A Suitable Boy

  ‘Are you talking of my death?’

  ‘No. . . .’

  Ramjap Baba closed his eyes. Relief and agitation struggled in Mrs Mahesh Kapoor’s heart, and she moved forward. Behind her she could hear the voice whispering, ‘Thank you, thank you.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ it continued to whisper more and more faintly as she, her son, his sister, her husband, and his mother—a chain of love and, consequently, of fear—moved slowly out of the crush on to the open sands.

  11.16

  Sanaki Baba, his eyes closed, was speaking.

  ‘Om. Om. Om.

  ‘Lord is ocean of the bliss, and I am his drop.

  ‘Lord is ocean of love, and I am part and parcel of it.

  ‘I am part and parcel of Lord.

  ‘Inhale the bivrations through the nostrils.

  ‘Inhale and exhale.

  ‘Om alokam, Om anandam.

  ‘The Lord is in you and you are part of Lord.

  ‘Inhale the environment and divine master.

  ‘Exhale the bad feelings.

  ‘Feel, do not think.

  ‘Do not feel or think.

  ‘This body is not yours . . . this mind is not yours . . . this intellect is not yours.

  ‘Christ, Muhammad, Buddha, Rama, Krishna, Shiva: mantra is anjapa jaap, the Lord is no any name.

  ‘Music is unheard bivrations. Let music open the centres like lovely lotus flower.

  ‘You must not swim, you must flow.

  ‘Or float like lotus flower.

  ‘OK.’

  It was over. Sanaki Baba closed his mouth and opened his eyes. Slowly and reluctantly the meditators returned to the world they had left. Outside, the rain poured down. For twenty minutes they had found peace and oneness in a world far from strife and striving. Dipankar felt that everyone who had shared in the meditation must feel a warmth, an affection for all the others. He was all the more shocked by what followed.

  The session was barely over when the Professor said: ‘Can I ask a question?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Sanaki Baba dreamily.

  The Professor cleared his throat. ‘This question is addressed to Madam,’ he said, stressing the word ‘Madam’ in a manner that implied an open challenge. ‘In the inhalation and exhalation that you talked about, is the effect due to oxidation or meditation?’

  Someone at the back said: ‘Speak in Hindi.’ The Professor repeated his question in Hindi.

  But it was a curious question, which was either unamenable to any answer—or which could only be answered by a bewildered, ‘Both.’ For there was no either/or, no necessary contradiction in the two possibilities of oxidation and meditation, whatever they might mean. Clearly the Professor believed that the woman who had usurped too much power and closeness to Babaji needed to be put in her place, and that a question like this would show up both her ignorance and her pretensions.

  Pushpa went and stood to the right of Sanaki Baba. He had closed his eyes again, and was smiling beatifically. Indeed, he continued to smile beatifically through the entire exchange that followed.

  Everyone’s eyes other than Baba’s were on Pushpa. She reverted to English and spoke with spirit, and with cold anger:

  ‘Let me make it quite clear that quastions here are not addrassed to “Madam” or anyone else but to the Master. If we give teachings here it is in his voice, and we translate or speak because of his vibrations speaking through us. The “Madam” knows nothing. So quastions should be addrassed to the Master. That is all.’

  Dipankar was transfixed by the severity of her response. He looked at the Baba to see what he would say. The Baba’s eyes were still closed in a smile, and he did not alter his stance of meditation. Now he opened his eyes and said:

  ‘It is as Pushpa says, and I ask her to speak with my bivrations.’

  At the word ‘bivrations’ there was a flash of lightning outside, followed by a clap of thunder.

  The Master had forced Pushpa to answer the question. She covered her face with a cloth from distress and embarrassment.

  Then she spoke with anger and sincerity and embattled defensiveness.

  Looking straight at the Professor, she said:

  ‘One thing is a must to say, and that is that we are all sadhikas, we are all learning, no matter how aged, and we must only ask the quastion which is ralevant, not any quastion for sake of quastion only, or to hold an examination of “Madam” or Master or anyone. If you are truly troubled by a quastion then you can ask it—if otherwise, then you will not get grace from the guru. So I should make that clear, and now I will answer the quastion. Because I can tell that we will have more quastion and answer sassion, and I must make all that clear from the beginning—’

  Here the Professor attempted to interrupt, but she shot him down.

