Parashuram
Translated from the Bengali by Arunava Sinha
Birinchi Baba
The boarding house at 14 Habshibagan Lane was small, but neat and clean. For although Nibaran, the manager, was given to merriment, he kept a strict eye on everything. There were only five or six boarders, and all of them were reasonably well off. There was a separate drawing room, with an enormous rug for people to sit on, various musical instruments, arrangements for playing chess, cards, and other games, and a number of monthly magazines for entertainment. With the Durga Puja holidays starting the next day, many of the boarders had gone home, leaving behind only Paramartha and Nibaran. They were not going anywhere, for their respective in-laws were visiting Calcutta for the festivities.
Nibaran was a college professor, while Paramartha was an insurance agent who also dabbled in hatha yoga and theosophy. That evening, the two of them gathered in the drawing room, along with their neighbor Nitai, who came over often. Because of his advanced years, the boarders accorded him respect, which meant smoking with their backs to him.
“Life is blighted,” Nitai was saying. “The blasted maid has left, the girl has a fever, the wife bickers all the time, and there’s no chance of catching forty winks in the office either; the new junior manager is always keeping watch.”
“Why, I thought you had comfortable arrangements at your office,” said Paramartha.
Nitai: “Those days are behind us, my friend. It was true during Mr. McKenzie’s time. You know Barada-khuro, don’t you, Barada Mukherjee of Shyamnagar? He took opium at two and slept from two-thirty ‘til four. We took turns to nap in the lunchroom, but he never left his chair. One day, as he was adding up the figures in the ledger, once he’d reached the bottom of the page, he was overcome by sleep. His head didn’t slump, his neck didn’t droop, he didn’t snore, the hand holding the pen remained exactly where it was on the ledger. It was an incredible ability of his—who’d have known from a distance that he was sleeping? Mr. Mackenzie walked in at that precise moment and everyone sat up alert. He went up to Barada-khuro, observed him for a long time, and pinched his shoulder. Barada-khuro opened his eyes and began to mutter, thirty-seven, three carried over. Mr. Mackenzie said, with a smile, have a cup of tea babu. Those days are gone. I’m sick and tired of this domestic life, if I find a worthy babaji I’m ready to renounce everything and leave.”
Paramartha: “I saw one of these hermits you speak of at Jagannath Ghat today—miraculous! He’s known as Mirchibaba because he lives only on chilies. No rice, nor bread, nor any other staples, just chilies. Millions turn up for cures to their illnesses and he hands each of them a chili, fortified by incantation, which they take and then they get well immediately. I’m told that he himself has a guru whose austerity is of an even higher order; all he eats is sawdust.”
Nitai: “You have an MA in Philosophy, professor, can you explain the spiritual significance of chilies and sawdust? Stop beating up that pakhawaj, I can’t hear myself think.”
Nibaran had been leafing through one of the monthly magazines. The heroine in each of its five stories was an embodiment of chastity. Eventually, he abandoned it in favour of picking up the percussion instrument and slapping it without any sense of rhythm. Pausing his musical pursuit, he said, “They represent different schools of spirituality. Just like the knowledge school or the action school or the devotion school, you have the chili school, the sawdust school, the salt school, the cow dung school, the beard school, the crystal school, the crow school…”
Nitai: “What’s this crow school now?”
Nibaran: “You don’t know? I was at the annual fair at Harihar Chhatra last year. There I found some two hundred crows creating a commotion, while a man stood next to them loudly announcing a price of two annas for each. Assuming they were trained birds from Multan or Peshawar who could talk, I went up to a plump one and said: speak to me, tell me the names of the gods. The scoundrel pecked viciously at me. The crow-seller said: they don’t speak. I said: What can they do then? I believe crow meat is bitter, do people buy them to cook bitter dishes? He said: not that either, these crows are imprisoned in their cage. Spend two annas on each to set them free, as many as you like, and you’ll be freed from this earthly cycle of rebirth, too. How peculiar this salvation school is; the poor crow-seller was ruining his own life and afterlife to enable release for others. That’s what you call conservation of virtue: one person has to sin for another to gain piety.”
Suddenly a young man of twenty-two or twenty-three, dressed in a hat and coat, entered the room, turned the regulator that controlled the speed of the ceiling fan as far as it could go, flung his hat down, and sat down on the rug with a loud thud. This was Satyabrata, who had recently called it a day as far as education was concerned and had started to work for a living. Gasping for breath, theatrically, he said, “I’m in trouble, deep trouble.”
Since Satya was often in trouble, no one expressed undue anxiety at this announcement. So he proceeded to complain to himself, “A backbreaking day of work, but am I allowed to relax after that? No. I was thinking of going for the matinee show of Sita, but my blessed aunt had to butt in: Shote, you’re staring perdition in the face, come with me to listen to Syandel-Moshai speak. I had no choice. But there was no truth there either. Syandel-Moshai is talking of grace in a spiritual life, and I’m thinking cockroaches.”
