Follow the Elephant

by Beryl Young

  “Now you are knowing,” Padam added. “The muezzins have strong voices which are being sent by so-loud loudspeakers to reach every part of the city.”

  “Watch, I will turn here and will be driving past the Jama Masjid, India’s largest mosque,” Madhu said, turning a corner. “There, you see the grand mosque?”

  Ben saw a long row of steps leading to a massive stone building, bigger than the stadium in Vancouver, with two tall towers at either side.

  “The muezzins call from the tops of those towers called minarets,” Madhu said, “and believe it or not, twenty-five thousand worshippers can fit into the courtyard.”

  “Do Muslims really pray five times a day?” Ben asked.

  “Indeed, they do try wherever they are,” Padam answered. “But only men can go inside the mosque. See those women on the street wearing black robes? They are Muslim women. See how their heads and faces are covered? It is to be protecting the modesty of the Muslim women.”

  “I thought people in India were all Hindus,” Ben said.

  “Oh my no, we have a mixed curry of religions here in India! Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Jews and Christians.” Padam’s grin was so wide that Ben discovered there were still three teeth left in his mouth.

  Huge mosques, muezzins calling five times a day, worshippers walking with elephants down the streets. Religion was everywhere in India.

  Madhu stopped the taxi beside a red stone wall. “We are here now at the Red Fort which is called ‘red’ because of the colour of the stone used to build it.”

  Along with a stream of tourists, the four of them went through the tall gate into a courtyard with a large lotus-shaped pool. “Come now,” Madhu said. “You must see where water used to flow in a river of marble past the private rooms of Emperor Shah Jahan’s wives.”

  “Did you say wives?” Gran asked.

  “Only four, Norah memsahib. Oo la la!” said Padam, his shoulders shaking with squeaky laughter.

  This made Gran and Madhu laugh. In spite of himself, Ben laughed too.

  Gran kept turning around to watch the Indian women walking beside them. “All those women in their colourful saris! They’re like brilliant butterflies weaving in and out of the crowd,” she said.

  “Hindu women look truly beautiful in their saris,” Madhu answered. “Come now and let me show you where the fort’s walls are covered in precious jewels in designs of birds and flowers.”

  Ben followed behind. Women like butterflies? Precious jewels? This was supposed to be a fort. Didn’t they fight battles in forts?

  “It’s so peaceful here. I could stay forever if it wasn’t so hot,” Gran said.

  Too peaceful. Too boring. Ben felt like telling his grandmother: You stay. I’m going back to Canada. The oohs and ahhs she kept making were what you’d expect travelling with an old lady in a droopy skirt and a hat with holes in it. If he could think of a way to dump her and go off on his own, he just might. Ben looked up to see Madhu signalling him.

  “Come with us now to the viewing balcony to see the magicians,” Madhu said, leading them up a short flight of stairs.

  Magicians. That was more like it. He’d stick around for a while.

  Tourists had gathered in the full sun on the low balcony to see the show. Below the balcony a man lay on the grass with the magician standing over him. Slowly, with each lift of the magician’s wand, the man began to rise off the grass. Higher and higher, as though on an invisible bed, he floated in the air. He wobbled a bit, and then, seemingly in a trance, steadied, suspended almost two metres off the ground.

  “Ohh,” breathed the crowd.

  That was a cool trick. Was the man held up with ropes or were mirrors hiding some kind of support? As if in answer to the questions in Ben’s head, the magician began to sweep the wand over, above and below the levitating man to show there were no ropes or trick boxes. Ben joined the crowd as it burst into applause. The magician bowed, waited for people to throw down coins, and then waved his wand to bring the man’s body slowly back down to the ground.

  The man sat up, shook himself as though coming out of a dream, then stood and began to pick up coins.

  “Can you believe what we just saw, Gran!” Ben said. “This is more like it. I was so amazed I forgot to take pictures.”

  “It’s got to be a trick, but a darn good one,” Gran said, handing Ben some coins to throw down.

  “Tut-tut. It was no trick, Norah memsahib,” interjected Padam. “Never must you be saying you don’t believe in magic.”

