Many years ago, they had seen him going about the town in the evenings. ‘I’ve taken a vow to go on a pilgrimage to Badridham,’ he would proclaim. ‘One maund of flour, ten seers of ghee, twenty seers of rice and five hundred rupees—that’s all I need. I seek Krishna Maharaj’s benevolence.’ He would go from one lane to another, ringing a bell. No one ever saw him receiving alms. But it was said that he had been able to fulfil his vow and Sarvanandji—for that was his name—left on a pilgrimage to Badridham.
Before he left, he managed to build a small hermitage in a lonely spot on the outskirts of the town and installed an idol of one of the thirty-three lakh gods in it. He had also planted a peepul sapling outside his hermitage. People looked at it in wonder. ‘It’s a miracle!’ they said. A barren patch of land, where even a cactus plant would not grow, now had a peepul tree.
God was indeed kind to Sarvanand and soon his fame spread throughout the district. It was said that he had just to stand with his hand lifted towards the sky and miracles would happen. It was through his blessing that Jai Kishan, the sweetmeat seller, got the gift of a son in his old age. He had married four times, but none of his wives had obliged him with a child to carry on the family lineage. But the fourth wife, at long last, fulfilled his wishes. Sarvanand became famous overnight. Jai Kishan’s wife expressed a desire to have Sarvanandji as her guru and devote the rest of her life to serving him as a dasi. Sarvanandji readily acceded to her wishes. Jai Kishan’s wife was grateful. But didn’t all sadhus regard woman as the root of all sins? Soon that root of sins became so fertile that it bore fruit every year. Jai Kishan was impressed. He entrusted his shop to his servant’s care, shaved his head and became the mahatma’s devotee. Then he went on a fund-raising mission for a sadhu ashram upon which Sarvanand had set his heart. Ten years later, on a full moon night, the ashram was inaugurated to the chanting of sacred mantras. From then on, it became an annual practice to have a religious congregation on that auspicious day. Holy men from distant places came to attend the function.
Four years ago, a big religious function was held at the ashram for which preparations had started a month in advance. By now, twenty sadhus were permanently residing there. Sarvanand had adopted four disciples and started a religious sect of his own. One of the disciples was a Brahmin and the other three were sons of sweetmeat sellers.
To collect funds and foodgrains for the function, the sadhus from the ashram had swarmed over the whole area like locusts. The devotees dedicated their vagabond sons to the ashram and put them under Sarvanand’s tutelage.
Shivraj’s case, however, was different. His father had asked Shivraj to touch Sarvanand’s feet and then said to him in all humility, ‘Maharaj, his salvation lies at your feet. How can he find it in a house of sinners like us? Maharaj, let him acquire wisdom at your feet. Teach him Sanskrit, teach him the Vedas and the Shastras . . .’
Shivraj was thirteen years old at that time. Swamiji brought him to the ashram with him. There were thirty other boys there who looked at one another like frightened deer. They were called upon to take to the life of brahmacharya. They were to renounce cereals for a month in advance of the date of initiation, and then were administered the vow.
A new life began for Shivraj. His head was shaved, leaving a thick tuft over his scalp. He wore wooden sandals and saffron-coloured clothes. A sandalpaste mark was painted over his face from the tip of his nose to his forehead and he was asked to observe silence for a full month.
Boundless are the benedictions of the Ramayana. The young novitiates who had taken a vow of silence communicated with each other in couplets from the holy book. When caught, they were forced to repeat the Gayatri mantra twenty times in their hearts. Most of them were Brahmin boys and had never thought that life at the ashram would be so easy. In the early hours, they chanted mantras from the Vedas and then did Surya Namaskar (obeisance to the sun). In the afternoon, they recited from the Gita and in the evening sang hymns to the accompaniment of music. This was their daily ritual after the month of silence was over.
When the hymns were sung, the brahmacharis were seated in the front row. Behind them sat the devotees. One day, when the kirtan was in full swing and the harmonium and the drum were at their loudest, Swami Gyananand went into a trance and started dancing before the idol. Rangeelay was so moved that he also started dancing and fell down in a swoon. The congregation, which was swaying in tune with the hymns, was astounded. The kirtan stopped and they all gathered round the prostrate Rangeelay. Rangeelay was a god! The chosen one! How did it matter that he was illiterate? God resides in every heart. One of the devotees made the sacred sandalpaste mark on Rangeelay’s forehead. ‘That’s how the mortal bird flies to his god!’ he said. ‘Many such instances are quoted in our scriptures. Who wouldn’t aspire for such a blessed end?’
Swamiji was informed. He came out of his hermitage muttering, ‘Hare Ram, Hare Krishna!’ He was so overwhelmed that tears came to his eyes. ‘O God! Great are your ways,’ he mumbled and then announced that Rangeelay was more exalted than he was, for to go into a swoon was the first step to salvation. Rangeelay, he said, had acquired the divine power of snapping the ties between the body and the soul.
Shivraj, who was standing by, was asked to bring water to sprinkle over Rangeelay’s face. Sarnam Singh took the vessel from Shivraj and after observing the proper ritual so as to invoke the right spirits, sprinkled the water over Rangeelay’s face. He poured one full lota over him but Rangeelay’s jaws remained locked. A few more mantras were mumbled. Rangeelay opened his eyes and stared at Shivraj. He caught hold of his legs and started writhing before him. ‘He’s very much like what I saw,’ he moaned.
Rangeelay would not let go of Shivraj’s legs. ‘Give me salvation,’ he moaned again and again. ‘I’m lying at your divine feet.’ Scared, Shivraj tried to withdraw his feet. It was after many minutes that Rangeelay returned to the material world.
