by Neil D'Silva
I gave him the details and he set to work, scribbling on his pad while referring to the book of numbers. This activity went on for a good ten minutes, during which he created a large uneven rectangle, further divided into different imperfect shapes filled with numbers. His second chart was of the same form, but he filled it in with just a few numbers.
He did a few calculations. I couldn’t understand any of it. Confusion seeped into his face as he turned pages several times, looking back and forth at the two charts he had created. Minutes later, he looked up and directed his signature piercing gaze at me, actually through me, once again.
“I do not understand this,” he said, tentatively. “Do you have any illness?”
“No,” I responded, perplexed. “I’m in perfect health. Why?”
“This doesn’t make sense. There is no reading after 28 days.”
“But doesn’t every person’s astrological chart have houses or planets…”
“This is a numerological chart. It is an ancient science that has passed down centuries through generations of my tribe. You will not find it in any University.”
“Kaala Baba, I do not understand what you’re trying to say about my future,” I said, steering him back to the topic.
“Do you fear death?” he asked, in a sudden change of tone.
I felt goose-bumps pop up all over my arms. I was still skeptical of this mysterious baba, but now, for the first time, I felt uneasy in his presence.
“What?” I asked in disbelief, my brow furrowing in irritation.
His intense expression relaxed into a benign smile. “It’s a simple question. We humans are not aware of our own mortality and this is a question we seldom ask ourselves. How you feel about death?”
I decided to turn the question back at him and see where this went. “You are the learned one, Kaala Baba. I would like to know what you think of death.”
He took a deep breath and turned to gaze at the sea. In a sudden motion, he turned back and infiltrated my senses again with that piercing look.
“I believe that there is no such thing as death. This concept of beginning and end is a limitation of the human mind. The world was always there and always will be. In the same way, the soul is always there and always will be. The soul never dies.”
I had heard that humbug before. But I maintained a straight face as he went on.
“Death is more traumatic to the soul than it is to the human body.”
“Then what becomes of the soul after it leaves the body?” I asked with mock seriousness. “Does it wander around as a ghost?”
It was meant as humor, but he didn’t break into a smile. “Yes, it takes time for the soul to adjust to the afterlife. There is trauma when the soul transcends worlds. Sometimes, the soul hovers around till it can accept the death of its human form. In that state, you can call souls ghosts.”
“Do you see ghosts?”
“Sometimes, I do,” he said, in a serious tone. Then he immediately broke into a chuckle and continued. “Even if we don’t see ghosts, we do sense the presence of dead people. We may see our deceased ones in our dreams, that is the most common way. Sometimes, when we are thinking of a dead person a sole feather appears fluttering in front of us, the deceased person’s way of reminding us of their presence.”
He took on a solemn tone. “Does this answer your question?”
“No, it doesn’t,” I stated, more harshly then I should have. I didn’t like this beating around the bush. “My question was this. Why do bad things keep happening in my life? Why do the only people who are supposed to care about me keep abandoning me? Why do I lose the people I love?”
“You will get the answers 28 days from today.”
“28 days? What’s going to happen in 28 days?” I asked, my brows furrowed in irritation.
“That is all I can tell you,” he said in a note of finality.
“Are you not telling me because of your black tongue? I can handle it.”
He started to get up. I caught his arm. I wasn’t going to let him get away so easily and leave me hanging. He seemed to take no offence and gently sat back down.
“Kaala Baba, you have to tell me what you see,” I said, irately. This man was testing my patience.
“I don’t see anything,” he said, shaking his head. “It is what I read from your charts. There is nothing to read beyond 28 days.”
“Are you saying that I’m going to die?” I asked incredulously, appalled at the nerve of this guy. Why was he trying to antagonize me with such cryptic nonsense? How can any chart, astrology or numerology, predict the exact day of someone’s death?
“Please understand whatever you can from what I have told you,” Kaala Baba explained. “I am just the medium. Your destiny is already written.”
“Am I going to die?” I persisted.
