When the Flood Comes

It was an election year. The role of mayor was up for grabs in the city of Varanasi. By spring, it was down to just two candidates: the sitting mayor and a lady who was running on an environmentalist platform. The townsfolk, being the creatures of habit we humans are and averse to change, were all set to reelect the sitting mayor. After all, he’d done so much for the city as far as industry was concerned, and industry meant more jobs. You appease the public, you make them happy. Never mind the fact that industry sometimes leads to certain ramifications, which is what the opposition was so desperately trying to point out.

“The city is in a shambles,” she said in a debate in the town square on the day it all took place. “There’s garbage everywhere, especially in the river.” The river in question was the Ganges, Varanasi’s life’s blood and lifeline. Considered a holy site by Hindus, it had been polluted for years with garbage finding its way into its sacred waters with each passing year. “The thermal power plant my opponent promised has indeed put Varanasi’s citizens to work but has polluted the Ganges to levels close to being beyond repair. I pledge to not only clean up the streets but to purge the river of the muck and filth that have been accumulating for decades. A clean city is a healthy city, but I can’t do it alone. With your help and your vote, we can make our beloved Varanasi livable again.”

Through it all, I’d watched the people’s reactions. There had been a lot of head shaking and mumbling and, upon finishing her speech, she was met with boos and jeers. Such is human nature. Mention an inconvenient truth and they’ll eat you alive.

“As lovely as a big clean-up would be,” the sitting mayor interjected, stepping up to the podium. “We simply don’t have the resources for such a massive undertaking. The people need better working conditions, which is why I’ve been lobbying for an expansion of the thermal power plant that has just been approved by the government!”

This was met with thunderous applause. He smiled and waved adoringly at his constituents. All the opposition could do was shake her head forlornly. A part of me felt sorry for her but she should have known what she was up against. Tossing the burlap sack over my shoulder, I turned and walked away.

The truth of the matter was that, up to that point, I’d never really given pollution much thought. As a trash-picker, I needed it to live. If removed, my entire livelihood went with it. Though it didn’t pay much, it kept bread on the table for my mother and me. I didn’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t pick up trash. There weren’t many opportunities afforded to a twelve-year-old slum kid.

I made my way through the dazzling display of Varanasi’s Old City, navigating the maze of twisting streets. Incidentally, my destination was none other than the Ganges itself, upon whose doorstep could be found a wide variety of discarded goodies. Passing a food cart, I scored some breakfast by snatching a slice of naan bread when the vendor wasn’t looking. Clutching it between my teeth and dodging traffic, I made a beeline for the ghats, a series of ancient stone steps that led down to the river’s edge. Once there, I sat down to enjoy my meal.

Despite it still being pretty early in the day, a handful of pilgrims had waded into the Ganges’ holy waters, their trousers and saris hiked up so as not to get them soaked. I watch them intently, their hands clasped in prayer to Ganga, the goddess of the river as well as its namesake. While I was not religious, I admired their faith and was admittedly somewhat envious that they could put stock into entities that might not be real.

At the risk of sounding like a cynic, I’d given up on religion when my father died. He was the kindest man I’d ever known. He was hit by a bus when I was six years old and had died after succumbing to his injuries. How such a good person could be taken away so easily made me first question, then ultimately forsake, the will of the gods.

Finishing up the naan, I made my way down the stone steps to the water’s edge. It lapped against the ancient foundations, laid down by the city’s forebears millennia ago. With it came waves of plastic, glass and metal. As I was the only person present, the spoils were mine. Greedily, I gathered the treasures into my burlap sack, thinking of the nice payday they’d bring me.

But my work was interrupted when I realized that I was being watched. About a yard away in the murky depths, a pair of large eyes regarded me with curiosity. Thinking the animal to be an elephant, I stopped what I was doing. Though elephants are a common sight in India, they never swam in that stretch of the river and understandably so. It was filthy. No animal in their right mind would go anywhere near it.

Much to my surprise, the beast began swimming in my direction. Fear glued me to the spot. While elephants were often docile, they would, on occasion, act unpredictably and attack. As it pulled up beside the ghat, I realized that it wasn’t an elephant at all. Stumbling backwards in fright, I instantly recognized it from my Hindu upbringing. It was none other than the Makara, the pet and vehicle of the aforementioned river goddess, Ganga. Let me do my best to describe it for you: it was the size of a horse with skin scaly in appearance and a dull greenish-grey sheen. Its head, though crocodilian in shape, had a long snout like a trunk. Two tusks, one on each side, protruded from its jaws. It swam around on four stubby legs and its body ended in a fish’s tail. Despite its frightening appearance, it regarded me expectantly, as if it was trying to tell me something.