  ‘Let me speak and finish. I am answering Professor Sahib’s quastion, whatever spirit it is asked in, then why should the Professor Sahib interrupt? Now I am not a scientist of oxidation . . . oxidation is natural, but it is always there. But what is happening? You may be seeing or hearing, but word or picture as such: what is that? What is effact? It can be different. If you see obscene picture, that will have one effact on you, a strong effact’—she screwed up her nose and closed her eyes in distaste—‘and a beautiful picture, different. So, music also. Bhajan music is music, film music also is music, but in one you have certain effact; in other, other. In smell also. It may be burning, but incense burning has wonderful smell, and shoes burning has tarrible smell. Or take prosassions of akharas tomorrow: some are in good spirit, some are fighting. It depends what. And sankirtan also, like this evening: you can have sankirtan with good people, or with bad people.’ This was said very pointedly. ‘That is why Saint Chaitanya only had sankirtans with good people.

  ‘So let me tell the Professor Sahib, it is not a quastion “Is it maditation? Is it oxidation?” The real quastion is: “What is your dastination? Where do you want to go?”’

  Now Sanaki Baba opened his eyes and began to speak. The rain was loud, and his voice was soft, but it was not difficult to hear him. The guru’s words were calm and soothing, even as they sought to make distinctions and point out errors. But Pushpa shook her head from left to right as her Master spoke, gleefully smiling as he made his telling points, points which she took to be directed against the ‘defeated’ Professor. It was all so unloving, possessive and defensive that Dipankar could hardly stand it. The violent revulsion of feeling he was undergoing made him see this beautiful woman in a completely different light. She was gloating over her rival’s discomfiture in a way that almost made him sick.

  11.17

  The wind was now whistling down the alleys of Old Brahmpur and shaking the pipal tree on the ramp with all its force. The pilgrims who were making their way down were wet through by the time they reached the foot of the Fort. Rain was running down the steps of the ghats, merging with the surface of the Ganga, and gouging out channels in the Pul Mela sands. The face of the moon was almost hidden. Above, clouds scurried confusedly across the sky. Below, men and women scurried confusedly around on the ground—trying to protect their belongings; hammering their tent-pegs more firmly into the sand; and tottering through the lashing rain and howling sand-laden wind towards the Ganga to bathe, for the most auspicious bathing time—which would last fifteen hours, until about three the next afternoon—had just begun.

  The storm was violent enough to blow a few tents away on the Pul Mela sands, and—in the old town above—to flood a few alleys, shake tiles off some roofs, and even uproot a small pipal tree that stood more than a hundred yards away from the ramp that led down to the sands. But these events were soon magnified by darkness and fear.

  ‘The great pipal tree has come down,’ cried someone in dismay. And though it was not true, the rumour spread like the erratic wind itself through the crowds of awestruck pilgrims. They looked at each other and wondered what it all could mean. For if the great pipal tree that stood by the ramp had indeed
fallen, what would become of the bridge of leaves, of the Pul Mela itself, or indeed of the very order of things?

  11.18

  Halfway through the night the storm ceased. The clouds disappeared, the full moon reappeared. The pilgrims bathed in their hundreds of thousands through the night and into the next day.

  In the morning the processions of the great akharas began. The sadhus of each order in turn paraded down the main road of the Mela, which ran parallel to the river but a couple of hundred yards up the sands. The display was magnificent: floats, bands, men on horseback, mahants carried on palanquins, banners, flags, drums, whisks, naked nagas bearing fire-tongs or tridents, a huge, barbaric man who yelled holy verses as he brandished a great sword from side to side. Great crowds gathered to gaze at the spectacle and cheer the sadhus on. Hawkers sold flutes, false hair, holy thread, bangles, earrings, balloons, and snacks—peanuts and chana-jor-garam and rapidly melting ice-cream. Policemen on foot—or mounted on horses and in one case on a camel—maintained order. The processions were staggered to avoid confusion—or conflict between one sect of sadhus and another. Since the sadhus were as militant as they were arrogant and competitive, the authorities of the Pul Mela had taken pains to ensure that at least fifteen minutes elapsed between one procession and the next. At the end of their march, the sadhus of each procession took a sharp left turn and made straight for the Ganga, where—to shouts of ‘Jai Ganga!’ and ‘Ganga Maiya ki Jai!’—they took an enthusiastic and rowdy communal dip. Then they returned by another, narrower parallel road to their camps, satisfied that no akhara could be more magnificent or pious than theirs.