He took a deep breath and turned toward the persistent waves, following them with his eyes.
“Yes,” he said solemnly. “It is in your chart.”
“But you have created that chart,” I countered.
“So that is why your close ones have abandoned you,” he went on, as if he hadn’t heard me. “They will feel the pain of your loss, but they will be able to cope with it.”
“So you’re telling me that I’m going to die 28 days from today?” I said, louder this time.
“Yes,” he said, getting up, pulling his knapsack over his shoulder. “You will see the sunset 28 days from now but not the sunrise of the next day.”
“And what if I am alive to see the sunrise 29 days from now?” I said challengingly.
“Like I said,” he said calmly. “The soul never dies…”
“Kaala Baba,” I cut in, a determination seeping into my voice. “I will meet you here on the sunrise of the 29th day from now and prove you wrong.” I brought out my phone and pulled up the calendar. “That’s January 4th.”
“I will be traveling…”
“I expected you to say that,” I scoffed. “Not so confident about your readings anymore, Kaala Baba?”
He folded his hands in a namaste. “I will be here on January 4th at 6 a.m. Don’t be upset.” He looked upward into the sky and added. “It’s all destiny.”
Whatever, I wanted to say. Instead, I asked, “How much do I owe you?”
“For such readings, no charge.”
***
I was determined not to let Kaala Baba’s words bother me. But then when I thought about it, why hadn’t he charged me? Was this just his way of amusing himself? To play upon someone’s fear only to have a good laugh about it later on?
I didn’t doubt that there were some babas who had actual powers. But Kaala Baba was definitely not one of them. I was now hell-bent on calling out this fake baba and proving him wrong.
Mamta called to find out about my reading with the bizarre baba. I made something up, about some positive news coming my way in three months. I didn’t see any point in burdening her with the morbid nonsense that Kaala Baba had told me. In my mind, if I didn’t believe it myself, why should I unnecessarily worry her? I decided to call her only after I met Kaala Baba on the 4th and then prove to her what a fraud he was.
Till then, I decided to play safe. Just in case.
I made it a point to walk only on sidewalks, carefully cross the road instead of sprinting across, keep a safe distance from construction sites, and other such precautions. Even though our cook was trusted and had been with us for years, I would make her taste the food before I ate it. She acquiesced without protest as she was used to my father’s unreasonable demands about food and probably figured that it was only natural for the son to exhibit similar traits.
Two weeks had passed and I felt no sense of danger. Then one evening, while I was seated in Joggers’ Park on Carter Road, a coconut came crashing down and missed my head by centimeters. I was stunned in shock and a deep sense of paranoia set in.
I rushed back home and decided to stay put till January 4th. That incident had shaken me to the core and I now deem
ed it safer to stay indoors. I even skipped the Christmas bash with Mamta and the gang, feigning a migraine.
January 4th was barely days away and I began to feel calmer as the hours went by. But then on New Year morning, I woke up with a high fever.
Hours later, a cold and cough set in, followed by joint pain. I began to feel weaker and a doctor was called in. He said that it was just a mild viral and would subside soon. He left after giving me a prescription and assured me there was nothing to worry about.
But still, I was worried. Was Kaala Baba’s black tongue taking effect? Despite my best precautions, had death finally hunted me down?
I forcibly brushed all those thoughts aside and decided to focus on the doctor’s advice. I took the medicines religiously, used pain relievers for the joint pain and kept myself hydrated. I was determined to battle this out and stay alive.
By the appointed day, my efforts and willpower had paid off. I woke up in the dark predawn of the 4th morning, the only remaining symptoms of my virus being a mild pain in my finger joints.
I took a cab to Juhu Beach and alighted at the curved bend outside Juhu Post Office. I paid the cab and started crossing the empty street. Suddenly, a silver Mercedes came speeding around the blind curve, and hurtled straight at me. Every muscle in my body froze as I was momentarily blinded by the brilliant glare of headlights. By some miracle, I barely managed to step out of the way just in time. I was shaking with relief and had a good mind to give the driver an earful, but dawn was on the verge of breaking into day and I was more determined than ever now to watch the sunrise with Kaala Baba.
