“Mataji” is from a wonderful collection of stories by Marilyn Stablein called The Census Taker, Stories of a Traveller in India and Nepal.
Stablein, who lives in Seattle, Washington with her husband and two children, spent seven years in India and Nepal. Her stories about those countries are tender and ironic, finely-crafted pieces which begin where familiar travelogues leave off. Highly recommended.
— Ed.
I first met Mataji at the river. I had travelled a long way by bus, boat, and truck. The Middle Eastern countries were hard to travel through. I was pelted with rocks once. Women just don’t travel alone in Muslim areas. The river at Benares seemed hospitable in comparison, a natural stopping point. A time to recoup, write home. Hindus came to Benares to die. Me, I just wanted to settle myself.
Jeans are unsuitable in hot climates. My sweat moistened the cloth and the usual pert denim stiffness became saggy and limp. The cloth soon chafed the skin on my legs raw. When I couldn’t stand the soreness any longer, I left the pants on the bank of the river and waded in up to my waist. A crowd of men with nothing better to do gathered; I didn’t want to come out of the water and expose my bare legs. That’s when Mataji appeared. She stood on the bank and raised her voice in an incomprehensible tirade; the men reluctantly backed off. I was grateful. She led me to her campsite and handed me a piece of orange cloth that was folded in her knapsack. I dumbly held the material.
“Put it on,” she said.
I tried to tie it around my waist like a bath towel, but Mataji scowled. She made me take off my T-shirt and tied the cloth on me herself, wrapping the pleated part with a long swoop. Her manner didn’t embarrass me. Even when her brown hand cupped one of my breasts from underneath and she asked if I had any children. She jiggled the flesh to ascertain if the breast had held milk or not.
“Children?” she repeated.
“No. No children.”
Mataji helped me find a room after I tried camping out with her for three days. The room was in back of a Shiva temple, and I could reach the burning ghat where Mataji camped in thirty minutes if I walked along the bank. During the rainy season I’d have to go through the bazaar, she warned me, and find the right alleyway leading down to the cremation ground, the most famous ghat in Benares.
Everything Mataji did was public: she bathed in the river, dusted her brown skin in cremation ash, cooked at a fire pit, and at night curled up in the sand on top of a cotton blanket and went to sleep. She didn’t have a tent. If rain started to fall, she shifted to drier ground. Most of my days were spent with her but at night I needed to close a door behind me and lock it, so that I could go to sleep as I had always done, growing up in my mother’s house.
I learned quickly. Soon I could bathe in the river in one piece of cloth and afterwards tie a fresh one over the dripping one; I could then wiggle out of one while hiding under the other. It was a discreet operation, though cumbersome. I’d say that about wearing a sari in general — discreet but cumbersome. I couldn’t climb stairs, for instance, unless I held up the skirt of the sari. If my hands were full of bundles, the yardage held me back unless I could maneuver my hips to swing the cloth to one side and carefully place a foot down. If I stepped on the skirt, the material came loose from my waist, where it had been tucked. On a sari there are no zippers, buttons, snaps or hooks, just six unwieldy yards of cloth. In a sari I couldn’t run or swim, but then the heat was too great to run in, and if I wanted to swim badly enough I could always enter the water fully bundled like the local women, ease out of the sari underwater and leave it bunched up on the steps as I swam naked. The water was murky, clogged with ash, and no one could see beneath the surface.
I had never been so preoccupied with keeping myself covered. But if I did cover up, stray men wouldn’t bother me. Mother would laugh to see me here, covered from neck to ankle in cloth. I could hear her say, “What are you up to now?” or “Who do you think you are, Queen of Sheba?” I’d been meaning to write home but hadn’t done it yet. I wondered if she’d believe me anyway. She’d have to believe the postmark: India. Wouldn’t that scare her.
Mataji belonged to a Tantric sect of Shiva worshippers called aghoras. In a book on Hinduism I had read, the chapter on Tantra was the most interesting and the most sexy. One graphic temple carving depicted a woman standing on her left leg; the other leg gripped a man tightly to her hips, locking him there. I like the assertiveness she showed, the force of her grip. Lying under a man, prone and crushed under his weight, well, I’d tried that.
Mataji was the opposite of sexy. I watched her in the bazaar drinking rotgut palm wine. She could outdrink and outshout the captain of police. Her teeth were corroded from chewing betel nuts, her spit bright crimson from the betel juice. She never combed her hair, now matted together in strands an inch thick and a yard long. Her campsite above the cremation pyres was grotesque. Her mannerisms were tough. But a part of her religion, she explained, was to cultivate the grotesque so she could overcome fear of it.