  The great pipal tree above the broad earthen ramp was, as anyone could now see, intact, and would probably continue to flourish for a few hundred years more. It had not, unlike some lesser trees, been uprooted by the storm. The pilgrims continued to arrive in droves at the Pul Mela Railway Station; they passed by the tree, folded their hands in respect and prayer, and began to make the journey down the ramp to the sands and the Ganga. But today, from time to time, whenever a procession passed along the main Mela route by the foot of the ramp, there was a slight obstruction to the cross-traffic and some congestion on the ramp itself. However, it was all taken in good spirit, especially since the ramp provided to many who stood on it a general view of the processions below—and for those pilgrims who had just arrived on this auspicious day, a first view of the whole tent-covered expanse and the holy river beyond.

  Veena Tandon and her friend Priya Goyal, together with a few members of their immediate families, were among the crowds looking downwards from the ramp. Old Mrs Tandon was there, and so was her grandson Bhaskar, who was very eager to see and count and estimate and calculate and enjoy everything. Priya had managed to escape specifically for this holy purpose from her virtual confinement in the joint family home in Old Brahmpur. Her sisters-in-law and mother-in-law had made a fuss, but her husband, in his mild way, had convinced them on religious grounds; in fact, when her friend Veena had come to fetch her, she had persuaded him to come along as well. As for the men of Veena’s own family, none of them were present: Kedarnath was out of town on work, Maan was still in Rudhia, Pran had refused to subject himself to ignorance and superstition yet again, and Mahesh Kapoor had snorted in his most dismissive manner when his daughter brought up the suggestion that he accompany them. Today, in fact, even Mrs Mahesh Kapoor was not with them. She could not bring herself to believe in the scripturally unsanctioned myth of the pipal bridge which was supposed to have spanned the Ganga on this particular day. Jahnu’s ear was one thing, the pipal bridge another.

  Veena and Priya chatted away like schoolgirls. They discussed their schooldays, their old friends, their families sotto voce whenever Priya’s husband appeared not to be listening (including him and his tendency to be more vocal asleep than awake), the sights of the Mela, the most recent antics of the monkeys of Shahi Darvaza. They were dressed up as gaudily as taste permitted, Veena in red and Priya in green. Although Priya planned, like everyone else, to bathe in the Ganga, she wore a thick gold necklace with a design of little buds—for if a daughter-in-law of the Rai Bahadur’s house had to be seen out of doors, she could not be seen in unbejewelled nakedness. Her husband, Ram Vilas Goyal, carried Bhaskar on his back to give him a better view. Whenever Bhaskar had any questions, he asked his grandmother to explain things to him, and old Mrs Tandon, though she could not see too well—owing to both her height and her sight—was only too happy to do so. All of them, and everyone around them, was in high spirits. They were surrounded mainly by townspeople and peasants, though here and there a policeman could be seen, or even a sadhu who was not involved in the processions.

  It was about ten in the morning, and, despite the previous night’s storm, very hot. Some of the pilgrims carried umbrellas to protect themselves from the sun—or possible rain. For the same reason—and because it was a symbol of authority—the more important among the sadhus in the various processions were protected with parasols by their devotees.