I sprinted through the gates of the colony, down the cobbled path, through the public garden and onto the beach. Kaala Baba was standing a few paces away from the water, with his eyes closed and head turned upward. As if suddenly sensing my presence, he opened his eyes and turned toward me. However, this time he was not looking through me, but at me.
“The sun is just about to rise,” I said, with a victorious smile. “And I’m here, Kaala Baba!”
“Yes, you are,” he smiled.
“I am alive on the 29th day,” I said in a taunting manner. “You said I wouldn’t live to see this day’s sunrise. And here it is.”
The sun was making its appearance over the horizon, enveloping the beach in a mesmerizing pale orange hue. We stood for a while in silence, admiring the glorious sight.
“So, do you accept your mistake, Kaala Baba?”
He broke into a smile and nodded.
“A-ha!” I said, pointing my finger towards his chest. “You’re a fake baba. Your charts are all bogus. And you have no black tongue.”
He bowed apologetically with his hands folded in a namaste. In the distance, a group of Krishna devotees in saffron robes came singing and dancing in our direction. Kaala Baba’s calm visage took on an expression of delight. He ran off in their direction and joined the Krishnas. I stood there for a while, watching the retreating dancing figures fade into the distance, and then headed back triumphantly.
Kaala Baba’s morbid prediction had certainly spooked me. Now, with that tension abated, my other problems didn’t seem to matter anymore. It felt like a new lease of life. I felt light, I felt rejuvenated.
There was a huge commotion on the street outside Juhu Post Office. A cop was administering a breathalyzer test to a man. A second man was leaning against a silver Mercedes, holding his head in despair. A body draped from head to toe was being carried away on a stretcher. A very familiar mobile phone was in a plastic bag, in the gloved hands of another uniform.
A stray dog appeared by my side and started barking at me. The shock was yet to set in, but two things were clear.
Kaala Baba did indeed have a black tongue.
And he hadn’t been joking when he said he could see ghosts; for I had become one.
ABOUT RISHI VOHRA
Rishi Vohra took to writing while pursuing his MBA in Sustainability at San Francisco University. Since then, he has published three novels – I am M-M-Mumbai, HiFi in Bollywood and Once Upon the Tracks of Mumbai (awarded a special mention at the Hollywood Book Festival and longlisted for the 2013 Crossword Book Awards). His short story, The Mysterious Couple, was featured in Sudha Murty’s anthology – Something Happened on the Way to Heaven. Another short story of his will be featured in an upcoming anthology being published by Om Books International.
Vohra has been invited to speak at several literature festivals such as Chandigarh Literati, Think Literature Fest, Litventure, Lit-O-Fest, NMIMS Lit Fest, VESIM Literati Fest and the Mumbai Book Fair. As a speaker, he has been invited to Bombay Scottish School and Universities such as NMIMS at Shirpur and SIES at Navi Mumbai.
His books and interviews have featured in renowned dailies such as DNA After Hours, The Telegraph, The Afternoon, Free Press Journal, Deccan Herald, Absolute India, Dainik Bhaskar, Divya Marathi and Daily Post. Magazines that have covered him and his books include India Today, FHM India, Verve, Society, Hi! Blitz, Cine Blitz, Screen, Forbes and Savvy. Various eminent bloggers, such as MissMalini, have featured his books and interviews on their blogs and social media. In addition, Vohra has been a guest on radio shows on 91.1 Radio City (Mumbai) and 94.3 Radio One (Delhi, Pune, Mumbai, Chennai).
He is a Certified Specialist of Wine (CSW), Society of Wine Educators (USA) and Alfiere Italico – Wine Cultore (Italy). He currently resides in Mumbai.
For more information, please visit www.rishivohra.com.
