Ganga Aarti

Standing on the river bank of the Ganges now floods me with a sense of awe. I am about to observe a Hindu ceremony called ‘Ganga aarti’ in which prayers are made and lights set afloat on a river that Hindus believe to be a goddess. The priest have soaked the grounds with sacred water from the river’s mighty flow and roped off the section for the ceremony. Rishikesh, or the Gateway of the Himalayas, is the purest place of worship at the Ganges because this is the place where the river meets the plains from the mountains. However, it is the Mother Ganges herself who is the source of purity, so followers gather nightly at the shore to wash their sins away and pay her homage.  

To enter the holy banks of the Ganges in this purified place, you must remove your shoes and ring a bell to herald your humble approach to the gods.  The sound rises in a cacophonous pattern of clangs, dings, and hums. Eight small tables containing puja, or a form of worship, are placed in perfect symmetry to each other with towers of unlighted candles upon each. The sound of praise from the crowd commences with the sound of the bells, welcoming all to hear, join, and praise. The crowds raise their hands together as the priests in their ankle length skirts carry the flaming towers to the holy water where they wave the mounting flames to and fro. The crowd cries out a sacred chant to commemorate their gods and bring their praise to the Mother Ganges. Their hands are pressed and raised to their hearts as a symbol of dedication. While observing all of this, I realize that I’m standing too close to the bell so that my ears are now ringing loudly and temporary deafness is setting in. But the sight is incredible and unforgettable.

The priests raise the flaming towers one last time and then carefully carry them back to the small tables. They begin to sprinkle water from the holy river on the gathered crowd to include myself and then distribute small carnation-like flowers that have been blessed by the priests. The aging woman in front of me eagerly beckons the priest to give her a blossom before the others, but he bids her to wait her turn. The smoke from the candles is intoxicating and I can no longer hear properly from my left ear.  Though I’m temporarily deafened from the bells, all of my senses are alive.

I've just been given a blossom by a man in a turban which I accept with the palms of my hand brought together and facing the sky. Though I consider saving the flower to press it in this journal, I realize the ceremony calls for me to cast the blessed flower into the rushing river. I throw it in and wash my hands in the pure river bed as those around me do. A priest then approaches with a flaming tray carrying blessed sweets and a flaming candle lit from the ones used for the ceremony. He bids me to wave my hand over the flame and eat the white round sweet that he pours into my hand. It tastes like pure sugar and crunches between my teeth.

My conscience is stricken in this moment as I only wish to observe the ceremony, not participate. However, somehow, I am always pressed by the overwhelming crowds to partake in the various ceremonies I have observed to include this one. Lest I offend, I mimic their motions in a holy observance of rituals that mean nothing to me.

The flaming candles illuminates the faces of eager followers who reverently place their clay tray containing puja of sweets, flowers, and a lighted candle into the water.  The floating candles either hover on the banks of the water or rush away in the river’s vibrant current. Together, the pinkish glow of the retreating sun along with the flickering, floating candles diminish into the night against the backdrop of the mountains.

Curious followers of the ceremony observe my frantic writing as I seek to preserve this moment with words. I’m sure that I’m as curious of a sight to them as their ceremony is to me.