SYNOPSIS
It is a long story, slowly moving like a broad river in its journey through the plains. It is just an effort to highlight some sober facts like the true meaning of nationalism, religion, politics, and humanism. The work has very sharp political connotations. But I would like to clarify that while espousing the cause of clean politics, I have taken very dagger-sharp cuts at certain political forces whose brand of politics results in reversing the basic meanings of religion and nationalism. But it is for sure that all such literary efforts from my side are just a battle cry against bad politics, rather than going against any particular political force. By having creative cuts at the razor-sharp edges of most of the political blocks in India, I have tried to carve out a straight-faced deity whom people have in mind when they envision their interests in the safe hands of the state.
One of the characters is a beautiful girl named Phulva, the gypsy girl. Through the trials and tribulations of her beautiful path through the society of the settlers, I have tried to depict how these almost stateless, religion-less people do come into friction with the sedentary society to create sometimes ecstatic and oftentimes tragic episodes. She smiles like a lotus in the perilous waters of a muddy pond. Also accompanied is the pleasantly sweet-sour path of the now-vanishing nomadic culture that once caressed the settled society with the suddenness of a fresh and fragrant gust of wind. When the gypsies pitch up their campsite on the fringe of settled---and the so-called civilized society---always there are showers and sparkles as the merging fronts of two different entities rub past each other.
The main protagonist is a lame Hindu religioner. Well so much for his Villainy! But there are reasons for badness. After detailing the circumstantial forces, which put him on the path of selfishness--and ultimately his brand of utilitarian Hinduism--I have tried to depict him in the light of multifaceted sun of faith. Through the testing admixture of religion, spirituality, blind faith and religion, I have tried to churn out substantive meanings, which have eluded the mankind puzzled by the conflicting dilemmas of faith, superstition, ritualism, or the religiondom overall. At the other end is his guru, the man with the real, selfless, utility-less mission of spiritual awakening. Through this contrasting set of religious personalities, I have made a humble effort to point out a little arc along the infinitely drawn out compassionate folds and contours of Hinduism.
Heartily mixed up in the silent pace of the tale is the old Muslim fisherman. The silently brooding--and expertly following the principals of humanism--frail man plays a far-far weightier role in the tale with his effortless maneuvers instigated by a heart lit by the unsung lore of true humanity. The man from Bengal, a direct victim of the partition-time butcheries, carries along the seemingly insignificant path with firm, humanistic strides.
Then there are smaller players the disciples, good and bad dogs, stoically suffering animals like donkeys in the caravans, and plainly villainous bunch of thugs who can always put their foul smell in any fragrant orchard--all jutted against the exciting admixture of fate and human deeds.
It is a highly literary work. The target audience is all those who love real humanism devoid of all misinterpretations and miscalculations.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Two Souls in the Night’s Restless Swathes
1
Two Souls in the Night’s Restless Swathes
The night was verily dark, as it
should when shrouded under buxom, dark clouds. Or was the gloom due to the
degenerative dogma and tradition’s swindlery? We’re not sure, as both averred
their reasons with equal dexterity.
In this pitch dark, two huts, perched
on the back of a mound, cowered under the wicked weather. Wobbling clouds
seemed ready to pour down their monsoonal wrath over the straw, reed and grass
of the two shelters.
Countless ephemeral, insected souls
gnatted, droned and burped: the ephemera forgetting its transcience and
fragility to flippantly sing to the tunes of this sweat-laden, hot and humid
night of a day bygone or the one waiting to arrive. We’re not sure of the day
which fathered this restless night or even the night which was to mother---or
had already done so---a new day. But for sure, it was a time in the last week
of July, when the monsoon is at the crest of its pleasant fury over the plains
of northern India .
If we had the eyes of an angel, or
even a mammon’s, we would have come across the descriptive details of the
surroundings. The mound, in comparison to the mountainous elevations, was a
mere gobbet; littlest of a hillock. Still, it appeared accentuating its rise
above the plain; asserting its gob of earth with a historical pride.
Sardonically it seemed looking around with aloofness for being an oddity
against the geomorphological scalpel of the past. And equipped with kansh and
jhabua shrubbery, foliaging its slopes with pinchy prickliness and
swordy needleness, it seemed to puff up its lump as a veritable fortress.
Apart from the two thatched hutments,
a banyan tree crowned the hillocky gobbet. The banyan was medium in age and
girth. In the dark, clouded night it looked awful. Its trunks, twigs and airy
roots hadn’t yet developed to that hanky-panky treeness which makes a banyan
the erudite king of the plant kingdom during its old age. At this stage of
youthfulness, eight or nine second-tier trunks branched out symmetrically upwards
from the main one, with airy roots coming more than halfway down to the earth
with the jauntiness of a brat; the hanging aerial roots (with a vagrant
lucidity) serpented down in the dark like the virgin hair on the chin and
cheeks of a ‘face yet to be shaved for the first time’ or a man in becoming. Its
robust foliage, defying all the diktats of a bad weather, rustled for its
pleasure’s purity.
The nocturnal eye, then, would come
across the pond. Imposing darkness hadn’t been able to scuttle away the verve
of its wavelets. Wavy epicures lapped at the base of the mound from three
sides, as if trying to wake it up. In deference to the rainy season, the pond
had gaily acquired a new margin line across the grass along its shores. And
this fickle limiting line, smirkingly, seemed to be still eager for a landward
jaunt. There was nothing obnoxious in the fact that the pond had transgressed
its panchayati area; and like a small sea it had merged into the water
standing in the paddy fields, lying along its southern extremity. On the other
hand, it reached, almost nefariously, to the objectionable vicinity of the tar
metalling the district road, defining its northern fringe. There the waves
mockingly lapped against the bricked embankment, as if full of scorn over the
unpalatable noisy waves created by some lone vehicle laboring along this
pot-holed road.
In the shallow mire, formed due to the
submergence of grass crescenting around the mound, pummeling flappings of the fish
came out distinct from the fizzling chorus of insects, frogs, toads,
leopard-toads, snakes and tortoises.
“It is a mangur fish-flock,”
one of the inhabitants of the elevated earthy gobbet might’ve whispered, if
faced with a question about the matter.
These were big, broad-snouted cat-fish,
stretching their muddy colour for about feet-and-half along the spine. From
their snouts, six or seven thick beard like outcrops hang out, making them look
like the bearded exorcists of the fish-world. Here was the slippery ground for
their frolicsome lovemaking. Mirthing in the ecstatic mire, their submissive
bodies rolled amidst the soft needles of the partially submerged grass. Aha,
the grandeur of love! The Inclement weather, like an idle, false phantom was
hung above flaccidly and powerlessly, unable to intervene in the love game.
The unpaved, earthen embankment
serving as a pathway link between the road and the mound had submerged, as
water had surged down from the sandy upland soil. There the fields got
saturated with water as quickly as they felt thirsty again.
To the north of the
road was the sleepy village, lying uneasily and dingily in this gloomily humid
night. And the road, which had been metalled with tar about 20 years back,
serpented forth on its depilated journey. The administrative insensitivity of
two decades was its real burden rather than the traffic and the monsoon.
It was thus such a night, when the
time was humidly and ploddingly moving at an unknown hour. Two plaint huts
stood with their submissive impressiveness, as if waiting for the autumn when
the stout, broad banyan leaves falling from above might add to their sinewy,
thatched roof-coverings.
Restlessness in the humid bowls above
foretold the monsoonal fury; occasional outbursts when it rains incessantly
throughout the night. Suddenly, the peering peek of the migratory birds—ducks,
pelicans, herons, waders, cranes, etc—got them amuck and they buttressed the
noise manifold.
A ‘darker than darkness around’ cloud
was astutely plodding towards the big tree from north-west. The dark vault’s
edge must have been over the fields on the sandy plateau. Sand seizing the
loosened-up roots of tall jowar and bajra crops sensed the
approaching cloud with an abhorrent look, for it tantamount to an addition to
their tilting angle and its consequent force of maternal hold.
Those excited vapours in a whirlpool
were now adding rapidly to their size and sublimity. A luscious gust of wind
quickly perpetuated the sway of dark mass over the grey dull clouds up to the
road, which seemed to have gone to sleep after a heavy tome of tiring schedule.
But its sleep was broken, every quarter of an hour or so, by the bumping and
jangling journey of some sleepy truck plying unpluckily to its destination in
the neighbouring state of Rajasthan.
From the rustling leaves of the banyan
a cuckoo sang, or rather cooed squeakingly. Aromatic pungency and sweetness of
its reproachful birdie song traveled far in this humid night. Perhaps, it was a
strayed one, windblown to this part by a strong windstorm which lashed the village
late in the evening. So, it was telling its lilting, little tale of sorrow from
the big tree on the western margin of the mini-lake. An owlet, meanwhile,
insidiously broke the sorrowful melody by its baffling howling. But, it couldn’t
break the reverential reverie of the bird of song, which went on unmindfully;
and now when the edge of the darkest vault of the sky reached its sheltering
tree, the contrite bird’s sorrowful tones changed to a eulogy for the approaching
rain.