  The blaring announcements on the loudspeaker continued endlessly, as did the sound of drums and trumpets, and the alternating murmur and roar of the crowd. The processions continued, wave on wave: yellow-clad priests with orange turbans, announced by tubas and conches; a palanquin carrying a sleepy old man who looked like a stuffed partridge, preceded by a red velvet banner announcing that he was Sri 108 Swami Prabhananda Ji Maharaj, Vedantacharya, M.A.; semi-nude nagas, with a string tied around their waists and a small white pouch for their genitals; long-haired men carrying silver maces; bands of all kinds, one with black tunics and epaulettes of gold braid blaring tunelessly on clarinets, another (the Diwana 786 band—obviously Muslim from the lucky number that it had adopted—but why had they been hired for this procession?) with red tunics and piercing oboes. One horse-drawn chariot had a fierce, toothless man on it, who shouted ‘Har, har . . .’ at the crowd, to evoke the roared response ‘. . . Mahadeva!’ Another mahant, fat and dark and with breasts as plump as a woman’s, seated benignly on a man-drawn cart, was flinging marigold flowers at the pilgrims, who scrambled for them where they fell on the moist sand.

  By now Veena and her party had got halfway down the broad ramp, which was crowded with pilgrims, almost fifty abreast. They were all being pushed forward continuously by the pressure of the pilgrims behind them who were coming from the town or countryside around, or continuing to arrive on the special Pul Mela shuttle-trains. Since there were deep ditches to either side of the ramp, there was nowhere to go but forward. Unfortunately, the current procession of sadhus that blocked their path was advancing more sluggishly than before, probably owing to some obstruction ahead—or possibly in order to prolong their own enjoyment of their popularity with the spectators. People began to get alarmed. Old Mrs Tandon suggested that they try to go back, but this was clearly impossible. Finally the procession moved on, a welcome gap appeared before the next procession, and the crowds on the ramp surged and stumbled forward across the main route into the mass of spectators who lined the other side of the route. The police managed to restore order, and in a few minutes Bhaskar, from Ram Vilas’s shoulders, was able to watch the next procession: several hundred naga ascetics, completely nude, led by six and followed by six huge gold-caparisoned elephants.

  Bhaskar and his family were still on the ramp, though now only about twenty feet from its base. They had a closer view of things, and with the release of the people in front of them the crush had eased a little. Bhaskar viewed with absolute astonishment the ash-smeared naked men, decrepit or sturdy, their hair matted, marigold flowers hanging from their ears or around their necks. Their grey penises, flaccid or semi-flaccid, hung down and swung to and fro as they marched past, four to a row, tridents or spears held high in their right hands. He was too astonished to ask his grandmother what all this was about. But a great cheer, almost a roar, rose from the crowd, and several women, young and middle-aged, rushed forward to touch the feet of the nagas, and to gather t
he dust on which they had trod.

  The nagas, however, would not have their formation disturbed. They turned on them fiercely, brandishing their tridents. The police tried to reason with the women, but to no effect. This went on for a while, some women managing to elude the few policemen posted at the foot of the ramp and succeeding in prostrating themselves for an instant before the holy men. Then, suddenly, the procession stopped.

  No one knew why. Everyone expected it to start up again in a minute or two. But it did not. The nagas began to get impatient. Once more the pressure on the ramp began to build, as the arriving crowds were pushed forward, and pushed forward others in their turn. The people who were at the base of the ramp now found themselves crushed by the weight of numbers behind them. A man pressed himself into Veena and, indignant, she tried to turn around. But there was no room. It was becoming difficult to breathe. People all around her were beginning to shout. Some yelled at the police to let them through, others shouted up the ramp to find out what was going on. But though the view was wider, the situation was not much clearer to people higher up on the ramp. They could see that the elephants that led the nagas had stopped because the procession in front of them had halted. But why that earlier procession had stopped was impossible to tell. At that distance, processions and spectators merged into one, and nothing was clear. Replies were shouted down the ramp, but in the shouts of the crowd, the sounds of the drums, and the continuous announcements on the loudspeakers, even these were lost.

  Completely bewildered, the crowd on the lower reaches of the ramp began to panic. And when in a few minutes those above them saw that the next procession of sadhus had arrived and now formed a continuous barrier below the ramp, with no gap to come, they began to panic as well. The heat, terrible before, was now stifling. The police themselves got swallowed up in the crowd that they were trying to control. And still the tired, heat-battered, but enthusiastic pilgrims kept arriving at the station, and—ignorant of what was happening below—pushed eagerly forward towards the pipal tree and the ramp in order to get to the holy Ganga.