It was then that I noticed that it had become entangled in a net that was littered with hundreds of pieces of garbage. Letting out a startled gasp, I rushed to find a tear in the net’s lines. “We’ll get you out,” I whispered reassuringly, tossing my fear aside to help the poor creature. Within minutes, I’d found one and proceeded to free the beast from its bound state. It slithered out of the net’s remains, shaking itself off, splashing me in the process. “Hey!” I laughed.

The Makara let out a sound like a tiger’s growl mixed with an elephant’s trumpeting in reply to thank me. Gingerly, I reached my hand out to pet it. It instinctively leaned into my touch, cooing affectionately.

But as it did, it planted a vision in my brain. In it, Ganga was lying on the riverbed. The goddess was gravely ill, her complexion pallid and ashen. She coughed violently, sending up a wave of garbage. It soon clogged the river, upturning boats, before spilling out onto the ghats and flooding the streets of the Old City. The outskirts were next as the putrid black flood made its way toward the slums where I lived...

Heart racing, I returned to the present. The Makara sat there, awaiting my response. Its message was clear: the river had to be cleaned up, and soon. Otherwise, the goddess would die, and the city would be destroyed as a result. “We’ve got to do something,” I said to no one in particular.

I had an idea. Remembering the debate in the town square, I turned my attention back to the Makara. “Will you come with me? I need to teach someone a lesson,” I implored, referring to the mayor. The creature crawled up onto the stone steps. It shrank to the size of a small lizard right before my eyes, at which point I scooped it up and placed it onto my shoulder. “Let’s go, then,” I said, and we took off.

A half-hour later, we’d reached the town square. The debate was still going on with the mayor blabbering on about his accomplishments and how, if reelected, he would ensure Varanasi’s prosperity. Trying to elbow my way through the crowd proved pointless, so I made my presence known. “Mr. Mayor,” I called out. “I must speak with you.”

As if by magic, the crowd parted. Seeing me, the people began to buzz. He stopped midsentence, looking around angrily as if offended that someone would dare interrupt his speech. But when he saw me, he plastered a big fake smile onto his face. The public was watching, after all. “Come up here,” he said with a chuckle. Stepping forward and up onto the podium, there was a collective “aww” from the audience, which irritated me. Adults never take children seriously. They just think we’re cute little darlings living in our own world.

“What can I do for you, son?” he asked, all friendly like and cheerful. The other candidate was standing to his right. She offered me a warm, genuine smile, but seemed to be eyeing the Makara on my shoulder with great interest, no doubt trying to figure out exactly what it was.

“It’s about the river, sir” I said, quietly. My response gathered a few laughs from the crowd.

“Boy, that seems to be the topic of the day,” the mayor added, shooting the opposition a look, which she countered with a sarcastic nod. This garnered even more laughter. “What about it?” he asked.

“You must do what you can to clean the river,” I replied, firmly. “If you don’t…” It was then that I became aware of just how many eyes were on me. How would I explain what I’d experienced without sounding like some crazy kid with an overactive imagination? Sure, the Makara was with me, but you can’t just whip out that kind of divine magic without causing a moral and spiritual panic. Unlike the mayor, I cared about the city and its people, which was why I had to tell them to, quite literally, clean up their act or else suffer the consequences.

“We’re all waiting, my friend,” the mayor pressed, sounding frustrated.

“If you don’t…then Ganga will die, and the city will be destroyed,” I spat out.

The silence that followed was deafening. One could hear a pin drop. It wasn’t until the mayor guffawed, however, that the crowd joined in. “You saw and heard it here first! We have the expert opinion of the youngest Brahmin in India!”

My face was flush with embarrassment and anger. If these people were supposedly religious, why didn’t they believe me? I decided to do away with formalities and reveal the Makara to the skeptics…only to find that the creature was no longer perched on my shoulder. Frantic, I crawled onto the floor to search for it, which drew even more laughter from both the mayor and the audience.

“The gods can’t get sick or die, my young friend,” he said, sarcastically. “But I thank you for your concern. Security,” he added, gesturing over to two armed guards who had been standing near the back of the crowd. “Please show this lad the way out.”

“Don’t you lay a finger on him!”

It was the other candidate. She stood on the steps of the podium with her arms outstretched. The guards were hurled backwards, as if pushed by an invisible force. It was then that I noticed the Makara on her shoulder…

My eyes widened. “It can’t be,” I whispered.

“Impossible,” the mayor sputtered.