The rains had shallowly submerged the
western vicinity of the mound, and this water had shaken hands with the pond
water by crossing over the latter’s low and irregular western embankment. So,
the little gob of earth was, at this time of the season, surrounded by water
except from the south-west. Here, it was touched by a pouting portion of land
outcropping from a grassy, small plateau, running along the western side of the
pond. So, if one standing on the road was to be caught in by the fancy of the
sorrowfully potent song of the cuckoo, he’d have to take a long path to reach
the tree: firstly, following the road in the western direction, then turning
left, passing through the paddy fields with utter care over their rain-beaten
narrow field-paths or the embankments; then taking a turn to the east which’d
take him to the plateau; and lastly, after treading over the soft grass of this
table-land, helpingly outcropping lip of the plateau, tasting the bunchgrass at
the base of tiny gobbet, would leave him below the banyan tree with its welcoming
beard rubbing gently against the newcomer’s head, with their rooted diligence
and ecstatic over touching something after that eternal hanging in the air.
Thus the watery infraction between the road and the bearer of huts, made it
seem and feel archaically distant than its real separation of a couple of hundred
metres from the road.
The village to the other side of the
road was lost in the folds of that bugbearing weather. Except the fact of it,
there was no other proof which could indicate its existence at this
apparitional hour. Even the dogs’ prognostically-driven barking and howling had
fallen silent and it seemed as if not a single soul was awake in the rural settlement.
Two souls, however, were lying
irretrievably restless, taking thoughtless turns on their pallets, as the
voracious darker edge passed over the thatched roofings perversively enclosing
a humid and mosquito infested interior. With a purgatory look the hutments
seemed ogling at the dark mass rapidly covering the swarthy sky above, while
the lilting rainy fecundity shyingly winked at the desperation below.
One of the archetype huts faced east,
with its back to the banyan on the western margin of the oval elevation. The
other wasn’t laid out straight. Almost inconsequentially, it faced south-east
and stood almost despicably between the eastern margin of the tiny hillock and
the entrance of the second hut. Hadn’t it been for this obstruction, the other
hut would’ve claimed a clear courtyard, where the rising sun would send its
ochre rays, sailing over the pond, without any hindrance; the saffron magnanimity
reaching to every nook and corner of the light-thirsty, damp and unhealthy
aired structure. Like the bully-boys of Hinduism, of late, quibbling over the
crown of nationhood; of Hindustan , Bharat or India .
The other one, somewhat directionless,
with its escaping hilt, resided disheveled over the uneven curve of the mound,
where both the upper base and slope claimed to be the real substratumic base
holding it. There seemed to be some cardinal indiligence about this asymmetry.
Its layout glimpsed of that diamond, which’d shone like a full gem under the
revivalist and optimistic rays of the sun at the previous dusk; but whom the
rising new and glittering sun had found as the wrong faced, thus turning the
refracting light to a perilously perversive one. The gem itself blindfolded and
awfully surprised, vindictively cast its piercing, sanguinary eyes in a
direction, where there was no hope, no chance of progress. Just for the loss of
this direction the whole gem structure, the inner one, had acquired such a
deadly, illusionary incurvation that even the lapidary, with the redemptive
eye, dithered for the fear of preening, festering light riding upon supine wavelengths.
Distance between the huts was just a
few metres, but the darkish gloom and the shrewd, humid stupidity piled amidst
the 1000-year-old sky above, made it seem rapaciously large. The mulling dark
cloud, now hovering over the trees along the eastern margin of the pond,
scamperingly noticed this glitching fissure. With its soft reproaches, it
mingled into the nightish shades above the dark foliage.
The fissiparous tension piling up in
the society giving rise to social-fold-mountains, with their defining
contours—two religions, two cultures and possibly two nationhoods—embaling
itself into a cumbersome mass day by day, from years, centuries, was now
scurryingly running along the excited water vapours.
Lying helplessly under the heavy
atmospherics of the kind discussed above, and overpowered by the incorporeality
of his beliefs, the Sadhu in the east facing hut took umbrageous twists
and turns on his humble sack cloth bedspread. The scion of mendicant friars,
the reverential penate, the prelate of this hut lay praying for the sleep,
which won’t come in but wait gingerly at his doorstep.
The other hut sheltered a soul
sobriquetting as a ‘Mohammedan’ in its present earthly avatar. It seemed as if
the Prophet’s sentinels, today in their rarest of adventuristic ineptitude,
were shoving away the sleep off his hutment. While, the frogs, the mandarins of
the small, noisy world, croaked their cacophony ever increasingly, which made
his ears lose the love-lapping notes emanating from the site of mating mangurs
amidst the mired grass at the foot of eastern edge of the elevation. It
irritated him, for he didn’t mind sleep as long as he heard the fish splashing
their fins and tails merrily and lustily, which reached his ears subduing the
noisy insects. But for those frogs! Their occasional braying for the rains
would find him taking more turns in his humblest bedding.
The Sadhu, contemplating
newness of the place, as well as the suspicious curiosity about his neighbour
was lying loose-limbed. It’d have been a far better idea to lie in the open,
because the humidity was just smouldering inside the hut made of bunchgrass,
reeds, paddy straw and all those sinewy things from the grassy world which’d
snugly boast of its warmth during the winters. But for this time of the season,
the interior was unbearable. Perhaps, the open roof of the sky over the mother
earth’s little gobbet was too new and unacquainted to the religioner, who
certainly thought twice before surrendering himself to the open air’s bonhomie
amidst the blurring dark. His bedspread, made of sack-cloth, covered the paddy
straw layered over the ground to soften the hardness below. Like the hut, it
too would’ve been a winter night’s delight.
The sickening and humid air inside the
hut was unnerving, depriving the God’s follower of all his sleep. Soullessly he
was lying, while the blurring dark drawlingly won over the light dark cloud.
Nothing in particular yet everything in general boosily suffused his agitated
mind. It parried off the whole sequence of a good and sedate sleep, which
starts from a tranquil and calm surrounding; and then the Goddess of sleep
transcends the physical harmony, with its lullabying steps, transfixing the
fortress of ‘consciousness’. The restless seer was still to get the first one,
hence the satisfying sleep was miles away from his portals.
‘Maharaj Ji! That’s all I’ve
been able to manage for you,’ Bhagat Ram’s devotionally pulverized voice echoed
guiltily in his ears.
Bhagat Ram’s ever obedient face in its
full devotional suffuseness hovered brightly in the dingy dark snarling around
him, as he thought of the simple parishioner. Then he reflected upon his own arrival
in the village four days ago.
Trudging along the glenny pathways of
life he’d come almost from nowhere, as Hindu mendicant friars, the Sadhus,
following their seership reach any place where air can get access. At least in India , the
motherland of Hinduism, it holds unfailingly true.
His ochre coloured, sleeveless long
cloak shone in truest spiritual colour when he reached the village suffused
with the saffron rays of a dusking sun. The horizon had been saffronly lit with
the colour of sacrifice, surrender, spiritual passion and divine abundance.
A distant relative of Bhagat Ram, who
knew him only through vaguest reference, the Sadhu knocked at the
villager’s humble home, when the darkness was softly striking at the village’s
door. For the next two days, he enjoyed the infinitely pensive host’s service,
who seemed ready to overhaul his very existence for the visitor’s comfort. We
don’t know what this religious relative of far had in his mind when he reluctantly
knocked at the door which opened before an unknown face. Most probably, a night’s
stay was all he’d in his mind and then move further along his endless path supposedly
leading to salvation in the dust beneath the feet of Lord Shiva. But the
attractive impressiveness of his host’s inclination towards disciplehood, which
clearly lurked behind the reverentially performed service, got some
definiteness in the Sadhu’s vagueful
journey, and on the third day he spoke of his mind to the disciple-in-waiting.
“Bhagte,” he said, as the host was
nick-named, in his miserable, grave voice, “I’ve been through every nook and
corner of the country for the cause of God. This village seems to need a
priest. So, I’m thinking of having some rest and help the villagers in their religiosity.”
The would-be-first-disciple went
beserk with devotional joy as he heard these divine words.
Just a fortnight ago an aggrieved
villager had beaten a tantrik, the exorcist, with his crude fists and
sabre-rattling kicks. His bullwhipping cries emanating from the bridle tight
and abusive tongue had overtoned the painful cries of the exorcist, who’d ended
up fleecing the simple farmer’s wife when she frequented his hut for the purpose
of a haunting spirit dispelled from her body. The weariness, the languor
feeling borne out of the spit and spite of a tough peasantry survival had made
her desire thirsty for a fresh whiff of air. She’d found her evil spirit
suffused with a fluid colour as she ended up in the witchcrafter’s religiously
charming embrace; his rosary pressed against her rejuvenated breasts;
mystically chanting lips smooching a treatise for the dull colour of her own;
and his fingers, adorned with so many magical-stone studded ringlets caressed
her rough and disheveled hair. Her paranoia, the devil spirit, as the villagers
had witnessed it, was miraculously gone. Alas, the hard world of reality has
little concern for such ecstatic flirtations! The hoax was one day laid open
and apocalypse let loose. The artful, religious trickster saved his life by
crawling away, unseenly to an unknown place, after the venomy bull had left him
as a lifeless mass embaled in his fearsome black cloak, witchcraft trinkets and
the beads of rosary rolling in the dust around.