  Ben wondered. Something you’d seen with your own eyes had to be real. But how could a man levitate in the air with no wires or tricks?

  Ben looked at his grandmother. Despite the holes in her hat, perspiration was glistening on her cheeks and around her neck. Her lipstick had melted and was running into the lines around her mouth. Sweat stung his own eyes. He checked the thermometer that he had put on his daypack. Forty-one degrees! They were all cooking.

  Madhu said, “Next you must be watching one of our cobra charmers.”

  Cobras! Ben forgot the heat. This place was unreal.

  A man wearing a high turban and ballooning striped pants took his place just a few metres below them. He carried a short flute and a large woven basket. The man placed the basket on the ground, opened the lid and began to play a reedy tune, dipping the flute toward the open basket, then swirling it up to the sky. Slowly, a large black and yellow cobra with a frilled hood emerged from the basket. The snake wove higher and higher, rising closer to the flute. The crowd gasped and when the cobra struck out at the flute player Gran shrieked and clutched Ben.

  She was breathing fast and her face was ashen. “I can’t stay. Take me away.”

  “Do not worry,” said Madhu. “We are safe up here, Norah memsahib. Hold my arm.”

  Ben couldn’t move his eyes from the scene below. Weaving in time to the music, the snake twisted and lunged toward the crowd. They were close enough for Ben to see the flick of its forked tongue, and this time he remembered to take a photograph.

  Gran screamed. “Get me away from here. Please!” She turned her face and drooped against Madhu’s arm.

  “He’s not finished yet, he’s doing more. Let’s stay,” Ben whispered.

  “We must be taking your grandmother out of the heat. Come.” Madhu and Padam stood on either side of Gran, each of them holding an arm, and almost hoisted her down the stairs.

  Ben desperately wanted to see the rest of the act. He’d only ever seen snakes in zoos, where they just lay around in a display case without moving. But it was hot. His hair was dripping wet under his cap and his legs were sweating in his jeans. His mother had been right when she told him he should buy shorts. He’d noticed that most Indian men, including Padam and Madhu, wore cotton shorts. Reluctantly, he followed to join the others in the shade by a stone fountain.

  Gran was sitting down, mopping her face. “I’m sorry I made a fuss,” she said. “Snakes are the one thing I’m deathly scared of.”

  Madhu said, “You must not worry. We are all different. I can see that Norah memsahib loves marble and precious stones and Ben sahib prefers the cleverness of our magicians and our snake charmers.”

  Ben stood by himself, trying to understand what he’d seen. There was an expression, “seeing is believing.” He knew what he’d seen with his own eyes. Did that mean he believed a man could levitate and a snake could be made to dance to music? In Canada people would laugh at these things. But this was India, and he was no longer sure what to believe.

  After a cold drink Gran said she felt better and would like to explore the market across the street.

  “This is called the Chandni Chowk,” Madhu told them. “It is said that anything stolen in New Delhi turns up here within twenty-four hours.”

  Padam rushed to explain. “You must not think ill of our country. Not everything is stolen.” He waved his hands in the air. “My goody-goodness it is not.”

  Ben had never seen such a crush of humanity in h
is life. Streams of men and women brushed past them on the road in both directions. On either side, stalls were piled with radios, television sets, carpets and leather suitcases. Counters were laden with gold jewellery, stone pots, brass statues; further along were rows of coloured powders and sacks of chilies and lentils. The air smelled of a confusing blend of sharp spices, cooked food and body sweat, his own included.

  Then, without warning, the noise of the street seemed to drop away, and Ben was staring at a stone statue a little taller than he was, on a platform across the road. He had to get closer.

  Madhu scurried after him. “Ben sahib, this is our popular god, Ganesh. The elephant boy we call him. Children are asking Ganesh to help when they have some difficulty.”

  It was a happy-looking god. The plump elephant’s face had a broad smile. Its long trunk fell over the round belly and the pudgy crossed legs of a seated boy. The elephant god had four arms and long ears. Madhu said, “Ganesh has big ears so he can listen when children talk to him. Look carefully. See one of his hands holds a round cake? This god is fond of sweets.”