Nitai: “Cockroaches?”
Satya: “Three tons of cockroaches. I have a forward contract, a shipment in November or December, forty and fifteen a ton, CIF Hong Kong. War will break out in China, you see, so they’re gathering resources in advance. Burra sahib has ordered that everything must be barreled in a month. But where will I get them? That’s what I mean by trouble.”
Nitai: “Aren’t you a Brahmo, Shote? You’re not supposed to lie.”
Satya: “Why not? Only not to my blessed aunt.”
Nibaran: “Know any good hermit types, Shote?”
Satya: “How many do you need?”
Nitai: “Don’t joke about everything. You lot don’t even believe in mantras, never mind hermits.”
Satya: “Who says I don’t? My blessed aunt had a toothache, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t speak, kept scolding my hapless uncle. Everyone at home was terrified. Peppermints, aspirin, amulets, nothing was working. Then my hapless uncle began praying so hard his tooth fell off on the third day.”
Flying into a rage, Paramartha said, “Look Satya, don’t be facetious about things you know nothing about. You think prayers are the same as mantras? Do you admit that great energy is generated by incantations?”
Satya: “You bet I do. Taritananda Thakur of Rajshahi, whose very name holds electric power, is proof of this. The youngsters call him Radiobaba. He has two shafts of hair, one positive, one negative. He sucks electricity out of the air, then emits eighteen-inch sparks. No one even dares to go near; you have to wrap yourself in a silk shawl before meeting him.”
Nibaran: “No, Nitai-da can’t take chilies or scriptures of electricity. Don’t you know of any harmless babajis? But they must have some feats to their names, merely preaching devotion won’t do.”
Paramartha: ”Then let us go to Gurupada-babu’s residence in Dumdum to meet Birinchi Baba.”
Nitai: “Gurupada-babu? The Alipur court lawyer? The man has changed completely since his wife’s death. He wasn’t a believer before.”
Nitai: “What’s he like, this babaji, Paramartha?”
Paramartha: “An extraordinary man. Some say he’s five hundred years old, some say five thousand, but he looks no older than Nitai-da here. If you ask him, he smiles and says there’s no such thing as age. All time is the same, all space is the same. He who has attained divine grace can occupy all three time periods and all three spaces simultaneously. Take the fact it’s September 1925 and you’re in Habshibagan. If Birinchibaba so desires, he can dispatch you to Akbar’s era in Agra or to Pataliputra in the fourth century BC. It’s all relative, you see.”
Nitai: “Einstein will have to close shop.”
Paramartha: “Whom do you suppose Einstein learnt his science from? When Birinchibaba was engaged in severe austerity in Czechoslovakia, Einstein used to visit him. But then he didn’t learn much beyond relativity.”
Nitai babu was listening avidly. “Can you explain Einstein’s theory?” he said.
Paramartha: “You know it quite well: space, time, and the individual depend on one another. If space or time changes, so will the individual.”
Satya: “That’s not it, let me make it easier. Let’s say you’re a heavyweight, you’re visiting the Indian Association. There you weigh two maunds and thirty seers. Then you go to the Congress Committee office in Geratola, where you weigh a mere five chhotak, a single breath will blow you away.”
Nitai: “Correct. The cook buys two and a half seers of potato at the market. In the boarding house it turns into nine poas.”
Nitai: “All right Paramartha, Birinchibaba himself may have mastered time and space, but does he help his devotees?”
Paramartha: “Of course he does, his suitable devotees. Just the other day he transformed Mekiram Agarwal’s fortunes by depositing him for three days in 1914, just before the war began. Mekiram bought five thousand tons of scrap iron at a rate of six rupees. Then Birinchibaba sent him to 1919 for a month. Mekiram sold his stock at three and a half times the cost. Then baba brought him back to the present. Mekiram is richer by fifteen lakh rupees now. If you don’t believe me, do the arithmetic yourself.”
Taking Paramartha’s hands in his own, Nitai said ardently, “Paramartha my brother, take me to Birinchibaba at once. I’m going to throw myself at his feet. I’ll pay whatever it costs, I’ll sell all the pots and pans, I’ll plead with the wife to pawn that heavy necklace of hers. If, by baba’s grace, I can spend a week in 1914, I won’t forget you, Paramartha. Ten percent, all right? Iron, oh god, iron.”
Nibaran: “Has Gurupada made a little something for himself?”
Paramartha: “He has no concern about his present life, apparently he will bequeath all his property and his riches to his guru.”
Nibaran: “Is that how far things have gone? Tell me Satya, aren’t your Nanida or his wife protesting?”