We were the only women at the ghat; the other sadhus wore only loincloths. They all had waist-length matted hair. I would have been afraid by myself but with Mataji I could join in, smoke ganja and not feel too self-conscious about being the only young woman, and a foreigner, in a group of stoned, barely clothed ascetics.
“Aghoras eat anything, even shit,” Mataji told me. “They sleep anywhere, meditate anywhere. For us there is no good, no bad, no fear, and no desire.”
“What do you mean, eat shit?”
Mataji laughed, revealing her brown-stained teeth. “You don’t have to eat shit, but you shouldn’t be afraid to. You’d be a good aghora, Prem,” she said to me. “But I won’t make you eat shit.”
Mataji never called me by my given name; nor did she call me memsahib — that was too formal. “Prem . . . lata . . . that is a good name,” she announced one day. I didn’t know what the words meant until I looked them up in a Sanskrit dictionary much later. Prem is love, not a sexual love but a love for fellow beings, compassion; lata is a creeping vine, a metaphor for a graceful slimness with an element of tenacity.
We gathered around Mataji’s dhuni, fire pit. There were two older sadhus, a younger initiate, Mataji and me. Mataji fished a clay pipe out of the ashes with her tongs. She always put the pipes into the burning coals after we smoked; the fire burned off sediment. I moistened a clump of dried ganja leaves in one palm and kneaded it as Mataji had shown me, until the leaves had the consistency of paste. She rubbed a small amount between her fingers to test it. “Tik hai,” she confirmed.
The pipe was cylindrical and tapered from a bowl to a narrow mouthpiece. After I filled the pipe, I passed it to the sadhu on my right. He took coconut fibers from a husk and twisted them into a tight ball which he tossed into the fire. When the ball was aglow, he picked it up with the tongs and placed the burning mass atop the pipe. The sadhu on his right drew first, while the other pressed down on the burning husk. He offered the smoke to Shiva in a loud burst of prayer.
“She needs a partner,” one of the sadhus said, nodding to me. “Mataji, how about me? I’d be a good partner for her.” He stood up, chest inflated, and strutted around the fire.
“No, me, Mataji,” the other cut in. He reached over and grabbed the other’s balls. “I’m more qualified.”
“Hell you are . . . ,” the other retorted; they wrestled in fun. I was afraid they were going to compare penises. I snuggled into Mataji’s lap, hiding my eyes in the cloth. I heard a yell. When I looked, one had pinned the other down, the head perilously close to the fire.
“Stop it,” Mataji commanded. “Go on, get out. You’ve had your smoke.”
They left, pushing each other back and forth. The young initiate stayed and I remained curled, my head on Mataji’s lap. She swept my hair away from my face and began to inspect my scalp, which she liked to dust with ash to keep the lice away. One of the sadhus must have put opium into the ganja. I was too tired to walk back to my room that night. It was already late and I fell asleep where I was. Sometime in the middle of the night someone tossed a blanket over me. I assumed Mataji was covering me. But then a hand slid over my hips, and I knew only a man could touch me that way. I could have protested but I didn’t.
In the morning I was awakened by a police officer. He wasn’t in uniform but he was asking for my visa.
“Where is your passport, memsahib?”
“Passport?” I rubbed my eyes. I couldn’t believe a man was standing over me demanding my passport. The sun was barely in the sky.
“I don’t have it here,” I told him. “It’s in my room.”
“You have a room, memsahib?” he asked. “Then why are you sleeping here? Do you know these beggars are untouchables?”
“I don’t have my passport here,” I repeated, not wanting to get into an argument. Mataji was still asleep.
“I need to check it.”
“Well, I could bring the passport to your office. Do you have an office?”
“Of course I have an office. I could come to your room instead.”
“No, thank you. I’ll bring it.”
He took down my name and passport number and then left. I closed my eyes again. The mournful death chant of a grieving family wound in and out of my dreams: rama nama satya hai . . . rama nama. . . .
The alleyways were dark and shady near the river. The buildings were so close together that the alleys were hemmed in by continuous walls. The path was only about six feet wide, sometimes less. I stopped to admire a stall draped in glass beads.
“Wait a minute,” the merchant said, raising his eyebrows. His voice changed to a whisper. “I’ve got special beads. Look here.” He uncovered a string of clear crystal, more like a rosary than a necklace. “They spark,” he said. Suddenly he threw his shawl over us. Sure enough, in the dark space under the shawl, the beads, when two were struck together, sparked like a cigarette lighter out of fuel — the flame never caught. I liked the coolness of the stone.