  “Just like my grandmother,” Ben laughed.

  Ben ran his hand down the elephant’s curving trunk. It was hot from the sun and strangely smooth. It felt almost human. What was it about these Indian elephants? He had the same feeling yesterday at the street parade when he’d been drawn to the live elephant. This was only a statue, but it was pulling him powerfully.

  “You like our Ganesh, Ben sahib?” Madhu asked.

  Ben kept his hand on the warm trunk and turned to answer. “What kid wouldn’t like a god who listens to children?”

  “We must go now, Ben sahib,” Madhu said. Once again, Ben wasn’t ready to leave but he knew he had to go with Madhu back to the taxi where Gran and Padam were waiting. It would be time for them to return to the registry office.

  At the door to the office building, Gran thanked the two men. She hesitated and then asked Ben if he’d sort out the money to pay them. “Who’s this man on the bills?” Ben asked as he handed the rupees to Madhu.

  “That is our beloved Mahatma Gandhi,” Madhu said. “India’s great spiritual leader during our independence. This humble man travelled everywhere wearing only a simple cotton cloth we call a dhoti. Our leader is renowned for telling us we must show patience and persistence.”

  Padam interrupted in his squeaky voice, “Patience and persistence. Qualities I strive to reach for myself.”

  Madhu added, “And seldom achieve!” The two men nudged each other and giggled.

  Gran looked as though she was feeling better but her hat was tilted at a funny angle. She straightened it and said, “We might be a long time at the registry office today, and I don’t want to keep you waiting. Could we take you to dinner tonight to say a proper thank you?”

  Madhu beamed. “Thank you indeed, Norah memsahib. We are being honoured and will come to your hotel at seven this evening.”

  Ben wished his friend Mac was around to bring along, but at least eating with these two drivers would be more fun than eating alone with Gran.

  The registry waiting room was as crowded as it had been the day before. Ben took a number from the same bushy-browed receptionist at the front desk and they found the last two empty seats along the wall.

  Number 16 had just been called. Ben held number 52 in his hand. He looked around. There was no window in the stuffy room. It felt as though the hot air from other people’s breathing was being recycled up his nose. He tried to take shallow inhalations so the stale air didn’t reach his lungs. It didn’t seem to bother Gran, who had opened her guidebook and was reading. Ben wished little Harish were here to help pass the time. Even better, if he could lose himself in a game on his PSP. He watched flies chase each other against the smudged wall. An old man across the room sneezed seven times, then pulled himself together and sneezed twice more.

  Ben turned his thoughts to the man levitating above the ground at the Red Fort. Was that real or did you have to believe in some kind of magic like Padam had said? Ben was mad at himself for not taking a picture, but at least he had one of the cobra taken before Gran had started to scream.

  That statue of Ganesh made him wonder why Hindus had a god with an elephant’s head on a boy’s body. Mac would think India was right over the top when he heard about that.

  Number 28 was called, and a fat woman carrying a crying baby went up to the desk. Gran lifted her head from the guidebook. “Listen to this, Ben. I’m reading the story of Ganesh.”

  “I was just thinking about him,” Ben said.

  “The story says that the god Shiva went away to travel the world, leaving his wife Parvati and his infant son behind. His wife waited for him and gave instructions that no other man was to be allowed to enter her room. Shiva travelled for a long time and when he returned, he rushed to see Parvati, but a young man blocked the door. Shiva was so mad he cut off the man’s head, but then Parvati told him he’d cut off his own son’s head. His son had grown up while Shiva was away.”

  Gran read on, “Shiva felt terrible at his mistake and swore he would make their son whole. He promised to find a head for his son from the first living thing he saw. The first thing he saw was an elephant, and true to his word, Shiva cut off the elephant’s head and put it on his son’s body.”

  “Now they have a god who is half-boy, half-elephant,” Ben said. “Unreal!”

  “Number 57.”

  Ben and Gran leapt to their feet.

  “Good day, Madam Leeson,” said the blue-shirted man at his office desk. “Happy news. We have been fortunate to find some information for you.”