Satya: “You know how eccentric Nani-da is, he’s absorbed in his experiments all day. And Boudi is a good soul. They can’t do anything. If anyone has to intervene it has to be you and me. But we can’t take our time over it.”
Nibaran: “Then let’s go to Nani at once. Once we’ve found out what’s going on we can make our way to Dumdum.”
Nitai-babu was calculating iron prices and profits with a pencil on a sheet of paper. At the reference to Dumdum he said, “Are you two planning to go to baba too? Do you really think it’s a good idea? He might be rattled if so many people line up with their demands. Satya here is a Brahmo and gone bad already, there’s no need for him to go. You already have that splendid Brahmo Samaj of yours, you can present your requirements there, why eye our gods? What I suggest is, let Paramartha and me go first. And then Nibaran you can go some other day.”
Nibaran: “Don’t worry, I will make no demands, I’ll only discuss the holy texts with him. If it’s convenient, why don’t all of us go tomorrow evening?”
Professor Nani had never taught in college in his life, though he had acquired several degrees. Because he was given to conducting various scientific experiments at home, his friends had bestowed the title of Professor on him. Nani was Gurupada-babu’s son-in-law, a distant cousin of Satyabrata’s, and Nibaran’s classmate.
It was eight o’clock in the evening by the time Nibaran and Satyabrata reached Nani’s house. There was no one in the drawing room; the servant said Babu and Bohuma were in the inner courtyard. On one side of the yard, Nibaran and Satya found something green being boiled in an enormous iron pot on an earthen oven, which Nani’s wife, Nirupama, was stirring with a stick. A harmonium had been positioned on the veranda, a rubber pipe leading from it into the pot. Professor Nani was standing with his hands on his hips, his dhuti hoisted to his knees.
“What’s all this Boudi?” said Nibaran. “Whom are you cooking all this spinach for?”
“Not spinach,” said Nirupama, “this is grass being boiled. You know your friend’s whims.”
Nibaran: “Boiled! Why, can’t Nani digest raw grass anymore?”
“It’s not a joke, Nibaran,” Nani said. “There will be no food crisis in the world anymore.”
Nibaran: “Not everyone can survive on grass, like ruminating animals or Professor Nani.”
Nani: “You think it will remain grass? I’m synthesizing proteins. The grass will be hydrolyzed to turn it into a carbohydrate, and then I just have to add two amino groups. Hexa-hydroxy-di-amino…”
Nibaran: “Never mind, never mind. What’s the harmonium for?”
Nani: “Don’t you see? To oxidize the solution. Play the harmonium, Niru.”
Nirupama pressed the keys, but instead of notes, a stream of air escaped from the pipe to bubble inside the liquid.
Nibaran: “Oh, just bubbles! I thought strains of music would flow through the rubber pipe and produce slices of green nectar. Anyway, how’s your father, Boudi?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Nirupama said wanly. “He’s become strange since my mother’s death. Ganesh Mama got hold of some babaji for him from somewhere; now he’s obsessed. You could say he has lost all sense of proportion, it’s all my guru my guru my guru. I begged and pleaded with him, but to no avail. I hear he’s going to give all his wealth to the babaji. It’s Buchki I worry for. I’d have stayed with her for a while, but I can’t leave because my mother-in-law is unwell.”
“Can’t you explain to him, Nani da?” said Satya.
Nani: “How can I? My father-in-law will assume I want to disrupt his spiritual journey because I covet his wealth.”
Satya: “Then issue orders, let me go and beat the man up.”
Nirupama: “Absolutely not, if you create trouble it’s my father who will have to bear the brunt. See if you can do something without hurting him.”
Satya: “Very difficult. Can you tell me more about this Birinchibaba affair, Boudi?”
Nirupama: “It’s been going on for a month. The man has moved into the Dumdum house along with his apprentice, junior hermit Kebalananda. Ganesh Mama waits on them hand and foot, my father spends all his time there too. There’s a throng of two or three hundred disciples every day, waiting to gobble up all the gobbledygook Birinchibaba comes up with. There’s a fire ceremony every Sunday night; a different deity or holy figure appears each time. Ramchandra or Brahma, Jesus or Chaitanya. Not everyone is allowed into the room where this ceremony is conducted, only the inner circle of devotees is let in. I was there the night Brahma appeared.”
Satya: “What did he look like?”
Nirupama: “Do you think I even got a look? A colossal figure like a phantom behind the ceremonial fire in the dark room, with four heads and long beards. I had a seizure immediately. Ganesh Mama dragged me out of the room. Buchki is courageous, she’s been seeing these manifestations regularly. Apparently it’s Mahadev’s turn tomorrow.”
Nibaran: “Let us present ourselves at Birinchibaba’s feet tomorrow, with his blessings we might even set eyes on the great god Mahadev ourselves.”