She tried to take another step but collapsed on the ground. She began to cough violently, just like in the Makara’s vision. As she did, great black clouds rolled in and the sky grew dark. Winds kicked up, lightning flashed, and great cracks of thunder sent the people scattering in every direction, including the mayor, who kept gazing over his shoulder as he fled. Rushing to her side, I cradled her head in my arms.

“The…river,” she said, weakly. “Take me to the river.”

I nodded. As if on cue, the Makara leapt off her shoulder and grew back to its full size. I helped to hoist her onto its back. Through the wind and rain, the three of us trod as quickly as we could down to the shores of the Ganges.

Once there, we were greeted by a ghastly sight. The river was black and swollen. Its waters had risen steadily, pushing up all the muck in a kind of soup that threatened to envelope the entire waterfront. The garbage was tossed about in great waves that smacked against the ghats, ripping out big chunks of stone.

“What are we going to do?” I asked. “If this keeps up, the entire Old City will be flooded!”

The goddess seemed to be weighing her options, staring into the dark abyss her home had become.

Finally, after a long time, she said, “I have to get down there.”

I shot her a look. “With all due respect, are you crazy? You’re in no condition! If you do, you’ll die!”

“I’ll take that chance,” she retorted. “It’s the only way. By putting an end to this sickness, so too will the river be healed. I can’t jeopardize the well-being of the city or its people.”

For the first time since my father died, tears streamed down my face. I admired her willingness to sacrifice herself. She was, after all, the goddess of forgiveness as well as the river, but I still felt the familiar pang of loss I had experienced all those years ago.

Kneeling before her, I clasped my hands in prayer. She reached down to touch my face. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.” Rising to my feet, I affectionately pet the Makara, who leaned into my touch once more before the pair of them descended the steps and into the rushing river.

No sooner had they done so were they swept away by the current. I fought the urge to jump in after them while simultaneously not wanting to jeopardize my own safety. Moments later, the river began to glow, an iridescent gold strip that stretched in both directions as far as the eye could see. Gazing into the water, I noticed that the trash was disintegrating. The light spilled out onto the shore as well, purifying the streets and transforming the buildings of the Old City into shimmering monuments as they must have looked centuries ago when they were constructed.

As the torrent began to calm, so too did the rain stop, and the clouds dissipate. Within minutes, it was all over. The sun shone brightly as if nothing had happened. Tentatively, the people emerged from their hiding places and approached the ghats. What we saw made us all gasp. The Ganges flowed before us, though it was scarcely recognizable. So pristine and spotless were its waters that we could see clear to its bottom. On top of that, fish had returned as well as lotus and other aquatic plants.

For a time, all we could do was stand and stare. It wasn’t until the first people waded into the shining water that they began to rejoice. A great cry of exaltation rose up over Varanasi. Though I was moved by the massive display, it wasn’t without heartache. She’d perished in the deluge, but her heroic actions had saved both the river and the city.

I stood glued to my spot, gazing longingly into the Ganges’ depths, when I became aware of the sudden weight of my burlap sack. Reaching into it, I was shocked to withdraw a tile that had been painted with Ganga’s likeness, seated on the back of the Makara. Turning it over, there was an inscription in embossed Sanskrit lettering which read: “Blessed are they who help those in need. You have helped me and, most importantly, those around you more than you could ever know. I am grateful. The gods will smile down on you forever.” A stamp in the shape of a trident served as a signature, it being one of Ganga’s primary symbols.

A familiar growl-trumpet at my feet caught my attention. Gazing up at me was the Makara. It had once again shrunk to the size of a small lizard. Smiling, I picked it up and placed it on my shoulder. “Let’s go, then,” I said with a smile, tears of happiness streaming down my face, and we disappeared into the crowd.

The Indian Government, upon receiving word of the incident at Varanasi, proceeded to sign into effect a number of ordinances meant to protect the health and well-being of the Ganges. The thermal power plant was shut down and replaced with a solar power one. The sitting mayor was recalled and replaced with a candidate who actually knew what she was doing. I’m happy to say that the river has remained clean. Hindus continue to flock to its sacred shores. I see them every day from my perch atop the ghat.

As for me, I took the mayor’s advice and became the youngest Brahmin in India. People come from far and wide to hear me preach and recount this very story. It’s funny how life works. I went from being an atheist trash-picker to a religious holy man but as I once read somewhere: “Life is like a river. The way of life is to flow with the current. To turn against it takes effort, but the current will carry you if you let it.” Ganga was that current and, having initially turned against it, she carried me to where I am now. My advice to you is to go with the flow but, every now and then, turn against it, for you never know where it may lead you.