His hut on the mound was now lying in
lonesome lassitude, soulfully waiting for some religioner seeking shelter after
a long, long journey across the infinite, oblivious and endless pathways of
Hinduism.
Human failings apart, religiosity is
the ceaselessly ravaging river, and squinty eyed suspicion, wonderfully, gives
place to adoring religious look in the quickest of time possible. So, Bhagat
Ram a witness to the skeptic spectacle which occurred just two weeks ago, found
himself once again at the surging devotional front. Too religious for his
35-odd-years’ sojourn on earth, his morally cowering mannerisms found him
earnestly desiring a religious figurine in the village.
Now, Hinduism has been, perhaps,
scribbled down most comprehensively and ingenuously by the Supreme Power.
Blurring dark clad exorcists; the ever wandering mendicant friars; totally
unattached meditating yogis in the toughest climes of the Himalayas; alm-asking
peregrinators; the temple priests; the ashram dwellers on the collective
path of faith; as many sects and further derivations as there are individuals :
All of them embaled in one pious knot. Such is the greatness of Hinduism: so
many paths to be followed according to an individual soul’s intonation; the
overspreading saffron colour of God, colouring each and every soul, from the
most scheming ones to the perfectly surrendering ones; the infallible, ineffable
God’s regimen containing everything from the complete vacuous calm to bellicose
verbosity, with little coquettish gurgitation of the masses, swaying to the
tunes of both extremities, lying in between.
A small sinew in the nest of
transcendental gospel, Bhagat Ram requested his guest to turn the stigmatized
hut holy and put the rough villagers on the path of godhood, which was easily accepted
by the Sadhu. In every Indian settlement religious vacancy of this sort
is as happily filled up as the upcoming breath.
Yesterday, medium built and short
statured Bhagte, with his absolutely dark, well oiled hair and clad in his new
grey coloured kurta-pyjama, had reverentially labored over the empty
hut; his simple, straight mind culling out each and every provision he could
provide for the comfort of the new entrant to the hut which was lying somewhat
irreverently after that imprudent fling of its previous dweller. It took him a
whole day to veer away the old feel as well as the look of it. He did it with
his ever eschewing gaze. His selfless service changed the scandalized aura of
the mound to a sanctified place. He was almost at war with the bushes,
thickets, bunchgrass clumps and keekars as they’d unfurled their rainy
season’s brawny foliage with such greenish greediness that their prickles and
snippingly sharp blades would’ve deterred even the waddling buffaloes in the
pond.
The result of this day-long and
ineffably selfless service was that the hut was restored almost to the extent
of being a decent, tiny countryside holy hutment. The furnishing, of course,
came at the cost of his home. So, the pride of his little worship-place inside
his house was now reticently facing the hut’s open entrance, as the flap had
been folded and tucked upwards. It was a blue coloured, medium sized clay idol
of ever gracious (and cutest among the Gods in Hindu pantheon) Lord Shiva; whom
its worshipper-guest had picked up as his first necessity at the new place. And
the encoring look of the new religious entrant had found various other articles
and things of daily usage dovetailing the household God to the hut. Best of
Bhagat Ram’s wall hangings, the calendars of Gods and Goddesses glossily and
triumphantly looking downwards with dates, months, births, anniversaries and
holidays fidgeting helplessly at the feet of the divine figures, were now
tethered to the twiggy sinews of their thatched new home. Two pitchers, a plastic
bucket, a mug and some aluminum utensils lost their place from the neat and
clean kitchen of the house’s lady, whose unopposing look even after witnessing
the day long forays of her husband into her scarcely adorned kitchen proved
only one thing; that she was equally smooth wheel of this matrimonial cart.
Today, at dawn he’d, enclouded by a
medley of thoughts, come here following his callow disciple. While walking
along the long, tortuously slippery, grassy and narrow field embankments
valiantly dividing the flooded paddy fields, he had the most arduous and
plummeting of a journey. Herculean effort was distinctly scribbled over his
creased brow, as he walked precariously on the pathlets, where only the farmers
could tread without crinkling their ankles. He called forth all Gods to prevent
their devotee’s bulging body from falling into the mossy green water. He walked
so tight limbed that the loose fat padded around his bones felt vehement
pressure on each and every cell. Sly desultoriness in his strides evinced an
infirmity; an oddity with its plummeting sorrowfulness, given the robustness
and ease of his other limbs; revelry. He dragged himself forward, his chin up,
upbraidingly bearded, and in the heart of his hearts, he, somewhat
accusatively, somewhat fearfully, gruntingly, rhythmically chanted the mantra
of the Lord beholding his faith.
“...Om Namah Shivaay, Om Namah
Shivaay, Om Namah Shivaay...” imploringly
he went on with his silently suffering prayer to prevent a religioner’s fall in
muddy waters.
By the grace of God he swaggered along
the unfriendly path. A bracelet and a small-beaded rosary tied around his arm
spiritually controlled the strenuous surge across his big muscular and
grey-haired hand squeezing the crutch-head in its armpit. It’d all the bearings
of undoing his leg’s infirmity. The three legged man-wood mixture miraculously
avoided a fall, while the fickle and normal gait of the villager leading the
way got him many times slipping and stepping into the mire. The simpleton was,
perhaps, too novice for such a careful walk. The Sadhu on the other hand
had numerous bolstering experiences of such treacherous steps. By seeing them
walking so paradoxically one would have imagined it to be an inchoate scene of
an interesting anecdote.
Each time the path’s manic gripes
found the poor fellow slippingly avoiding a fall, the religioner mused over the
common, earthly householder’s trivial gaudiness.
He’d laugh unsagely, and by the time
the perplexed face of Bhagat Ram turned back to the bearded muser, the same
emblematic sagely serenity, which’d attracted Bhagte’s devotional spirit, would
saunter back in a flash, as quickly as it had vanished. Now, this made Bhagte
feel guilty for lacking in his service to the God.
“Perhaps it is God’s way of reminding
His existence to a common householder like me,” he had gathered words,
apologetically, trying to come out of the conundrum, “for He is gracious enough
to bestow two proper legs to me. Still, I don’t know how to walk properly and
you Maharaj....”
He stopped suddenly and almost
shivered for the fear of drifting in the direction of the holy man’s deformity.
Though it would’ve been a moral truism to a triumphant God had he completed:
“...with whom the God has been unkind.
Still you walk unfailingly on this treacherous path, for you’ve served him
throughout your life.”
Bhagte walked silently, cursing his
fate for undoing all the pious work of the last three days.
Agitated soul of the Sadhu
almost rattled by this unintended pun went cursing, ‘Accursed! Accursed! Why
doesn’t the God punish you with a broken leg? Only then you would’ve the taste
of it!’
Lost his prayer, so lost his stride,
and failure---the perennial naysayer---found the Sadhu wallowing in the
flooded paddy with a huge splash; and that too at a place when he was just
about to put his last step on the little grassy plateau. Such a wonderfully
dexterous feat had been nullified at the last step.
Crestfallen Bhagte jumped from his
dew-diamonded, grassy elevation into the crushed paddy. The Sadhu’s
small trident, which his free hand held, pierced the wet earth’s breast, as the
pointed end bore the force of his fall. His vermilion coloured cloth bag which
contained the Shankha (the divine conch shell), the Kamandla (the
vessel of gourd for storing the holy water) and various other oblivious things
which only a religioner like him would know, fell into the flooded field.
The Sadhu’s bulgingly
protruding eyes widely set under slanting and bushy eye-brows had all the
attendant intonations of a ‘chewing alive’ gesture, as he stood shaking on the
accursed embankment, while Bhagte ferried the holy things out of the field. He
was but a sage. Such earthily common reactions weren’t expected of him. To his
devotional bewilderment, Bhagte found the dripping beard of the holy man
proffering a serene smile hidden under the thicket-like hair, as he struggled
out of the puddle with the bag and the trident.
The muddy moss was splattered over the
yellowish-red sleeveless robe of the religioner. It looked wantonly tabby.
Wearer of this strange coloured cloth,
piously grinned, “Sometimes, somewhere, God reminds his own holy people,” he
said subduing all human expressions which a shaking fall would bring in. “When
I fell I heard the Lord’s divine voice ordering me to bring back the religious
runaways of this village,” he put all that devotional aura around him, as if
giving a clarion call to summon all his religiosity earned on the pathways of
mendicancy. “I got this little punishment from the God, for the misdeeds of the
dwellers of this village,” he sagely said, making the simpleton cowering
guiltily for their unholy, irreligiously common household ways.