Nirupama: “You have to win over Ganesh Mama, they won’t let you in without his orders.”
Nibaran: “That’s my responsibility. But I don’t dare take you, Shote, you have no self-control, you’ll laugh.”
Jiggling his body, Satya said, “Never, you’ll see for yourself, you think any dam . . . il!”
Nibaran: “What’s this, what are you sticking your tongue out for?”
Satya: “I beg your pardon, Boudi, I stopped myself in the nick of time. I’d have been in deep trouble if it had slipped out in Pishima’s presence.”
Nibaran: “All right now, time to go. Oh by the way, Nani, can you tell me what gives off a lot of smoke?”
Nani: “What kind? If it’s red smoke you want, then nitric acid and copper, if purple, then iodine vapor, if green . . .”
Nibaran: “None of those. Just plain smoke.”
Nani: “In that case, tri-nitro-di-methyl . . .”
Pressing his hands to his ears, Nibaran said, “There he goes again. How do you live with this, Boudi?”
Nirupama said, with a smile, “I’ve seen at my maternal uncles’ house how they burn wet straw in the cowshed, it creates a lot of smoke.”
Nibaran: “Eureka! Boudi, the Nobel Prize is for you, this Noney is useless.”
Nirupama: “What do you want with smoke?”
Nibaran: “We’re under attack from skunks, let’s see if I can get rid of them.”
Gurupada’s bungalow in Dumdum used to be done up beautifully earlier, but ever since his wife’s death it had acquired a degree of shabbiness. With Birinchibaba recently taking up residence, the house had been repaired and parts of the overgrown garden cleared, but its old glory had not been revived. Gurupada paid no attention to the running of the household, paving the way for his brother-in-law Ganesh and his family to rule the roost.
Nibaran, Satya, Paramartha, and Nitai arrived at five in the evening. Sheets had been spread downstairs on the floor of one of the large houses for the devotees. A cot with a mattress and a tiger skin rug had been set up on one side as Birinchibaba’s seat. The female devotees were in the adjoining room. Babaji had not yet descended from his austerity chamber. Waiting anxiously, the congregation discussed Baba’s glory in a low buzz. A middle-aged gentleman in a western suit had accepted infinite discomfort to sit cross-legged on the floor, and was impatiently twirling his shaved moustache. This was O. K. Sen, Bar-at-Law. After losing a fortune recently on his investments in coal mines, he had turned his attention to matters of religion.
Settling Paramartha and Nitai in the room, Nibaran and Satya went out, circling the house through the garden and arriving at the front gate. Next to it stood a row of rooms with tiled roofs, where the coachman, groom, doorman, gardener, and others lived.
Maulvi Bachhiruddi was seated on a broken-down bench outside the stable, chatting with the coachman Jhonti Mian and the doorman Feku Pande. The maulvi was from Faridpur, he was Gurupada’s most important legal clerk. With Gurupada no longer practicing law, Bachhiruddi’s income had diminished, but because he still received a monthly allowance, he came regularly to pay his respects to his benefactor.
The maulvi was describing the present situation of the world in the Urdu used in Faridpur, with the coachman and doorman nodding occasionally. The groom massaged the horse nearby, slapping the restless horse on his belly from time to time and proclaiming, “Wait, you fool.” A plump cat nibbled at the grass on the field in front with a grimace—eating the fish heads left over from Birinchibaba’s meals every day had caused it to have a stomach upset.
“Adaab, Maulvi Saab, I trust you are in sound health. Parnam Pande Ji. All well, Coachman Ji? You haven’t met my friend, have you? This is Nibaran Babu, a friend of Ganesh Babu’s. He has brought you some gifts for the festive season—please do not take them amiss, Maulvi Saab—ten rupees for you, five each for Pande Ji and Coachman Ji, and five for the groom and the gardener.”
Overcome by this courtesy, Bachhiruddi, Feku, and Jhonti offered a volley of salutes with their teeth on display, praying to Khuda and Kaali-Maayi for the continued welfare of the gentlemen.
The maulvi said, “Those days are long gone, Babu Moshay. Ever since Ma Thakrun went to heaven our master’s heart is no longer in his body. You should have seen how I begged and pleaded with him not to throw away such a lucrative practice, but who was listening? It’s the lord’s will.”
“That babaji is the culprit,” said Nibaran.
Reassured, Feku Pande expressed the view that Birinchibaba was no babaji. He had neither the sacred thread nor the matted locks. He ate fish, mutton too. He couldn’t do without tea and biscuits morning and evening. All these Bengali holy men were nothing but frauds. As for the junior maharaj who accompanied Birinchibaba, he was a scorpion who had even dared sting Feku Pande. He did not know that the abovementioned Feku Pande had wielded a sword during the mutiny (even though Feku hadn’t yet been born). If only the employer would issue the instructions, babaji’s bones could be crushed with this stick of his.