HOME
Tim Paxton
“Here,” I said in English to one of the priests at the Anjanadri Hill Hanuman temple in Hampi, India, and handed him a small wooden box. The man, who was roughly my age, had been smiling when we first met. However, over the course of our brief conversation within the temple (which was translated by my guide Ahir), his visage changed slightly. The priest felt the box, passing it from one hand to the other, all the while mumbling a mantra I did not recognize.
I had travelled from Bengaluru to Hampi by Über, a six-hour car trip that was as fantastic as any taken by train; more so, in that we passed through many small villages and by dozens of roadside temples and shrines. I had been in India for almost a month, and Hampi was the next-to-last spot I needed to visit before heading back to the States. From my hilltop vantage point at Anjanadri Hill I could survey the countryside. The area was awash with ruins of stone temples, shrines, and other buildings. Some of the temples, like the massive Virupaksha Complex, a temple dedicated to Lord Shiva, dates from the 7th Century CE and is still active, while many others, like a small shuttered Jain shrine I found up on a hill, are in need of restoration.
I had stopped for a day to explore the ruins, but my main objective was to deliver the box into the hands of a priest at one of the most holy sites dedicated to Lord Hanuman the monkey god: Anjanadri Hill.
“I am hoping you can help,” I added, handing Ahir a wad of 100-rupee notes, which he then stuffed into a prayer box next to the holy man. The priest’s attitude changed slightly as he considered my donation, and he then placed the box into a pocket or purse somewhere within his robe. But not before wrapping it in a piece of silk, which he produced seemingly from out of nowhere. He then said a few words to Ahir.
“Let us go get some chai,” suggested my guide as he beckoned me out into the open air of the mountaintop temple. The fresh, warm evening air was invigorating. After a brief appreciation of the stunning orange orb that was the sun setting in the west, we proceeded to make our way down from the temple to the small line of shops at the bottom of the rock-hewn staircase. It wasn’t something I was terribly keen on, having just climbed all 575 of the well-made but winding steps barefoot to deliver my package.
It took me a while, but I eventually made it all the way, winded but nevertheless happy from the experience. At a resting-spot near to the bottom, I stopped and retrieved my shoes, overpaid the attendant, and then caught up with Ahir and the priest, whose name I then found out was Vanara. He shrugged and laughed when he told Ahi
r his name, and they both chuckled. Vanara literally translates as ‘monkey’, which was also the tribe that Lord Hanuman belonged to in the epic Ramayana and its various versions.
“It was his fate to be a priest in Hanuman’s name,” Ahir translated.
By the time we had reached the ground floor of the stairs, it was getting dark, and there was no longer a festive crowd that had kept the numerous vendors busy earlier in the day selling chai, sweets, trinkets, and other goodies. To my dismay, all of the shops had closed, and when we stopped in front of a darkened tavern, it looked as though our chances of getting something to drink were nonexistent.
Ahir called out, and a woman appeared from the back of the shop. She was barely visible by the blue light of her cellphone, which she carried and used like a torch. Upon seeing the priest, she motioned us inside to sit at one of the empty tables. When we were seated, she brought out a small electric lamp, and soon thereafter I could smell the chai. Nothing was said until our drinks were brought to us.
We sipped our tea in silence, broken only by a few words exchanged between Ahir and the shop owner, whose name was Jeel. Meanwhile, other travelers passed by the shop and, noticing the priest, asked to join us. Vanara waved them on with a few words in Kannada which I didn’t understand.
When the tea was finished, the priest leaned forward and drew my box out of his robe. That which I had given him was still wrapped in the silk, and by the dim light of the lamp I noticed the cloth was covered with what might possibly be tantric symbols. Vanara’s cheerful face turned sour, then thoughtful, as he placed the object on the table between us. He spoke to Ahir, who then translated the priest’s wish for me to tell him how I had come to be in possession of this artifact.
Where to begin?
I asked Ahir to find out if we could stay at the shop a little bit longer, as my tale would take some time to tell. He spoke with Jeel, who looked slightly annoyed, but she brought us another round of chai nonetheless, smiling at the priest as she placed the cups down in front of us.