It was a fantastic show by the
religious trickster. Effective to the extent that all those validating points
of the Ultimate Truism, the indefatigable truth enshrined in the scriptures,
through their defining mythology, fables and Godly narratives, hovered almost
emblematically around him. Bhagte had his own share of this truism through religious
folklore, in which Godliness in its devotionally bewildering array, dawned upon
the earth in the form of rishis, munis, yogis, acharayas; or in a
nutshell all and sundry people on the path of religion. Service of the holy
people, who in turn were serving the God, was his simple idea of dharma---the
religion---of devotion, of goodness, of morality and all. His eyes got their
own share of wetness, as he prostrated before his guru, his pious benefactor.
There on the grassy, small table land
dew glittered from its perfectly green turf under the curious glare of an
upcoming sun. Though not too far from the road’s south-western curve on its
west-ward journey, the little plateau looked forlorn, almost in distant
solitude, as the intervening side, whence the disturbing foot may come, was all
inundated with water. The Kabuli keekars, a semi-arid variant of the
acacian floral category, sprawled their luxuriant green branches along the
margins of this little upland. Wilderness seemed safe as it lurked till the
distant horizon to the southern end of this grassy piece of land. The whole
look of it seemed to fritter away any human disturbance from any side. This
self-engrossed solitude might’ve appealed to a sage’s soul, but strangely the Sadhu’s
uneasiness went on increasing as he lumbered along his support over the untrammeled
and fresh virginity of the jeweled grass. He felt too far from the settlement
he had enjoyed for three days.
“I hope you’ll not leave me in that
prickled mass out there,” he’d sighed groggily, pointing accusatively in the
direction of thick growth of keekars along the eastern margin of the
pond.
In this little fit of unsagely temper,
he’d completely forgotten the hut and the banyan tree which Bhagte had pointed
out as they emerged on the road from the village. The brainwashed sky scattered
a very bright sheen over the grass. The calculating Sadhu almost hobbled
over a very bright coloured sparrow, most probably an exotic, migrant species,
which seemed to be lost in numerous grassy glitters. Miraculously it escaped as
it sprinted away, leaving a small plume from its plumage. Again the Sadhu’s cheeks,
under the secrecy of his beard, parted for an exclamatory and pleasant laugh
over this little birdie adventure.
Bhagte, meanwhile, walking beside him
at a small distance heaved a mountainous sigh of relief, and praised the God in
most exaggerated words, as the little winged visitor flew to safety.
God’s servant, the religioner, bent
down and picked up the little wonder of nature, the rainbowy little feather,
and held it against the sun. With somewhat effected stoic muse, which’d some
colourings of a strange aversion arising, gathering its strength after lying
for so long, so deep inside his soul dwelling in a body which was supposed to
be beyond such extreme emotion, sensation or feeling. It propped its head up.
The venerable guest, the sermonizer, in his heavy voice worded this sermonette:
“Strange are the ways of God! Such
beautiful things in such little shapes and sizes! Most often we’re taken in by
the artistry, taking the togetherness of beauty and goodness for granted. But
sometimes, biggest of devil dwells inside smallest of most beautiful things.”
Under the convulsive force of strange
pathos of angst, he threw the weightless charm into the air. But he couldn’t
effect any harm to it, for the gravity defying, littlest ounce of beauty bore
no plummeting force, and flew away resplendently, mystically high above his
head; an eddying whiff of air carrying it proudly at its head. The earth
trotting ‘man-of-God’ limpingly trudged forward as the ecstatic beauty, now
shoved by a filial gust of wind, flew away high above the ground.
While all this happened, the roving
religioner’s eyes bore the stony and foretelling look of a puritan, which the
lay believer in his innocent puzzleness took to be a sermonizing prophesy. The
eye-twitching bright hallow around the reverential guest, the distant relative,
the worldly scion of the omnipresent, suddenly shone blurringly and in a fit of
devotional hiccup---as well as not knowing much what else to do---he found
himself prostrating before the Sadhu. His guru stopped at once. The disciple could no longer control the
thunderbolt of Godliness; he fell onto the slush laden feet of his pious
benefactor.
Languorously hobbling, the ritual
practitioner, at last saw the huts and the stoic tree on the small geomorphic
upliftment. He exhaled a sigh which seemed to pacify his bigotry. Big tree’s
thick foliage, under the radiating gleam of clear morning sun purported auspiciousness.
The proficient ritualist stroked his beard out of sheer thrill of feeling big,
mighty and shaggy like the tree.
“Om
Bholenath! At
last a place to rest and then move further on the path of sainthood,” the
religious-run-about-of-yore sighed, as he ascended the new bushy pedestal for
his penance and pilgrimage.
The roving religious runaway had taken
the sanyas, the path of Godhood, for the exact reasons which are ever
escaping the profane logic of a commoner. So such fleeting conclusions are
escapingly beyond our compression. Yet, a few abstract facts we can certainly
muster up as he limped to his new destination.
He was born with an infirm leg; grew
up with a deforming uneasiness in the lower ranks of the Hindu caste hierarchy;
and as a humble godhead had, throughout his life, prevented a fall from his
chosen path like he’d—till the last unfortunate step—avoided a fall in the
paddy fields by the wonderful acrobatic balance of the wooden support under his
right armpit. Yes, religion was his crutch. Perhaps, the bestower of the
beneficial religiosity was kind enough to support him with many versions of
faith. So, haunted devotees would find him a rowdy exorcist dispelling the evil
spirit; common house holders with their mild beliefs would get the opportunity
to sway their heads to gentle rites; believers in palmistry could listen with
bated breath, as he unfolded the map sketched over the beholder’s palm; star
and luck dreamers would match their past facts with his tongue and pleadingly
asked for fortune boosting amulets. He had used all of this as he lurched
forward in his life with his wooden crutch under his arm and the religious one
inside his scheming mind and heart with ever burning lamp of faith, forever
invoking the God’s grace for the benefit of his mind overflowing with
ritualistic tricksteries.
As he pummeled the mound’s hump top
with the flail-force of his supportive stump, chirpy sparklings of the early
sun, in all their naughty fickleness, tugged at his morose mood seriously
contemplating the pros and cons of this new place. Brightly optimistic raylets
seemed to resuscitate him from the austere moodiness which enclouded him
heavily, after that little feather had flown over his head triumphantly with
its beauty’s infinite weight.
“God is great!” invoker of His grace
exclaimed. “Almighty’s grace always confirms the togetherness of beauty and
goodness. But those little devil laden nymphatic things always defy the ...” he
muttered and waved his hand above his head as if to scoff away the tiny plume
still beautifully weighing over his conscience.
To Bhagat Ram, bathed in devotional
demeanour, all this meant nothing but odd ways of the people near the God. So,
once again he just bowed, almost apologetically shy for his mundaneness; for
his not getting the vaguest of idea about it. His conscience was spotlessly
clean to the extent of being foolish even in the eyes of crudely rustic
villagers. Perhaps, truest of love and compassion resides in social misfits—or
unfits—like him.
The Sadhu folded his hands
before the Sun, Surya Devta, for a reverential Surya
Namashkar. His palms weren’t jutted straight against each other. Through
this crevice, a sort of breach in his religious fabric, sun rays sneaked inside
with a part of society, a part of worldliness. The hollow between his folding
hands, the small oval chinky opening, through which amorous passion’s pangs
constantly kept on bombarding the sage’s almost excitable religious body. The
window had never been shut off completely, but its alluring light hadn’t found
full atonement from his austere self. At least his public visage as a
religioner had been intact. It’s however another matter that the lurid, worldly
shine and sheen kept on casting unholy, impure dark shadows over his inner self,
inside the secretive world away from public gaze. And there he was; the true
man of God for the ritual service of the believers.
It’s not that he wasn’t aware of this
unreligious strand in his holy attire. In fact his life had been spent in
bringing narrowness to the chink’s present width. But the ordinary world with
its extraordinary charms carved and paneled this doorway with such power and
artistry that it was just impossible to shut it down. He’d accepted it as an inevitable,
phantom accomplice to his religionhood. Perhaps, the creative discernment of
the cosmic mind kept the greatest faculty with it while making humans in Its own
glimpse, leaving us on earth to play a big show holding our religious, social,
political and economic scalpels.
It was in this way the mound got one
of its habitants; the big Sadhu with his flaccid paunch, old
vociferating chubby cheeks covered under long unkempt scabby beard. As the
newcomer ascended the little slope, he’d the slightest glimpse of a faintest
figure near the second hut. In the flash of a moment, equal to an almost half
cycle of the eyelashes, the visual speck took escaping shelter in the hut with
a shudder. The moment’s trilling symphony was too short for the sighting sense
to provide enough cogitative fodder for arising any psycho-physiological
instinctive reaction. But what escaped his five senses, invariably left an indelible,
scabby shove to his sixth sense—the narrow parting, the breaching chinky
crevice. So, this rabbit like gallopy escape of the shadow lingered itchingly
over his big, broad, vermilion and sandalwood pasted brow.
The sinewy architectural triumph,
furnished devotionally, found little appreciative eye, as a ‘praiseful pat’
aspiring Bhagte introduced the labour of his faith. His guru’s newcomer’s
curiosity had been totally caught by the unimpressive, wearisome and pallidly
gloomy neighbouring shelter; wantonly, asymmetrically obstructing the finely undulating
courtyard at the crest of the mound. In the name of a hut it had been just
scribbled hurriedly, uninterestingly. But strangely there hovered around it a
sort of slumbering tranquility in which the shadow of a figure had sneaked in.