The maulvi, too, informed the visitors that he had had to face no little humiliation. He was not willing to tolerate Mamababu (Ganesh) ordering him around. He belonged to an aristocratic family, Mughal blood flowed in his veins. Although everyone called him Bachhiruddi—his actual name was Mredam Khan, his father’s name was Jaanbaaz Khan, his grandfather’s name was Abdul Jabbar—his home was originally not in Faridpur, but in Arabia, which they called Turkistan. There everyone wore lungis and spoke Urdu; he’d had to learn Bangla so that he could make a living. In the center of Arabia was Istanbul, and to its left, Baghdad. The city of Calcutta was insignificant in comparison. To the south of Baghdad stood Mecca Sharif; he had a vial of ab-e-zamzam, the water from the sacred well there. If the employer only gave him the order, he could sprinkle drops of this water and dispatch not only these two sons-of-pigs, children-of-the-devil babajis, but also Mamababu himself to the crossroads of hell on the shore of the seven seas.
Nibaran said, “Look, Maulvi Saab, we’re going to get rid of both the babajis. Today, if possible. But we cannot do it by ourselves, we need you and Pande Ji on our side.”
Feku: “Will there be a fight?”
Nibaran: “No, absolutely not. You don’t have to worry. It’ll just be some shouting. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Of course, you bet, on my life,” came the answer. “But what if Babu is angry?”
Nibaran explained why their employer would have no reason to be irked. He would return a little later and tell them their tasks.
Nibaran and Satya set off for Birinchibaba’s court. On the way they ran into Ganesh, who was busy arranging the ceremonial fire. “Ah, you’re here too, very good, very good, he he,” he said to Nibaran and Satya “All well at home, he he? I trust your father is quite he he. Is your mother a little he he? Your sister he he? Your aunts and uncles…”
Nibaran’s entire family was he he. As was Satya’s. All because of Ganesh Mama’s benedictions. Mama Babu hadn’t been able to sleep out of concern all these days, now he was somewhat reassured.
“Has your younger son-in-law got a job, Mama?” said Satya. “If not, send him to me after the vacations, we have a vacancy.”
Ganesh: “Bless you, my boy, bless you. You’re one of us, how will anything work out for the boy unless you try. He will meet you as soon as the holidays are over.”
Nibaran: “We have a prayer, Mamababu. You have to ensure a divine sighting for us.”
Ganesh: “Of course, why don’t you go up to baba? Everyone has been to see him.”
Nibaran: “We will, naturally. But we want to see the real god—in the room where you have the hom.”
Sticking his tongue out in fear, Ganesh said, “My god, you think that’s possible? That privilege comes with supernatural effort and devotion. And our Satya is… what you might say…”
Nibaran: “A Bemmo. But he hasn’t understood the Brahmo faith yet. He’s the angel among the devils, his Hindu traits are intact. Chants the Gita, goes to the theatre, consumes everything from the shinni offered to Satyanarayan and the khichuri to Madanmohan to the kalia outside the Kalighat temple. And, I cannot bring myself to utter the words as you are an elder, or else you’d have known from the way he speaks how he can make formidable Hindus blush.”
Ganesh: “Be that as it may, once you’ve given up your religion you can’t claim it back. I’m told you eat forbidden food too.”
Nibaran: “Everyone does. So did Gurupada-babu once upon a time. So there’s no chance of a divine viewing? You’re determined to disappoint us? We’ll be off, then.”
Satya: “Pronaam, Mamababu. Oh yes, what I suggest is that your son-in-law takes typing lessons for a few months. He’s a rank amateur, if I get him the job I won’t have a leg to stand on with shaheb. Better to try when there’s another vacancy.”
Ganesh: “No, that’s impossible, once a job slips through your fingers do you suppose it’s easy to get another? No Satya, my dear boy, you have to get him the job. And what was that you were saying? Since you read the Gita and things now, I don’t think it can do any harm for you to go into the room with the hom. Just sprinkle some gongajol on your heads, both of you. All right then, don’t forget the job.”
Once Ganesh was at a distance Nibaran said, “It’s looking promising so far, let’s hope we can pull it off. Are Amulya and Habla here?”
Satya: “They’re in baba’s presence, they will be on the spot at the right time. Do you think Mamababu gets a cut, Nibaran-da?”
Nibaran: “That’s for god to know. But the longer Gurupada-babu remains detached from household matters, the better it is for Mamababu.”
