mothichand Bhabra is writ on the signboard hanging lamely at the gate. Himalayan Firewood in faded English characters. He lives with his three puling, snotty children on the ground floor, and the yard is made of a low mangy mango tree. Underneath it come and lie the logs from Sonapur and Jaunpur, and from the Himalayan tarais. They have to be dried first and then chopped, splintered and sold. Firewood is so dear these days— war or no war, firewood is always dear. ‘Madhobha, that wretch has made havoc even with our new supply. Go and see in the backyard shed. You must give these good people dry firewood.’ ‘Sir merchant, please be so kind. Give us the driest wood you have.’ And Madhobha plays the game. He brings more firewood from the shed (you can see his moving lantern as he goes towards the backyard and the way he walks back, the lantern left behind) and he lays the firewood on the balance. The balance creaks for a sneeze or a stretch of arm, and would she not, the old witch, when you have added on maunds more of fat wet firewood? ‘We always keep special dry firewood for the good,’ says Jamnalal, and when one of his children waking, cries, he shouts: ‘Hé you son of a widow, can’t you shut your mouth, even when the night is dense? Shut up, do you understand?’ And what you then hear is the young wife strike the child. The child cries louder, for in monsoon time it’s not so unpleasant to be beaten. Isn’t that so? But, little by little, you begin to enjoy the strike more. Somehow you even like a firm hit better than a bad beating, and monsoon is good because you are thrashed well. It warms you. Which proves, by the way, why the poor shivering uncle or granddaughter will pay eight rupees four annas for the rock-weight firewood, and then Madhobha will put it all on the handcart and push it down the Benares cobbles, for what are Benares streets but boulders broken fat, and round, and slippery, and when it rains, the wretch slips more. The dogs in Benares do not bark when you carry firewood — they know it’s for the dead. They too would be dead one day, but there would, alas, be no firewood for them. Thus the common area of silence.
Either out of envy or of compassion the dogs of Benares come with you a short distance as you go towards the burning ghat. And the fact is they know the nature and the smells of each Brahmin — they know whom to tease, and whom to smell from a distance, and whom to insult with a long unconvincing bark. They have such knowledge too (the dogs have) of the true nature of the dead: good or mischievous, cheat or saintly, they can say from the son or disciple who walks in front with the ember-pot. The Benares curs can tell a saintly dead from a hundred yards. There’s still a story current in Benares. When Sadhu Shivarajji died not long ago, all the curs on Dashashwamedh Ghat stood by the pyre silent as if they were old, old friends. They spent the whole night there, seated on their backsides, and one or two of them even growled as the pyre began to die out. These are facts, and if you care to know you have only to ask Madhobha; he is well informed on all that happens on the Benares ghats, below, above and even in between, because of his Mohini.
By the time you’ve pushed your cart to the ghats and Jamnalal has pushed his, and you rest them against the parapet wall, the firewood has still to be carried down to the cremation ground. The cremation ground is not always free. How could it be? Somebody else is being burnt too and so you edge your way to a side, and heap up your own firewood. The Doms1 now take charge of it. It’s their heaven-ordained right. And as you well know, in Benares only the heavens rule.
The body has not yet come, and this makes Madhobha shiver, for the air is still wet. He sits on the ghats looking at Mother Ganga and telling her noble things while the Doms are now busy with their fiery job. For Madhobha, Ganga is the real Mother and Mohini her daughter. ‘Gangaji,’ says Madhobha, ‘do be kind to me. You know I never pray — I just forget to pray. You know I have no time to come and bathe in you often. I sit under a tap, by the shop, and have a quick shower. But all water is Ganga water. Gangaji, you know my heart is all with you. I worship you, Mother, as a calf worships its cow.’
And when the dead comes — and you can hear it all a league away because of the conches or the chants or the sobbing men— you say ‘And now to the job.’ Madhobha knows exactly where to lay the firewood and helps the Dom about so that it does good work. For example the sprintly ones have to be on a side so that the wind might carry the fire over to the centre. The big ones have to be in the middle, otherwise they will never get dry. The art of arranging firewood for a pyre is a complicated business. The Doms got it from Shiva himself, Lord of the crematorium, but they are so degenerate now. Where the head is going to lie you must have light small pieces. The head is the most difficult human complement to burst open. And if you’ve some sandalwood it is their proper place to be laid faithfully. Sandalwood is heavy but burns well, emitting much heat. However, what you must not do is lay big logs on a side. They never never take on, and the relatives of the dead will curse you, and when they come back for more firewood, they have all your own dead ancestors on their tongue for abuse. It’s an honest business, you know, in Benares to sell firewood. But you must not be soft. You must know people are always dying in the world. Do not the Puranas say there is one man dying at every eye-wink of the world, and at least for ten eye-winks of Benares, is there a man ready for the funeral. All the dead are not good. This much you learn too from the trade. For if he’s an evil man you know he will need more firewood than any others, and the Brahmins knowing all this will not wait for him till he’s all burnt to pure ash (unless he is sort of a lakhpathi). The fact is the good burn quickly. Ask those people at the University to explain this, with their well-printed English texts? And look at the faces of the dead. Most of them are so peaceful. They do not even seem asleep, they seem to be talking gently to themselves. Sometimes one wonders whether the curs of Benares do not understand their talk. For suddenly a cur begins to whine. ‘What is it you are saying, Kala?’
There’s one type of the dead Madhobha does not like. He hates the young dead. For him this is totally wrong. Something went wrong somewhere, that any young man or woman could die. ‘What did he die of, mother?’—‘Tuberculosis?’—‘And your child, what it did die of, father?’—‘Of hiccups.’—‘And you, grandfather, what is it your granddaughter died of?’—‘Of sorrow.’ She lost her husband. They had been married for two years. And on the same day as her husband, today, she dies. (‘I want to join him. I want to join him,’ she said.) ‘She will join him, grandfather.’ And when Madhobha goes home and talks to his Mohini on the other side, he says, ‘Protect her, beloved, this lady on her journey. She loved her husband so!’