Geetanjali Krishna: Kawaria or peon?

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This week, the newly-hired peon Deepak asked my friend for a month's leave. She asked him why he wanted time off when he'd just joined.

His excuse was novel "" he wanted to become a Kawaria. For the uninitiated, Kawarias are pilgrims who carry water from the Ganges back to their village temples, after they've sworn not to put the vessel of water down anywhere.

"But why do you want to do this pilgrimage now?" my puzzled friend asked.

"My mother had vowed that the day I get a job, she'd send me to offer holy water to Lord Shiva!" said he. Muttering that his mother's vows might just prove costly for Deepak's career, she went off.

But was soon back, curious about his plans for such an arduous journey.

"My mother's told me all the rules to observe while carrying the kawar, vessel of holy water," said Deepak, "I've to eat only vegetarian food and not put the kawar down except to go to the toilet."

Deepak had done the trip before, he said, again on his mother's instructions, when his father was made a permanent employee in office.

"It was fun," said he, "we were about 15 people from our village, and walked up to 35 kilometres a day to reach Garhmukhteshwar in a week," said he.

Devout Hindus consider it auspicious to aid Kawarias, and Deepak and his comrades never had to fend for themselves for food.

"Though I had terrible blisters on my feet, I barely felt them, walking in a group chanting bol bam, exhorting each other to say the name of Shiva," he reminisced.

Kawarias also have to wear anklets, he said. "Their tinkling is almost hypnotic, and makes one forget the discomfort of the trek and bodily discomfort," said he.

But there's a lot of fun hidden behind all this piety, said Deepak. "For one thing, it's one big feast from start to finish," said he, "we get everything from snacks and food to the latest brands of soft drinks free of cost in the many rest houses set up for us!" And though it's not really in the rules, many Kawariyas hitch rides on trucks and trains, especially if their villages are a long way off.

"Nobody refuses a lift to a Kawaria," he reminisced. The dress code is also changing with the times. While earlier, Kawarias wore the saffron robes of an ascetic, today, one sees them in orange shorts, vests and track pants.

Several employees had gathered around, interested in Deepak's stories. Many felt that this was an outdated ritual that required more spare time than any of them had.

"The last time, we walked from Delhi to Garhmuk-hteshwar. But this time, if I find company, I want to go all the way to Haridwar!" Deepak boasted to them.

Their teasing began. Was he fit for the long hours of walking, they asked.

"It was easier last time," he mused, "in the village, I was used to being on my feet all day." But his office job was completely sedentary, his colleagues said slyly. Walking such a long distance in the rain would probably make him sick as well, they prophesied.

He fell silent. The jeering got worse "" what if the management replaced him with someone else in his absence? Everyone laughed unkindly, for that would certainly destroy the very purpose of his pilgrimage.

The very thought made Deepak groan: "I have to go, mother has told me to," said he, "but convincing my office people seems to be more of an uphill task than the pilgrimage itself!"