“How much?”
“For you, a special price.”
“I know. I know. It’s always a special price.”
“For you, memsahib, only fifty rupees.”
Mataji was mad when I showed her the beads later that afternoon and told her what I paid.
“You never buy a mala,” she fumed. “Don’t you know that? You must be given a mala. A teacher gives you a mala. You don’t buy one.”
I felt sheepish and fell silent. She stormed back to the shop and argued with the merchant. He refused to return my money. There was a tug-of-war between Mataji and the merchant. The string broke and crystal balls flew everywhere; most landed on the dung-and-mud alley. When a policeman arrived, he had to push his way through the crowd that had gathered. Beggars on their hands and knees picked up stray beads, while women, their heads supporting large baskets of produce, shouted to be allowed through. Traffic in the alley came to a total standstill. Mataji was arrested by the same policeman who had checked my visa.
“Where are you taking Mataji?” I protested. “You can’t arrest her. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“She is always doing something wrong. This woman is no good. Everyone complains about her drinking, the trouble she causes. Stay away from her, that is my advice to you.”
“I don’t need any advice. What about my money? I bought the beads. Where’s my refund? I want a refund. You can keep your advice. I want my money.”
“You’ll get the money,” he sneered, “even if it comes out of her pocket.” He tightened his grip on Mataji’s arm. She looked terribly frail with the orange cotton cloth of a Hindu ascetic tied behind her neck. It covered her torso to the knees. The soles of her feet were like callused pads; years of walking barefoot had flattened her arches. The thick mass of her matted hair twisted around the top of her head, standing eight inches above her skull. Still, she was shorter than the officer.
“Tik hai,” she reassured me. “He can’t keep me.”
The officer was about to lead her off but he stopped and addressed me. “Oh, about your passport, memsahib. . . .”
“You saw it,” I snapped.
“The captain says its unacceptable.”
“What do you mean unacceptable?”
“You need a permit.”
“For what?”
“Americans, memsahib, need permits.”
“That’s the first I heard of it.” I looked at Mataji but she was staring off into space. I could have challenged him further, but I didn’t. I wandered around the bazaar and then angled down to the burning ghat. I smoked a pipe and waited. Mataji returned in two hours, very drunk.
“That was quick,” I said.
“Humph,” she scowled and then spit into the fire. “The captain wants to know about the sahib.”
“What sahib?”
“Your sahib.”
“I don’t have a sahib.”
“I know you don’t have a sahib. That’s what I told them. ‘No sahib. She is not married, you fools.’ But they wouldn’t believe me. ‘How can she be alone? She must be married.’ Men always want to know where your husband is so they can slander or outwit him . . . until you get old like me. Then it’s too late.” She laughed and hiccupped at the same time. “They think I poisoned mine.” She laughed so hard her eyes watered.
Mataji dried her eyes with a corner of her cloth and put a copper bucket onto the coals. She dipped a finger into the water, flicked it on the coals, and when there was barely a sizzle, she spit again into the fire pit.
“Too cold, Prem. Go get me some coals. Jail is enough work for one day. I’m an old woman.”
“Where would I get coals?”
“At the pyre, where else? I don’t live at the burning ghat for nothing, you know.” She stood up to get a better view of the funeral pyres. “There’s a good one down there, Prem. Hurry. I’ll make tea.”
I felt helpless. “I can’t get coals there,” I spoke up. “Those are the coals of the dead. You can’t cook with those.”
“Coals are coals. The dead are dead; they won’t mind. Are you going?”
I shook my head. She stomped off then with her tongs in hand. She walked down the sandy bank to the largest burning pyre and helped herself to a burning log. The attendants protested but Mataji could outshout a bullhorn in a riot; she ignored the protests. She returned to the fire pit and dropped the log in the middle; a cloud of ash rose in its wake. She swatted at the tiny particles as if they were a swarm of mayflies.
“Mataji?” It was nearly dusk. The leering face of the police officer reflected the glow of the fire. He also was drunk and almost stumbled into the pit.
“What do you want?” Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils widened. I could see the flame in her eyes.
“Just a friendly visit.” He winked at me.
“We’re not friends,” I said. “You’re bothering us.”
“So you’re a sadhu now, memsahib. You drink and smoke and wear their dirty rags, too.”
“Get out of here,” Mataji snarled.
The alcohol on his breath smelled like dead rats. He lunged toward me. “What would your mother think?” he said. “Why aren’t you married? Would no man have you?”
I forced him away with my foot against his chest.