Birinchibaba was in court, the jewel in the crown. He was tall, wide-shouldered, fair of skin, shaven-headed. A pair of bright eyes peeped out from behind fattened cheeks. A nose as large as a two-paise shingara, wide lips with a gentle smile, the chin descending in folds beneath it. The ideal figure of a swami. Dressed in a robe dyed saffron, and a similarly colored hat with ear flaps on his head. He didn’t exactly look like he was five-thousand-years-old, more like fifty or fifty-five. To the right of babaji’s platform, junior maharaj Kebalananda sat on the floor. The devotees had not calculated his age in centuries, but he looked quite young. He was dressed the same way as his master, but in cheaper fabrics. On the other side, a gaunt Gurupada half-lie on the floor, his head lowered devotedly to the platform. It was difficult to say whether he was asleep or awake. Sitting in the first row of the gathering of women next door was a seventeen or eighteen-year- old young woman in a red sari, with her hair flowing loose. From time to time, she threw forlorn glances at Gurupada. This was Bunchki, Gurupada’s youngest daughter. Several of the devotees in this room were lying on their backs on the floor with their arms stretched out in front of their heads and their hands clasped together. The others had their palms joined reverently and their feet covered as they waited eagerly to sip babaji’s nectar of wisdom.
Satya prostrated himself on the floor to signal his reverence to babaji before taking his seat in the congregation. Nibaran ignored junior maharaj’s effort to stop him and clasped Birinchibaba’s legs directly. With a pleased smile baba said, “You look familiar.”
Nibaran: “Your humble servant’s name is Nibaranchandra.”
Birinchi: “Nibaran? Is that your name now? But I have seen you somewhere else—in Nepal? Murshidabad? But how will you remember? In Jagat Seth’s home, on the day of his mother’s sraddho. There were so many people there: Raja Krishnachandra, Rai Rayan Janakiprasad, the Nawab’s commander-in-chief Khan-i-Khanan Mahabat Jang, Sutanuti’s Amirchand, known in history as Umi- chand. You were Seth ji’s treasurer, your name was… wait… Motiram. Oh, how well Seth Ji fed us, only the Sutanuti babus weren’t served as many sweets as they wanted, they showered abuses on Seth Ji and left. So Motiram, no, Nibaranchandra, you must learn the Dhurjati incantation, it will be of great benefit for you. First thing upon waking up, you must chant a hundred and eight times: dhurjati-dhurjati-dhurjati-dhurjati, very quickly. Very well, take your seat now.”
Nibaran touched his feet reverently once more, made a show of tasting the metaphorical dust on them with his tongue, and sat down amidst the devotees.
“Did you see that?” Nitai whispered to Paramartha. “Nibaran caught Baba Ji’s eye as soon as he arrived, while I’ve been waiting for two hours like a fool. Talk about luck! I’ll grab his legs now, then we’ll see what fate holds for me.”
Among those lying on their stomachs on the floor was an aged, obese man. He was dressed in fine silk, with a thin gold chain around his neck visible through his near-transparent panjaabi. This was the famous Gobardhan Mallik, who had just got married for the third time. Rising to his feet slowly, he said, with his palms joined together, “Baba, which road to salvation is better, inclination or renunciation?”
Birinchibaba said with a slight laugh, “This is the same question that Tulsidas asked me. We consume food. Why? Because we are hungry. What do we consume? Rice, fruits, fish, meat. What happens when we eat? Hunger is renounced. Hunger leads to consumption, the consumption leads to its renunciation. Therefore the root of consumption is inclination, and the outcome of consumption is renunciation. Tulsi was a sanyasi. I told him, my boy, without consumption you can have no renunciation. When he had completed writing the Ramayana, I turned him into King Mansingh. He had amassed a great many riches, but none of them remained. His son Jagatsingh married a Bengali woman and squandered everything. Bankim did not mention any of this in his novel.”
“Wonderful!’ exclaimed Barrister O. K. Sen.”
Nitai could contain himself no longer. He rushed to Baba Ji and, bowing humbly, said, “Have mercy on me, lord.”
Baba frowned. “What do you want?”
A nervous Nitai said, “Nineteen fourteen.”
Satya had a noble illness—he could never suppress his laughter. He was capable of saying humorous things with a poker face, but maintaining his gravity when someone else said something funny was next to impossible. Satya often employed a fist to keep himself from laughing. When a situation fit for laughter arose in the presence of elders, he conjured up horrifying images. But even this did not always prove effective.
Birinchibaba said, “Nineteen fourteen? What is that?”
Nibaran whispered, “One-nine-one-four, Calcutta. No reply? Try again, miss.”
Satya conjured up the sensation of a carpenter sawing on his back. His skin was flaking off. Unbearable agony.
Nitai said, “Take me back for a week to the time before the war Baba, I want to buy iron at a low price, I beg of you, Baba.”
Birinchi: “What do you do for a living?”
Nitai: “I’m a ledger-keeper for Vulture Brothers, I make a hundred and fifty a month, it’s not enough to support my family.”