He felt a little disappointed for not
being the sole dweller or the pious occupier of this littlest of holy hillock.
“Who stays in that?” he asked in
atonement with his instantaneous avarice for the sharer of this little oval
uplifted place. His eyes meanwhile tried to peek into the new nuisance’s
opening, which lay beyond his view from that angle as he was on the western
oval margin by the side of his hut, where the tree’s eastern reach foliaged
over the western half of his straightly laid out hutment.
“Oh, no one of much disturbance, maharaj.
He is just the poor old watchman of the pond,” answered the disciple bathed in manavadharma,
the religion of mankind, of humanism, the eternal religion with its immortal
values and principles; in sharp contrast to the comparative, man made religions
with their relative, manipulative and ever dying values.
The Sadhu let out an
exasperating grimace. “Watchman! But for what? Do you people need a keeper for
this bushy hump of earth, where the shrubbery is so prickling sharp as to run
through the tongue of hardest cattle like a sword,” he said snippingly, like
the bunchgrass’, jhabua or jhunds in local parlance, sharp
leaves.
“No maharaj, he is for the fish
in the pond,” his disciple sounded apologetically.
“Heavens be praised! So if not for the
bushes, you people have got a fish caretaker,” the mendicant testily mused,
much to the unease of his first follower in the village. “Good Lord, the idea
is worth Lord Shiva’s angst. If a caretaker for the fish, then why not for
snakes,” he continued in a very light vein, alluding to the Lord Shiva’s reptile
companion, which seemed so unmystical to the poor villager.
The simpleton’s coweringly fickle
words always left enough loopholes to be exploited by the pun lovers. If such
was the case with normal conversation, we can easily surmise the total non
existence of debating and argumentative content in what he spoke. So, the
pranksters always caught him for the lack of proper words for the proper occasion.
Religion, however, was an exception. Devotional sea storming inside him always
forced out humble, God fearing, reverential words anywhere, any time as well as
any number of times.
Poor fellow realised all this and said
with his devotional sorrow, “I’ll try to explain guruji. This pond has
been hired by someone from the village, and....”
Quite well understanding religious mentor
feigningly interrupted again. “Hired the pond!” he exclaimed, with his eyes
rolling for the pun. “Well, this is really too much,” he went on with his
teasing chuckle, “I’ve heard everything being hired. From a needle to an
aeroplane. But a pond... wonder who wants to mess up his life in this muddy and
flooding water....”
He stopped and glumly started wiping
out the drying mud and mire from his cloak, then cackled again:
“You people might have a great custom
about that. By the grace of God, I hope it doesn’t involve anything unreligious,”
ending it with a thoroughly sermonising tone.
After a little jocularity, a little
punny jaunt, securely back to his spot where he was expected to be, supposed to
be by the believers! He had, thus, tethered himself to his sanctified pole by a
little rope passing through that narrow opening, and took some worldly fodder
by slightly veering off the path, almost implausibly.
The forever meek follower, returning
to his wits, as the holy man acquired his religious throne, said with folded
hands, “Maharaj, it has nothing to do with our custom. It is a panchayati
pond. The panchayat gives it on lease to the highest bidder. And the
lessee does what he can to recover his money from the water. Most often it is
the fish business. The fisheries as ... they ...” he stopped out of ideas after
this herculean verbal task.
“Does what he can!” his dharmarakshak,
the keeper of his religion, murmured, his distraughtness surfacing once again
and this time to the side of angriness. “Fat up the fish and then straightway
to the butcher’s blade. The killing ground around this mound, and you expect me
to put righteousness at the forefront of the village.”
Bhagte found himself dumbfounded.
Perhaps, one of those who’d the least say in everything that occurs, happens or
concerns a rural settlement, he alone was now being held guilty for the impure
public custom of the village’s grassroots representative body, whose not a
single member cared a rap about the new religious wisp flowing into the village,
once the last one had been disgracefully kicked out. Much to the irony of it,
no one except his host had taken the trouble of looking at him for a second
time. Aah, the irreligious bestiality of the villagers! Only accursed dogs,
with their bloodsucking lice, mites, ticks and fleas barked constantly at the
strange thing.
“Oh Shivasambhu!” the new religious wisp implored
Lord Shiva, “It is kaliyuga, the dark age. Everyone is doing everything
for anything materially profitable,” he lamented.
“It is ghor kaliyuga, the
darkest age, maharaj!”
the follower furthered his master’s browbeat.
“And who is this helper of the
irreligious profiteer?” the discarder of all materialistic things gabbled.
The unseen keeper’s speckful shadow,
which had twanged for the fraction of a second, once again knocked stridently
at his curiosity. It was just like the intrinsic feeling of painful, surprising
little jolt and complaining anger, all mixed, when one is caught upon a
prickle.
The follower tried to soothe down the uproarious
mentor. “He’s an outsider here. A very, very poor man and completely at the
behest of fate,” the villager almost whispered vapidly in a way as would be
sufficient to describe a most helplessly insipid human being.
Bhagat Ram’s meekest explanation of
the enigmatic figure had a universal appeal, but it wasn’t to the Sadhu’s
expiation, who listened with much unease. Just as he was going to lengthen his
interrogation, rowdiness of a happening scabbily intervened. Ebullient motley
of an irony involving a little accidental tragedy, humour and curiosity raced
excitedly over the dawdling pond from the roadside. It was a jilting splash in
the water. A three wheeler, running wildly over the itchy road, with a good
number of passengers packed to the hilt inside, had lost its luridly snouty balance
and off it went into the pond; falling with a thud from the roadside walled embankment.
It was a good one-and-half metre high jump from the parapetting pavement. The
embanking wall rising up to the level of the road was meant to prevent the
roadside erosion into the pond, and the nice, smooth earthfill between the wall
and the road provided a good platform for the triangular vehicle’s nosedive
into the indolent waters.
There might have been many who saw
this sporty spectacle, with their everexisting rustic penchant for humour. The
irony of many tragic situations and occurrences is such that, thanks to the
instinctive bestiality ever glinting at the surface of our moral self, they
seem farcical at the onset bringing a puerile gesticulation at the corners of
our mouths. The two men at the mound, standing a good 200 metres from the ill-fated
spot had missed the metallic dive storming into the lake-like pond, much to the
impetuosity of the dying engine. Gamboling vehicle’s one wheeled nose was the
first thing to touch the water, then the rear with its thrusting lateral swing
rolled it to its left side. Its right, rear tyre came to a thankful halt as it
hovered over the agitated water, while the left counterpart went in for a muddy
crash. The dive had drowned the death-fearing cries of the passengers.
Bhagte’s first reaction was a twitteringly
shrill cry for the bodies gasping for life under the water. “It shouldn’t have
happened!” he’d implored the God.
While a broad, cherishing chasm had
lost itself under the thick growth of the Sadhu’s beard as he managed to
prevent a riotous chuckle.
“Baah! Oh Lord, why have these poor
people suffered this way?” he said, restoring the compassionate tradition of
his beatific profession. “I pray to God nobody gets hurt and all come out alive,”
the God’s pitying servant came with his slightly delayed prayer; the prayer
delayed just by a few seconds, but still worthless as what matters most is the
time’s momentary chaos.
There being many women among those
grappling in the water, wails and cries sailed over the slumbering tranquility
of the water, thus manifolding the tragedy. Survival instinct’s trilling
gluttonosity once again upraised the vociferating chubby cheeks under the
shaggy beard. Big beard, broad eyebrows and whirlwinding locks of unkempt hair
falling over his forehead had given the Sadhu a sort of mask which hid a
great proportion of his facial expressions.
“Thank God! Everyone seems to have
come out safely,” the disciple said, his panic somehow drifting away.
“God always listens to the prayer of
his own folks on the earth,” the godhead claimed his own share in the avoided
tragedy. “In my trance of prayer I was just on the verge of squeezing out my
life for the sake of these unfortunate passengers,” he made his claim stronger.
Vehicles passing the road got some
respite from the bumping scourge, as curious drivers haltered and the
villagers, who’d brought their buffaloes to the pond, ghareod the accident
site. Full credit to the manufacturers of the vehicle, nicknamed ‘three-breasted’
by the pun loving villagers, there were enough openings on its both sides for
all of them to be fished out, gasping for breath like fish, after that delusional
underwater moment. So, almost a dozen of them were shaking with fear as they
were pulled out of water. First possession, their lives, being safe they cried
for their secondary ones like bags, footwear or anything which the visit to the
district city had resulted in.
Many of the passers by lurched on
their onwards journey, somewhat disappointed as their optimistic question “How
many died?” met a loud “No one!”
Thanks to the watery fall there was no
gory sight of blood. Injuries if any were of implicit nature like minor
dislocations and swellings as their bearers nursed them without any sympathetic
eye from the onlookers, who in their deepest selves felt somewhat cheated for
not being witness to a serious accident. Perhaps, strange though it may sound,
the humans always have a shuddering desire, a relishing urge to ride the crest
of a wayward and strayed off moment, resulting in a momentary, almost acrobatic
chaos.