  He held a paper out to Gran. “It seems Miss Shanti Mukherjee was married in 1955 from her parents’ home in Agra. You will see I have written the address where she lived with her parents. 187 B Station Cross Road in Agra.”

  “That’s wonderful! I’ve never had a home address, only her school address,” Gran said. “Where is Agra?”

  “About two hundred kilometres from here. Agra is the home of the famous Taj Mahal. It will be possible for you see it and find your friend’s family at the same time.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” Gran said.

  “Good luck and namaste.”

  Ben said namaste and made the hand gesture in return. Good. Now they’d be able to see more sights in India.

  Gran put the paper in her fanny pack. “What luck! An address for Shanti’s parents. They’d be very old now, but if they’re alive, they’ll know where Shanti is for sure.”

  As they headed out into the blistering air, Gran said, “Imagine Shanti’s family living in the same city as the Taj Mahal! We’ll go to Agra tomorrow.” She reached over and put her arm around Ben’s shoulders.

  Ben ducked out from under her arm. He wished she wouldn’t do that. “Okay with me. How about celebrating with a ride in one of those auto-rickshaws?”

  Before his grandmother could object, Ben waved at a driver who immediately swerved to the curb, pulling his yellow and green vehicle to a shuddering stop beside them. The auto-rickshaw had one wheel in front and two in the back, above a small, noisy engine. Behind the driver was a plastic seat with a curved canvas hood. Ben jumped in first, not waiting for approval from Gran.

  “Well, why not?” Gran said climbing in behind him. Nervously, she gave the driver the name of their hotel.

  It was a wild ride. The driver steered the rickshaw on a reckless course, threading his way like a buzzing yellow bee between bigger cars and buses, while the engine droned and sputtered, the vibrations from the old engine rattling the teeth in Ben’s head. Gran held onto a bar at her side, but was hurled against Ben and back again as their driver whizzed past every vehicle on the road.

  Ben got out first. “That was a lot more fun than a taxi, Gran. Let’s do it again!”

  “Please, not today,” said Gran, fanning her face with her hat. I’m going upstairs for a long rest.” Ben could see that her legs were shaking under her skirt.

  He asked if
he could borrow the guidebook and found a seat in the hotel garden. He studied the trumpeting elephant on the cover. Now he’d seen a real elephant. A striking cobra too. And an elephant boy-god. It had been quite a day. He opened the book to read the story about Ganesh again.

  Right at seven, Madhu and Padam showed up at the entrance to the hotel. They wore freshly pressed shirts and long pants and announced they had chosen a restaurant in an area that Padam said was “posh-posh.” Soon they were in the taxi, barrelling down the road through a row of large hotels.

  As they walked up to the door of the restaurant, Gran frowned at Ben and said under her breath, “Benjamin. Hat!” Ben gave her a look and took off his baseball cap. It didn’t seem to bother Madhu or Padam, who had both admired it at the Red Fort.

  The restaurant had tables covered with white cloths, and sparkling chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. Madhu explained in his quiet way that he was a vegetarian and Padam was not, so they had chosen a restaurant that served a buffet meal with choices for everyone.

  Padam bounced around in his seat as the waiter handed him a linen napkin. “We are most excited. We are not usually eating with foreigners like yourselves.”

  They filled their plates from the long table. Padam suggested Ben try the chicken and the special spinach and cheese dish. Madhu loaded his plate with all sorts of vegetable dishes, rice and dhal, which he said was a sauce made of lentils.

  Ben checked the table. There were no forks. He watched in disbelief as the two men began to pick up fingerfuls of food with their hands.

  “I can see you are not knowing the Indian way,” Padam said. “Watch me. You must be holding your fingers together to make a little scoop.”

  Gran had her fingers in the food. Obviously this was what you did here. Ben reached to pick up the food on his plate, but before he got any to his mouth, Padam interrupted. “Please, only your right hand, sahib.”

  “Why? I’m left-handed,” Ben said.

  “Because in India the left hand is used to perform certain bathroom cleaning rituals,” Padam answered.