“I’m the mother here,” Mataji boomed. “Have you no respect for mothers? You miserable bastard; your mother died happy the day you were born. You cheap, lusting fool. No respect for mothers!” Her voice grew louder with each sentence, louder than a locomotive crossing a steel bridge. The muscles in her neck grew tight; her eyes were wild.
“No respect for mothers! The Devil curse you. Out! Out! Out of my camp, you bastard!”
The officer drew back for a moment, then pulled at my arm, loosening the sari on my shoulder. Mataji picked up my shoe and beat him with it. The same sadhus who had smoked our pipe came over, hearing the ruckus. The officer cowered under Mataji’s knocks. To be hit by a shoe, especially by a lower-caste woman, was a deep insult. Mataji called upon the demons of her sect to tie and bind this offender.
“I’ve come to arrest the memsahib,” he blurted out. He stood up and fumbled in his pocket for some papers. “She is in violation of —” He couldn’t finish his sentence because a sadhu threw ash into his eyes. Another jabbed him with his Shiva trident and soon sadhu justice prevailed. The officer was booted out of the camp and stones followed him till he was out of sight. We lit a large pipe and everyone drew on it as it passed around the fire pit.
I left Benares about a week later. A French traveller told me I could get a new visa in Nepal and Mataji gave me the name of another aghora sadhu to look up. When I said goodbye at the station she surprised me with a wooden mala and a glob of opium — the best defense against the third-class train ride. “Don’t you know you never buy a mala,” she said and laughed.
I thought about writing to her after I left but I had no address for her and she couldn’t read anyway. Sometimes I thought about her — like the time I got lost in Orissa looking for a post office. I had been following a bullock cart trail but it abruptly broke off into three directions. Row after row of beach pine, planted as a hedge against hurricanes, looked exactly the same. Tired, thirsty, confused, I stumbled into a village in the middle of that forest and was soon surrounded by snarling dogs. It was a village of old women, grandmothers left home to watch the children while the parents toiled in the fields. They all had the same toothless grin, the boniness and the sagging breasts. One reached for my wrist.
“Bangles . . . where are your bangles?”
“Bangles,” the others joined in, forming a tight circle around me. “Bangles . . . kahan hai?”
Every woman wore bangles, love tokens, gold for the rich, glass or plastic for the poor. No bangles whatsoever signaled no one loved a woman, no one possessed her . . . no brothers, no father, no husband. They started to talk among themselves.
“Sati,” one cried and the others echoed the chant: “Sati, sati, sati.”
“No,” I protested. “I’m not a widow. I didn’t tear off my bangles at my husband’s pyre. I never had any bangles, nor have I had any husband. I’m a sadhu.” I couldn’t think of any other way to explain my bare arm, my situation. Then I remembered the mala in my bag and pulled it out. I pretended to recite some prayers. “I pray to your god,” I said. “Bhagavan knows . . . I’m a sadhu.” Oh, Mataji, I thought, you should be here now; show these women that a woman can live alone.
Shortly after that I heard from a sadhu I met at the train station that Mataji had died.
“Which Mataji?” I questioned him. “The one from Benares?”
“The one from Benares,” he confirmed.
“Are you sure? Describe her,” I demanded.
He said she was thin, her hair long and matted, her teeth stained and ugly.
“Yes. That sounds like her. Where did she live?”
“There’s only one Mataji, the aghora Mataji,” he said. “She always camped at the burning ghat.”
I sat down on my knapsack and from that great distance I thought I could hear the same sad drone that I always heard at the burning ghat. The death chant: rama nama satya hai . . . rama nama satya hai . . . rama nama satya hai. . . . But this time there was a larger crowd. Sadhus huddled together, as if such closeness might lessen the loss, the grief. Instruments were played. The attendant kept busy poking the coals. Her corpse was laid atop the wooden pyre. There were never any caskets at the burning ground. Already the ash-sifters were arguing over who could sift through the remains for gold fillings or rings left on the body — but Mataji had no gold fillings or rings. Someone paid for the thin silk that wrapped her body briefly before it burned away and her body was exposed in its last hideous state. The attendant poked her leg back into the flame; the skin burst and juices oozed, sizzled and squirted. I knew that even her death was public. I shivered, not with disgust, but with an alertness.
We’re thankful to Madrona Publishers for permission to reprint this chapter. The book is available from Madrona Publishers, P.O. Box 22667, Seattle, Washington 98122 for $8.95 plus $1 for postage and handling for a total of $9.95.
— Ed.
Excerpted from The Census Taker by Marilyn Stablein
Copyright 1985 by Marilyn Stablein