The religioner’s inner self crackled
with a bemused giggle as he saw the ant like figures of old women with wet,
muddy clothes sticking around their disfigured and frail bodies. They looked
funny indeed; their totally unsexual bodies making them seem like bandaged
mummies from the Egyptian lands. However, our vision fails us if we try to make
out what’d have been his reaction had there been young, soft, fully curvaceous
female bodies in the mired up clothes. Even the God’s omnipresent eyes could’ve
erred while peeping into this infinitesimally murky matter.
As for the docile host, certainly
there were susceptibly confusing moments when the unmystical light reflected
back through the unsagely window and reached his totally undiscerning eyes. His
eyes, but, were under a dark spectacle of devotion and the small raylet
carrying the wispical shred of the profound mystical mystery were lost in
reverential gloom. And there he was the ever obedient, almost servile disciple.
Some may call it blind faith, but that’d be a huge injustice to this first
enrolment to the holy man’s club at the village; for the profound love and
compassion in its full opulence glimmered at the core of his faith. Provided
there is such divine limpidity in a heart, such people only can achieve
communion with the God. At least that’s what our holy scriptures make us
believe about the satyuga, the age of goodness. But we shouldn’t forget
that according to Hindu mythology the present age is kaliyuga, the Dark
Age, when according to some unknowable divine reasons goodness is bound to
suffer!
The Sadhu’s religiously toned
reflexes were sufficiently quick to save his sainthood if put at the
sweepstakes. He could sense it well in advance, rather many years before the
crop from these earthly seeds slipping off from the pious hollow of his hands
would get matured, for his first disciple’s vision of a corny field. The guru
thus effortlessly bade a swipe over the pupil’s devotionally harrowed field,
intrepidly wiping away the accursed seeds. But sometimes the keenest of eyes
miss out on some lone seed which might escape the incredulous swipe. Whether it
gets lost, not to germinate or otherwise, we don’t know. And in case it does
emerge out as a plantlet, it’s bound to be a mighty stemmed one having gobbled
all the incipient fertility; the mighty stem with its primordial light, showing
all the dark shadows scattered around the clods embedded over the field. But,
isn’t it too late by then?
There seemed to be almost a lugubrious
rhythm as far as the religioner’s existential self is concerned. His to and fro
swings from the expunging extremities were just as natural as the dawning and
downing sun. At the one end was the grubby profanity in all its evanescence
which came and disappeared with its impostoring exigency after a buccaneering
shove at his religiosity. The other end was sometimes, very rarely though,
touched by the transcendental trance, when the communion with the God, the moksha
or liberation loomed large, which was gently pushed back by the ever defying
mystical secret. This virgin aroma of the sky’s black vault and the soft starlight
spliced him, for the littlest of time possible, to the divine, cosmic gingham
scrumptiously patterned with stars and galaxies in their ennuing mystery of
space and time. In between these two he was the common religious practitioner
with his mild, utilitarian mendicancy and the social survival ever pushing him
onwards, just as a donkey laden with saddle bags is ever urged forward: ‘Hoo!
Barra Barra!’; or the farmers working tirelessly at harvest time, with dust
arising out of threshing sheaves; or the yoked bull trotting to the music of
lurching cart shafts. It may seem somewhat dreamy, but it was as simple as
that.
It was thus his rhythmic existence, quite
in accordance with a saying in the Upanishads that all things in the
universe have a rhythmic pattern. His was a deprizmed self. He was the one who
had deprived himself of a full loquacious light’s glare, under the command of
chaste austerity sanctified by his chosen path. And the light when entered the
narrow opening it carried only a fraction of the spectrum, which after traveling
a longer than normal distance, fell parsimoniously and obliquely over his shut
up soul, depriving it of the rainbow of worldly colours.
His first day at the earthy, upfolded
gobbet passed in a sort of mental weariness brought about by numerous
unresolved and vague explanations which run across a newcomer’s mind in
response to almost masticating questions put forth by the unacquainted
surroundings. It was somewhat perplexing, yet not a full blown dilemma; so much
work inside the brain yet no clear thought formation. Time went brusquely, almost
boringly, nearly forgetting its normal flow, and through confused moments—ill defined
and moving extremely slowly—a whole week seemed to be etched out of a single
day. In his pal of dismal gloom, he thought that he’d been marooned on a
distant island while the worldly charlatans loomed leeringly from a far, far
distance.
These dull moments made him forget the
oddity which he’d perceived for a fraction of a second near the neighbouring
hut. He looked around in all directions, but nothing particular struck his
eyes. The village, separated from him by the pond’s trench, looked so
unconcerned about the new arrival. It somewhat raised a worrying line across
his ritually pasted brow.
Bhagte had returned to the village
after seeking permission to come back at noon
with the lunch. Instantly after his departure, the godhead had entered his new
abode. The arrangement didn’t appeal his pleasant sense. Who ponders over the
long labour one puts behind small things! Taxing toil of a whole day, in well-nigh
zero time got an unsatisfactory glance. The religioner had quite clearly gauged
the level of his godship in the eyes of the rustic villager. Hence, at least on
his follower he could command his dislike, which he promptly did through his
egotistically snobbish grunt as he came out of the hutment.
Just before noon , he descended the little hillock (we might
spare this mound such a noun on the grounds of its distinctness and oddity in
comparison to the level land of the plains), passing under the tree’s beard
airing above his squeamish locks. Ricketily he went up to the tiny plateau.
Whole grassy tablecloth glittered in its full ambience under the overhead sun.
There was a jal tree at its south-eastern corner. It was an old tree,
and its name meant roughly ‘webby-net’ suggested by its appearance. Its stem
was not a single log of wood; rather it was a legion of black, unevenly veined mass
with a hollow core which was linked to the outer world through many cavities.
The dark, narrow hollowness inside the main stem poured out vials of its wrath,
as the stem opened its mouth in small woody tongues under thick round foliage
consisting of small, light green leaves. It bore a very-very old mythologically
fearsome appearance. Its very look suggested asceticism; the regalia of the
plants’ stoicism. Its human counterpart laid his bulky back against the haughty
wood and fell in a deep slumber, he knew not when.
To the eastern side of the jal
tree, the southern fringe of the pond vanishing into the paddy fields was
lapping in its serenity; far, far away from the maddening crowd. Blackish swift
sparrows were flying over the brooding water as if trying to bring up some turbulence.
Egrets, kingfishers and herons---the early migrants---activated the slumbering
environment. Warm humid easterly breeze came with intoxicating booze, naughtily
tinkling the banyan and the Sadhu’s beards. God-ordained tranquility
spread out like a galaxy across the paddy fields, in whose background sunrays
reflected the rainwashed yellow and white coloured dwellings of the
neighbouring village to the south. Similarly, the front portion of the school
at the village of our tale proudly faced the pond with the road in between.
There was a revelatory smile across its fading yellow colour from the walls
despite all the tragic events; its origination from the lonesome, private
initiative of a great Bengali, to its present stepmotherly patron, the State
Board of Secondary Education.
By the time Bhagte returned with
lunch, his solitude bolstered siesta had spanned a good couple of hours. The
sun had crossed over to the western horizon, leaving his uneven pair of feet to
be ogled curiously by the sunrays. His crutch was jutted against the hunky-dory
wood of the sheltering tree. It must have been a good rest for it too, as the
vitriolic shoulder force was now lost in a calm unconsciousness.
Before breaking the sleep’s sweeping
extol the disciple for a few moments looked at the calm and serene face of the
new symbol of his faith. Sleep, the primal pacifier, had certainly mollified
the reverend’s visible features among the shaggy, greying hair. The villager
had walked under the hot and humid sun, with the warm water in the paddy fields
emanating a mossy smell. The sultry weather had a definite propensity to drain
off all devotional cheerfulness which he felt while his ever submissive wife
put her best culinary skills at the stake. As he walked across the paddy
fields, the vapourising water had a congealed fragrance, which seemed to be a
sort of paddy tea prepared in big paddy bowls. It brought about a certain desultory
dizziness. By the time he reached the grassy upliftment his head was dismally
languorous, which got aggravated as he walked upon the hot, unwelcomingly
charmless grass pillaged by the upbraiding afternoon rays.
But all this scampered away as he came
across the ascetic’s primordial face lying asleep; the unceasing rhythmic air
blowing for life across the nostril hair, just like the easterly warm-cool
breeze, the life force of that tranquil solitude.
“Only such people enjoy the utter
peace, the ultimate bliss in which God enjoys Himself!” he whispered
rejuvenatingly and folded his hands in reverence.
The Sadhu woke-up to the
gentlest of reverential shove; almost a prostrating touch to his unfortunate
foot.
The mystic came out of the dreamy
world with a bulky yawn which put forth a whimpering, “Om !”
the divine syllable, as his hippopotamus bulge got a soothing strain, signaling
all the senses to start work again.
The meal consisted of same north
Indian countryside simple, fatty delicacies which suit the hard farming work.