Birinchi: “The six riches cannot be amassed so easily, my friend, it needs protracted austerity and arduous endeavor. The muladhara chakra has to be nudged so that the kulakundalini can be brought into the agya chakra, after which it has to be lifted into sahasra’s padma. Sahasra is the sun, the sun must be made to retreat. Unless sunscience is applied, achieving kalastambha is impossible. This requires considerable expenses—far beyond your means. For now, adopt the Martendeya incantation. Gaze at the sun at noon and chant a hundred and eight times, Martandaya-Martandaya-Martandaya-Martandaya, very quickly. But be careful, you must not blink, you must not slur, that will be the end of it.”
Nitai returned to his place glumly.
Birinchibaba said, “Everyone seeks wealth and riches, but they must go to the worthy. This was what the Redeemer and I used to argue about. He would say that the rich would never enter the kingdom of god. I would say, why do you say that? A just use of wealth can ensure entry. Oh poor thing, died helplessly.”
Stupefied, Sen said, “Excuse me lord, did you know Jesus Christ?”
Birinchi: “Ha ha ha, Jesus was born just the other day.”
Sen: “My ghawd!”
Satya had dragonflies gnawing away in his ears, and beetles in his nostrils.
Sen asked Nibaran, “In that case did he know Gotama Buddha also?”
Nibaran: “Of course. Never mind Gautama Buddha, he shared his ganja with Manu and Parashar. He knew each and every one of them. Bhagirath, Tutenkhamen, Nebuchadnezzar, Hammurabi, Neolithic Man, Pithecanthropus Erectus, even the Missing Link himself.”
“Myh,” said Sen, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline.
Seven tigers were in pursuit of Satya. Three bears blocked his way, their paws upraised.
Birinchibaba said, “Once, Vaivasvata told me… was it during the Nil-lohit Kalpa? No, the Shvet-Varaha Kalpa had just begun. Vaivasvata said, it’s all very well to have created humans, but where will they stand, what will they eat? There was nothing but water everywhere. I said, don’t worry Bibu, I’m here, I have a complete hold over sun science. I increased the intensity of the sun, the water dried up in a flash, the earth filled with green and grain. The responsibility for controlling the sun and the moon is mine, you see.”
Sen could only gape in wonder.
Satya had died. The Punjab Mail had collided with the Darjeeling Mail—blood everywhere—Pishima…
Nothing worked. All the accumulated laughter threatened to explode through Satya’s mouth-nose-eyes. Having no other recourse, he applied tremendous effort and converted it to sobbing, hiding his face with his hands and crying piteously.
Birinchibaba said, “What is it? What’s the matter? Let him come up to me.”
Getting closer, Satya said, “Save me baba, I am sick and tired of human life. Turn me into a fawn and release me in Kanwa Muni’s hermitage in the Treta Yuga baba. I do not seek wealth or respect or heaven. Only a little tender grass, plucked by Shakuntala herself. And give me a pair of horns, my lord, so that I can gore Dushmanta.”
Sensing danger, Nibaran said, “He has lost his sanity baba, he has had to suffer much grief, you see.”
The clock struck seven. Following his daily routine, Birinchibaba suddenly went into a trance. He sat like a block of wood with his eyes closed, only his lips trembled slightly. Mamababu, junior maharaj, and a pair of devotees picked up Babaji’s venerable spreadeagled frame and took him into the austerity chamber. The gathering broke up for the day, and the devotees dispersed gradually.
“Empty vessels make the most sound,” Nitai said. “This sort of babaji is no use for me. Show some of your tricks right now if you’re capable, instead of boasting of your exploits in the Satya Yuga. Let’s go, Paramartha, we can still get the seven-twenty train. No need to wait for Nibaran and Shote, they can find their own way back. Why don’t you take me to Mirchi Baba tomorrow, Paramartha?”
Satya went looking for Bunchki and said, when he found her, “May I have a cup of tea? Nibaran-da will be here too any moment. My throat feels hoarse.”
“Of course,” said Bunchki. “Did you hear yourself shouting? I’ll put the kettle on, wait a bit. But why did you have to create a scene in front of my father? What will he think?”
Your father was practically unconscious, Satya said to himself. But what he told Bunchki was, “I did overdo it a little, didn’t I? I’m sorry, I won’t repeat it. I’ll apologize to your father and make sure he’s satisfied before I leave.”
Bunchki: “As if he cares for satisfaction or dissatisfaction anymore. He’s alive, that’s about it, he has no awareness of what anyone’s doing or saying.”
Satya: Things won’t go on like this, they can’t go on. Mark my words. There’s Nibaran-da.”
