Shivaratri - In Honor of Shiva (and Weed)

Funeral Ghats on the banks of the Bagmati river, in the grounds of Pashupatinath Temple

Pashupatinath temple on the banks of the Bagmati was aflame; voluminous clouds of smoke were rising above its majestic grounds.

This arresting scene was not a result of reckless arson, but the numerous bonfires lit in and around the temple grounds on Maha Shivratri, an annual Hindu festival celebrated on the 14th day of the Krishna Paksha in Falgun.

“Legal day”

The meaning of the festival itself is somewhat confusing, especially for a foreigner unfamiliar with the intricacies and parallel narratives that run through Hinduism. Some locals I spoke to claimed the festival honours Lord Shiva’s birthday, whilst others say it was the day He created himself. Whatever the real reason, of which there are numerous, thousands of Hindus visit temples to do the Puja, paying respect and homage to Lord Shiva.

On my way to Pashupatinath temple, one of the holiest Hindu shrines in the country, the taxi I was in collided with a motorcyclist. The biker was flung off his ride, and suffered a nasty cut below his right eye. However, he just brushed himself off and was driven off by someone on the street almost immediately.

“He must have been smoking ganja at Pashupati, very dangerous,” chided the taxi-driver, who dropped me about a kilometer from the temple grounds as the roads were closed for the day.

It was much later, after squeezing through the crowds that I realized Shivratri had two distinctly different sides to it.

Approaching the temple grounds, queues snaked into the distance, as devotees patiently waited their turn to enter the courtyard where they could do the puja. This was the religious aspect, and unlike the rest of the country, the queue was calm and orderly. Non-Hindu’s are not permitted to enter the courtyard.

Hindu devotees had queued up since 3am. A tailor I spoke to waited 2 1/2 hours to do his puja, then another 30 minutes just to collect his sandals.

Smoke by the water

Going up the stairs across the Bagmati, a carnival seemed to be in full swing. Sadhus, more commonly known as Babas, were dotting the landscape and throngs of young men crowded around them. I mistakenly thought they were seeking words of wisdom, but discovered that the wisdom they were after was in the form of crushed up Marijuana buds.

The unmistakable odor was in the air, slightly pungent and grassy, and all around young men were toking up with abandon. The scene would be bizarre any other day of the year: Babas openly selling joints while policemen walked by with their truncheons.

Army Baba: Perhaps one of the less traditionally dressed of the Sadhu's on show.

Hanging Baba: This Sadhu was strung up, hanging from ropes tied to a pillar behind him.

Throughout the day, they just go through it mechanically: Empty the cheap cigarette, mash it up with the weed, and pack it back in.

At 10RS a joint, sales were brisk for these ‘Business Babas’. Apparently the consumption of Marijuana is legal on Shivratri, and thousands flock to the Pashupatinath to enjoy this privilege.

Apparently the Lord Shiva was fond of Marijuana, and intoxicating oneself with it is considered a form of reverence. With that in mind I pushed my way through a mass of ‘reverential devotees’ to seek out a Baba I could sit with, and make sense of this multifaceted festival.

On a slope two Baba’s sat cross-legged under a tent, scraggly beards and unruly dreadlocks framing their well-worn faces. For some reason, throngs of young men had gathered around them, and on the hillside behind. There were occasional taunts directed at the Baba, and later, small stones.

In a flash, the Baba stormed out of his tent and waved his stick threateningly, his face a mask of rage. It was no empty threat, as he grabbed a fist-sized stone and hurled it at the men, who were retreating hastily.

Epic Baba: Old, stoned, but fast and good with a stone.

He seemed in no mood to chat, so I returned the next day and he waved me in to sit with him. Unfortunately he spoke only a smattering of English, and he claimed to live in Thamel. Puzzling as that was, I was unable to find out more so instead we sat back and he made me black tea in a rudimentary tin, tossed into his charcoal pit.

If there were any gems of wisdom I was hoping to receive, I heard none. Almost in silence I watched them roll a few joints, and take hearty puffs out of their chillum. Locals who wished to sit with us were waved away: clearly as a foreigner I would be more likely to ‘donate’ a handsome sum to support the Babas.

Knowing that this was a transaction diminished the experience significantly, but sharing a dusty mat with a Baba was a soothing, calming experience. Or maybe, that was just the weed.