There were chapattis laced with butter, mango and lemon pickle or achar,
potato subzi and salad mix of tomato and onions. Omnipresent meal item,
the butter-milk almost brimmed over the edges of a big plastic mug. In the old
Sanskrit texts, it is called ‘nectar’ for its cool, digestive properties. The saint
mulched his food gluttonously. He was a man of big appetite and ate sedulously,
completely immersed in all the tastes which the food could provide. If one
watched him eating for an extended, long moment he might’ve appeared helplessly
self-indulgent, somewhat imperious about these little worldly tastes.
It wasn’t in the disciple’s decency
book to look at the religioner subduing his hunger, except the casual little
look now and then. He was lost in the greenish calm to the south. Scattered
trees—black berry, neem, mulberry, eucalypts, mango, guava, etc.—along
the field embankments stood almost motionless in the tut-tutting afternoon’s
pondering silence. There were few things which inspired overbearing emotions in
his simple and steadfast heart. But now the serenity which he’d seen on the
sleeping Sadhu’s face seemed to perpetuate the whole southern side. It
was really thought provoking. The ever pervasive greenish stoic swipe got into
his mind. The confused mass of ideas, exclamation and devotional emotion
invectively poured down over his now fledgling mind. What came out was a simple
talk. Perhaps too simple to have any meaning in a particular context. It was
wildly abstract; but a truth!
“In a couple of months the paddy’ll
ripe, then the Biharis will come, labour night and day during the harvesting
season,” the simple man put out the wordy crop resulting from the mental
harvesting of the last ten minutes.
The Sadhu burped, breaking his
devotion to the food. “Yes, by the grace of god!” he said lazily, “You see, He
pours down water from the heavens. He has created fields with crops to receive
this water. All this for humans to survive by eating...” he burped again and
rolled his hand over his full paunch.
“Hummn Maharajji, the ever
merciful God!” he raised his folded hands to the heavens for a reverential
thanks from the humanity. “The Jats” (the land holding community) “will sell the paddy in market and
the Biharis’ll happily return to their state, richer by 150 rupees for an acre
of harvesting. Too cheap… but a wholesome amount for them. That’s a kick in our
bellies here,” he changed his tone to lamentation.
Bhagte’s innocent remorse was born out
of the fact that he belonged to a non-land-holding lower caste, chamars,
the cobblers. According to the ancient occupation based Hindu caste system,
this community, till a generation ago, saved so many feet from the dust and
prickles on the path of life. Modern shoe industry, however, turned their
skills outdated. Those who still went on with the occupation were the mere, ungainful
shoe menders, boot polishers who went almost begging around in the cities. And
the rest of them, people like Bhagte whose fathers died with the dying
occupation, without getting an opportunity to prepare the next generation for
any other source of livelihood, now carried this transitory load over their
backs, while their children constantly tugged at the struggling parents’
rumpled apparel. The next generation’s future was to be defined by the present
one’s starvingly running time. So, people like Bhagat Ram, whose name literally
involved Lord Ram and devotee, did anything they could lay their hands upon to
earn a wage. They worked in fields, at construction sites, roamed as vendors
through village streets or anything possible to earn a livelihood. And even in this
the cheap labour provided by the seasonal Bihari migrants was giving them
sleepless nights.
“Have mercy on those poor people from
Bihar,” compassion oozed out of the holy man, who licked his half visible lips
as the pickle seemed to have left an indelible spice over them. “They come here
from such a long distance. Poor people forced to leave their houses. And see,
after such a tireless work at such cheap rates, with their feet almost cottoned
in water,” went on the compassionate note as if much obliged to the unknown
Bihari labourer who might’ve harvested the wheat which’d just now went into his
paunch much to the satisfaction of the immortal hungry rats.
The Godhead’s effort at compassion
regretfully couldn’t take his disciple in its fold. Whether the man of God was
right or wrong, it is a really tricky question. Times are really hard. Well
being of one fate is somewhere linked to some loss in some other quarter.
Compassion has become relative, differentiated. Only God seems to possess an
all encompassing compassionate fold, where one fate is not at the cost of others.
“God’ll take care of you people too,”
the sage redrew another circle for the well being of his poor first follower in
the village.
He seemed to speak on behalf of the
God, advocating the principle that not too many people die of hunger, rather
the deathtraps circuit along many alternative and obnoxious nooses.
During the transitory time between the
afternoon and evening they just prattled away their time; the witty sage
drawing fruitful conclusions out of the rant. With his religious tongue
well-in-check, the overall religious history of the village seemed a little
tale as the villager told him all he knew. There was a temple in the village
whose priest received whole lot of oblations and ritual offerings from the
villagers, especially on festivals. Loudspeaker on his temple’s shikhara
blared devotional cacophony during the brahma muhurat, the very early
morning time, around four o’clock
to be precise. The old village temple to the eastern side of the village by the
road was devoid of any idol and priest. About five years ago its priest had
been butchered by a village ruffian because the holy man overconfident of his tantrikhood
or the black magic power came in between the youth and his lady love. Now
this old temple was in ruins and the landmongers were waiting its natural demise
from the seat of God. Then there was a holy house, not of the temple status,
but far more effective as far as the keeper of the village’s collective
morality is concerned. It was named sadavrata, forever fasting in the
name of God. It had been constructed in the memory of a pious villager, who on
account of his practical goodness in his ordinary life earned the status of a
holy man, the servant of God. Kude Bhagat was the name of this symbol of living
religiosity, who’d died almost 40 years back serving God not ritually but
humanely. People took vow in his name and gathered in sadavrata for
settling dispute of every sort. Unfortunately time was debugging the holy man’s
village level myth and now the people had started not to care a fig about the
legendary injunctions of the pious villager. These were the broad outlines of
the village’s dharma, the religiousness, as Bhagat Ram told the newcomer.
In addition to these thick dotted Godly lines there were numerous others,
shaded, thinly dotted, barely visible or even talked about. These were the
mendicant friars entering the village, suddenly appearing from Hinduism’s
infinitely vast diaspora and vanishing stutteringly after pleading for alms,
charity or an outright favour; people from various ashrams, from gaushalas, etc. The latest was the
exorcist whose stigmatised hut the new comer intended to turn holy for his own
survival by propagating the name of God.
Nattily pondering over the
information, he returned to his hut. The evening seemed perfectly set in with
the yellowish-orange sunrays trying to cheer up the laidback grass sun beaten
over the upland. However, weather at this time of the year somersaulted in
cahoots with the monsoon winds. A dull grey cloud was raising its dome from the
extreme north of the western horizon, when the sage ascended the mound. The
banyan’s twigs and branches were too sturdy for the light breeze now blowing
from the west, riding the parallel sunbeams. So, only the leaves showed their
varying hues to the saffron rays vying for alacrity from the whole tree.
Suddenly some mysterious, throttling
conclusion snipped in the religioner’s cogitating mind which made his climb up
the mound somewhat more cumbersome. As he reached the top, entailing a small,
invisible shove to his thoughts there came a twirling, shrill cry scampering
over the pond. The Sadhu squeamish by now due to that mysterious prick
at his conscience as well as the yoking effort to pull his weight against gravity
along that inclination looked into the distant source of this new fudge. There
in the southeastern corner of the pond a frugally-frail-figure was making noise
disproportionate to its visible capacity. The noisy quagmire involved chiding,
reproaching verbosity, acrimonious clapping of hands as well as throwing of
pebbles. All this was in the opposing background of an uproarious mirth and
intrepidity of the fishmongers: the water crows, pelicans, herons, cranes and
many others, so avaricious much to the trouble of the watchman.
“A very noisy and troubling creature
indeed,” the irritated sage muttered. “I’ll see what the man is up to,” he
thought about his neighbour-born discomforting feel at both times he came up
the mound.
He tried to have an eye over the enigmatic
figure at the other end of the pond which seemed to be conscious of his haughty
gaze. Suppliantly, the pliable figure however seemed entreating an escape from
his eyesight. And much to the thanks of an early nightfall, as the dull cloud
shut off the dying day’s last breath, it was left there as a riddle lost among
the greenish-dark foliage along the eastern edge of the pond.
The mendicant’s urge to see the pond
overseer, driven by a bittersweet curiosity, was enough to make him sit beneath
the banyan and wait the watchman’s arrival. Humid restlessness in the
environment was on the ascendancy as the monsoon’s dull grey hireling swiped
the dotted twinklings over the huts. Aah! The monsoon’s purgative promptitude
as if in response to the farmers’ clarion-call: “Rain, rain... rain thou clouds
to the utmost capacity of thy watery bowls. Paddy is here to soak all thy doles!”
The atmosphere got almost soaked up in
perspiration driven by heat and humidity. The Sadhu’s litigious mind depressed
by weather as well as the waiting game somewhat brought down his proud disdain
and the ritual tactician slumped against the sagely trunk. Perspiring profusely
he quickly fell into a trance (like a short nap) as if it was the only solution
for his ruffled soul. As for the night, rain was the only panacea.