Nine p.m. The ritual fire was burning. The devotees had left already. The room where the hom was being conducted had only Birinchibaba, Gurupada, Bunchki, Ganesh, Nibaran, Satya, and Gobordhon. The last named was the distinguished devotee who had promised to construct a three-story hermitage for Babaji. It was a small room, with most of the doors and windows barred. Ganesh guarded the entrance. Junior maharaj Kebalananda was busy elsewhere, preparing babaji’s usual nightly meal of rice boiled in milk with sugar and ghee. A single oil lamp flickered in the room. Birinchibaba was sunk in meditation in a yogic pose, with the fire burning in front of him. Gurupada and his daughter were seated behind him, with Nibaran and Satya on one side, and Gobordhon on the other.
After a long period in his trancelike state, Birinchibaba sprinkled drops of water with a kosha. The lamp went out. The flames had subsided, only a few embers glowed. Birinchibaba began to shake his hand violently in front of his mouth, puffed up his cheeks, and emitted a series of terribly loud sounds. The stentorian roar of bu-bu-bu-bu made the entire room tremble.
“Frightened, Bunchu?” Satya whispered in Bunchki’s ear.
“No,” she replied.
Suddenly a blue flame emerged from the dying fire. And in that faint light what everyone saw was that it was Shiv himself. Behind the fire, dressed in tiger skin, sporting bones and skulls, and carrying his trident and tabor, it was most definitely the god Mahadev.
Gurupada was motionless. Gobordhon Mallik began to dolefully recount his woes regarding his business enterprise and his third wife to the gods. Ganesh chanted shlokas addressed to Shiv, which his youngest daughter had learnt at Mahakali Pathshala.
“Now!” whispered Nibaran to Satya, who shouted at the top of his voice, “Bom baba Mahadev!”
Soon there was an uproar outside. Then someone screamed, in Hindi, “Fire, fire!”
Birinchibaba’s cheek orchestra came to an abrupt halt. He looked about restlessly. Ganesh rushed out.
“Fire… fire… come out at once!” Thick smoke spiraled into the room. Birinchibaba leapt outside. Gobordhon followed, shrieking. Bunchki took her father’s hand.
“Get up, baba.” Nibaran said, “Wait, no need to leave, don’t be afraid.”
Mahadev seemed alert now and began to fidget. Nibaran switched on a light. Mahadev tried to escape through the back door, whereupon Satya wrapped his arms around the fugitive.
Mahadev said, “Let go, let go, that hurts, this is no time for jokes damn it, the place is on fire, let go of me at once.”
Satya said, “What’s the hurry? Let’s get to know one another. So Kebalram, how long have you been playing god?”
Three or four people entered the room. Leaving Kebalananda in Feku Pande’s custody, Nibaran and Satya escorted a bewildered Gurupada and his daughter outside.
The house was not burning down. Someone had set fire to some wet straw. The doorman, the maulvi, the coachman, Amulya, Habla, and others whom Satya had recruited had raised a false alarm.
But Birinchibaba was not ready to accept defeat yet. “Happy now, Gurupada?” he said. “How do you expect an atheist to have a divine vision? So the god was present and yet absent in your fate. Eventually he took on human form to mock you.”
“And what a mockery that was!” said Satya. “Mahadev rotted away to reveal Kyabla. Birinchibaba proved to be a charlatan.”
“You thought you could cheat us?” said Gobordhon. “I am Gobordhon Mallik, I run offices for five business houses, I eat Englishmen for breakfast, you were expecting to hoodwink him? Give the scoundrel a taste of our fists.”
Gurupada was back in his senses now. “No, let him go, let him go. Satya, get the carriage to come round to the front and make arrangements for them to reach the station. No one should say anything to them.”
When all their effects had been packed, Satya saw Birinchibaba and his disciple into the carriage. As they were leaving, he said, “So leave you must, lord? The sun and the moon remain in your care, do ensure they operate properly. Do not forget to wind them, and oil them from time to time.”
When the crowd of people had thinned, Gurupada said, “My dear Nibaran, my dear Satya, you have saved me, I will never forget your assistance in this matter. You must eat with us tonight, it is quite late. What’s that, Satya, why is your hand bleeding?”
Satya: “It’s nothing, Mahadev bit me during the scuffle. Don’t worry yourself, you must rest now.”
Gurupada: “Come with me in that case, Bunchki will bandage your hand with tincture of iodine.”
After dinner Satya said, “Now here’s a new kind of trouble.”
“What is it now, Satya?” said Nibaran.
Satya: “Nibaran-da!”
Nibaran: “Go on.”
Satya: “Nibaran-da!”
Nibaran: “Out with it.”
Satya: “I want to marry Bunchki.”
Nibaran: “That’s obvious. But what if her family doesn’t agree?”
Satya: “Of course they will, everyone from her father upwards will agree.”
Nibaran: “The father might, but what does the daughter think?”
Satya: “She’s confused me.”
Nibaran: “What did Bunchki say?”
Satya: “She said nonsense!”
Nibaran: “Nonsense means yes, you ass!”