In a very short time, he found himself
in an age 5000 years ago, when the nascent forms of his present
institutionalised faith were emerging. The Rig Vedic age, beyond the
misdating anachronism; the era of profound cosmic outpours from the
wonderstruck hearts eulogising the nature’s play in whose womb the Godhood lay
in its self-referral unconsciousness. The sages, the mystics---whose 5000 years
old descendant lay under the banyan tree---sang the ‘self revealed truth’ in
their unchecked poetry. Hinduism sprouted forth from this
gay-spiritual-abundance.
The Rig Vedic sages with their
infinite vision and imagery came and did penance for their mop eyed prodigy
lost in this cosmic dream; so blurred, vague and puzzlingly unmeaningful to
this scion of contemporary Hinduism.
The sages were lost in the
Omnipresent, chanting this superstrong Rig Vedic poetic solicitation for rain,
the elixir of life:
“O heavenly waters we pray
to you
For that pure, pious liquid which thou
In thy bowls brew,
We the thirsty worshippers
Know its sweet essence on the earth,
Let us get the sip for
which we have taken birth
O Majestic Lord show us some leverage,
Let us get consecrated
with that beverage.”
About nine o’clock the villager returned
with the supper. By this time the light black cloud had connected the eastern
and western horizons. The night devoid of even the starlight seemed gloomily
dark. As he ascended the elevation to the hut he passed unnoticing his pious
benefactor this time napping under a different tree. Though the poor villager
held a torch but its dim light painstakingly survived on the last morsels of
the frugal batteries.
Much to the irony of it, the torch
meant to be a flash light, feebly glowed like a lantern put on a low wick.
Devoid of a galoring beam, the ephemeral raylets seemed to lose their own way,
forget about their leading the way. Those weary batteries had served him for
months. He used them sparingly to the extent of being devoured by the
cataclysmic dark. Today too he’d used them only during that part of the path
which’d troubled him even during the day.
As was his habit of tongue-in-check he
didn’t call out his religious mentor lest he might disturb his meditating
trance, if the sage was lost in any. With some superstitious awe, embroidered
with golden reverence, he drew on the last morsels of his dying batteries. The
weak light slowly-slowly struggled hard against the pitch dark inside the hut.
The sacred interior faced him with its mystic dimness. Not finding the stoic
there he lighted the small kerosene oil lamp, which’d fought the dark inside
his home till the previous night.
He then put his torch on hardest
labour as he silently looked around for the religioner. The light was too
beaten to penetrate the closed eyelids of the preacher as his follower reached
him slowly. Under the mystical aura of the faded light the saint seemed to
meditate, lost in his primal trance, while the airy roots of the Bo-tree, the
mythical one, kalpavraksha, with its cosmic fecundity spread an ancient
spiritual libido around him. He seemed the rishi, the perfect sage of
legendary lores, which was too much for this simple believer in Godhood. The
dozed off Sadhu looked like a divine incarnate. A severe pang of
devotional thunder and lightning in synchronism with the atmospheric one found
him falling at the feet of sleeping symbol of divinity, who awoke with a
fearing shudder. There was moisture of devotional fervour in the servile’s
eyes.
“Sadhu maharaj, I’m blessed to serve
you,” was all he could mutter, amidst that devotional hiccup.
Once inside the hut the fakir, holy
friar, sat cross-legged on the softness meant to be his sleeping place. The
docile server laid out the evening meal on a squarish plank of wood. His mentor
still had got that hangover about that riddle arising faint figure.
“Doesn’t this phantomish upkeeper of
the pond sleep, eat and have some rest,” he spoke with a mouthful of sweet kheer.
“I was bothered about his disturbing presence. The unholy one! Totally unreligious
due to his occupation!” he forced the words.
Bhagte didn’t speak. The diner gulped
down a few more teaspoons of the sweet semifluid made of boiled rice and milk.
“I think his would be a suffocating
presence for my holy ways,” he started again in total disagreement to the
watchman’s hut sharing the little hillock with him.
Oh, how he aspired to be the owner of
this little gob of earth as its religious sovereign! The owner of this mound by
the right of mendicancy, sadhuhood; by the right of being the servant of the Omnipotent, the
sovereign of this universe. And in God fearing India it is unholy to question a
religioner’s possession which he keeps for the propagation of Godship. The
watchman’s hut was thus a nuisance stuck up against his little religious plan.
He couldn’t do much in this matter, at least for now. After all he was just
another mendicant with just one follower; who just happened to come across this
village, just a couple of days ago.
Bhagte lit up a small smouldering
bonfire of dried neem leaves to make the mosquitoes flee for their
lives. The Sadhu had already rested his back upon the soft straw bed
after the hearty meal. It was really wonderful how he could gobble up each and
everything even though his heart was so gloomily sulking. He lay burping into
the bitter smoke hovering like a mist in the lamp’s glow.
“I hope you’ll enjoy your sleep, maharaj,”
Bhagte said from outside preparing to go. “Forgive me for any mistake. But it’s
all I could arrange for you.”
“Don’t worry. It’s bearable,” the hut’s
new occupant said pacifying his lone follower. “We people don’t need much
comfort. That’s the difference between the lovers of Him and the lovers of
common worldly trivialities,” he said sagely, much to the comfort of the great
sages who sacrificed each and every worldly charm.
All alone on the mound, the saint
cast a look through the hut’s small entranceway into the darkness straggled
around the second hut. No activity of a human being or light inside that, he
could make that out very easily. Restlessness was still grumbling inside him,
because the weather inside his body as well as outside was raspily gloomy, hot
and humid. Not able to bear the twittle-twattle of the little lightening wick,
he splurged his discomfort into the tiny glass protection of the taunting
flicker, and instantly the darkness spread inside the hut.
He was in such a state of bleary
dissonance, when the second occupant of the mound came with the slowness and
agility of an ant, quietly sneaking into its hole: the arrival so wispy not to
make the religioner smell any rat. There was no sign of an evening meal or for
that matter any other activity in the second hut. If the watchman was not
fortunate enough, like the liberation seeker, to possess a supper-fetcher, he
must’ve gone without any meals today. His chulha in open by his hut,
darkened with smoke, was without any glow. The ash of some previous usage
waited a wash as the darkest cloud thundered gruffly, lightning cringed and the
rumpled weather pouted with an uneasy chasm.
Indra, the Lord of
thundering rain-storms, and Maruts, the celestial water carriers must’ve
been hysterically busy this night. Sudden gusts of cool wind indicated it must’ve
cut across a heavy down-pour as it reached the village from the north-west.
Guttural gnarl of the clouds puffed
some coolness into the huts. The Sadhu heard sputtering of big raindrops
on the polythene cover of his thatch. He counted ten or fifteen of them, but
the cloud’s twirling acceleration forced him to abandon the count and realise
the rain’s reality. The rain starting with its distinct notes turned to a full
scale mystical song; the erotic rain-symphony in the dark.
The dark cloud layered over the dull
grey one responded to the purring wail of the insect world beneath. Hilarious
shower upon the pond’s waters produced a heroically ecstatic mirth as droplets
splashed into a bigger existence, forcing down their souls into the molecules
all in harmony along the lake-like pond; in big contrast to the land surface
with their crashing futility over millions of insected souls and dust specks.
While the primordial urge of the
avoidance of death, doom and destruction jingled through the ephemerals; the
universal will was holding bravely against the collapse of the cosmos.
Sleep occurs at the crest of
subconscious unison of mind, body and spirit. Rain with its lullaby circling
around the mound, quickly sent the drenched Goddess of sleep to bless the
unsleepy interior of the religioner’s hut. And there he was riven with subtle
sleepy energies. Effusively he joined other sleepers, the villagers. The birds
in nests with half their brains resting, leaving the other half to be vigilant,
however, got awake.
How great looks the world while in
sleep! Embaled in forgetfulness; no pinching hard facts to aggravate the
illusions! But the futility is that we’ve to rise up again and again till the
last sleep to eternity.
The Sadhu was now lying surrendered to a sweeping sleep. With every
wake up call this perennial seeker of liberation through the paths of Hinduism
had faced more and more disconcerting illusions. But the knowledge of the
absolute truth is not to be discovered. It is to be realized, for it does not
exist at a particular destination needing a particular belief system to suggest
a unique path to reach it. It exists everywhere. We don’t even have to take
even a step to discover it. People are there who gain greatest of religionhood
without seemingly taking a single formal step on the path of institutionalised
Godship. A simple common human being, whose soul’s divinity finds consonance
with his earthly existence, is perhaps a true religioner, at least in the eyes
of the God. If that is so the other occupant of the mound, the watchman, was a
religioner too. True to his duties he was sleeping after a hard day of
commitment against the fishmongers.
If one still believes in the path of a particular
belief system to reach up to the divinity, then he must have the faith,
understanding and realisation—all three unfailingly—of the sacred injunctions
which can bring him to the brink of reality. Lose any one of the three; the
whole exercise becomes a dogma, a mere practice of rituals. As in case of our
holy man the breach in his soul---the ever existing dissonance---very rarely
allowed the cosmic consonance of the three constituents of his belief system.
His path of mendicancy was thus a flicking sequence of faith, understanding and
realisation always rattling against each other.
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