‘He resembled Shivraj a great deal,’ Rangeelay explained to Sarnam Singh and others while returning to the bus stand at midnight. ‘He had a bow and arrow in his hand and a crown upon his head. Oh, what effulgence! I was blinded by its dazzle. He was everywhere, brother.’ Rangeelay firmly gripped Sarnam Singh’s arm. ‘And how still everything was! A light shone in my heart. It was God Himself standing before me. I don’t know what happened afterwards. Why did you bring me out of that trance, brother? Why were you so cruel to me, brother?’
From that day, Shivraj, among the brahmcharis, and Rangeelay, among the devotees, became marked persons and their prestige rose. God had entered them, making their bodies pure. People would stop Rangeelay on the road and question him about his experience.
‘It is the way Bharat Mata has entered Subhash Babu’s body,’ Rangeelay explained. ‘No doubt he was a loyal subject of the great Empress Victoria. But he could not close his ears to the call of the motherland. You see, the Empress could not take the place of the motherland. Subhash Babu went from place to place, incognito. He roamed the jungles and then lit the divine fire which brought freedom to our country. It was through his benediction that Gandhi Baba and Nehruji held the reins of the country.’
He stared into space. ‘I’m also ordained to move about incognito and light the divine fire,’ he said, putting on a grave expression.
‘What for?’ the betel seller asked.
Rangeelay gave him a mysterious smile and rose to his feet.
Every day, Rangeelay took some money from Sarnam Singh and bought fruit for Shivraj. For three or four days, Shivraj accepted the fruits and made them over to the common mess. But later, Rangeelay’s manners began to irk him. He would make Shivraj sit by his side and bore him with his talk. ‘How soft your hands are! Your parents are indeed lucky to have such a promising son. Come with me some day. I’ll take you round the bazaar.’
Shivraj would keep nodding, for he had taken a vow of silence. One day, one of his companions reported to Swamiji that Shivraj was not true to his vow. From that day onwards, Shi
vraj refused to see Rangeelay.
After Shivraj’s father’s death, he returned to the ashram carrying a small tin trunk. The attitude of the ashram inmates seemed to have changed towards him; it was now like an orphanage to him. The offerings from home had stopped coming and Swamiji did not consider it necessary to cajole him any longer. The first time Shivraj had come to the ashram his father had sent two bags of wheat, one bag of jaggery and a pair of shirts with him. But now that source had suddenly dried up. At night, when Shivraj slept on the plinth under the open sky, tears would come to his eyes.
Being a village boy accustomed to living in the open air, he soon got tired of the daily drudgery within the four walls of the ashram. In addition, every night he had to press Swamiji’s legs which galled him no end.
One day, he escaped from the ashram and knocked about in the bazaar for sometime. Then he decided to while away some more time at the bus stand before returning to the ashram. At the bus stand, he happened to see Sarnam Singh sitting there leaning over a chessboard
‘Namaste, Driver Saheb.’ Sarnam Singh’s familiar face put new heart in him.
Taken aback, Sarnam Singh surveyed the boy. He looked so different from what he had been three months ago. ‘Your father is dead?’ he asked.
Shivraj’s face clouded and tears came to his eyes. Sarnam Singh put his arm round Shivraj’s shoulder and led him towards the thatched hut. Just then, two boys from the ashram came there in search of Shivraj. Their eyebrows went up as they saw him sitting in the midst of the transport crew.
‘A nice place to be at!’ the senior boy said as he looked with undisguised contempt at Sarnam Singh. Shivraj got up, flustered. Sarnam Singh scowled at the boys. ‘What are you doing here?’ asked the boy.
‘I’m standing here, what else? Have you no eyes?’ Shivraj’s innate rustic boldness suddenly asserted itself through his timidity. He looked at the senior boy with a deadpan expression. Sarnam was pleased. The boy had guts.
‘Come to the ashram,’ the senior boy said. ‘It’s Swamiji’s order. “Catch him wherever you find him and drag him here,” that’s what Swamiji said. We have been looking for you all over the place.’
‘I refuse to go back to the ashram,’ Shivraj said. Sarnam laughed. The senior boy was incensed. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, pushing the other boy before him as if he were herding sheep. ‘Let him make an ass of himself for all I care. We’ll tell Swamiji that he refused to come.’ They went away muttering under their breath.
That day, Sarnam Singh took Shivraj on a trip with him. When they returned the following day, he put the boy up at his house. News soon spread in the town that Sarnam Singh had kidnapped a boy from the ashram. They were not surprised. It was very much like Sarnam Singh. What else could one expect from a drunkard and a meat-eater? Alas, the boy would be ruined for good.
‘That fellow Rangeelay has been after him for a long time,’ a man said. ‘Now he’ll train him as a pickpocket and ask him to join his gang.’
‘I hear the boy is a vagabond.’
‘No, he’s a Brahmin’s son.’
‘All the worse for it.’
Shivraj never went back to the ashram. He stayed in the outer room of Sarnam Singh’s house, and gradually became a regular fixture there. The pious men of the town raised accusing fingers at Sarnam Singh. But he was unconcerned. He retaliated by telling juicy stories about the corrupt lives of the swamis. This created bad blood between the Swami and the town roughs. The feud continued for a long time.
One day, when Shivraj woke up in the morning, he found Sarnam lying with him in his cot. His hand was resting on Shivraj’s chest. It was nothing new for Sarnam, and Shivraj should have got accustomed to it by now. In the beginning, when Shivraj protested, Sarnam had said, ‘You remind me of my own youth. Sixteen years ago, I was very much like you—smart, agile and simple.’ He sighed. ‘Alas, those days will never return.’ He held Shivraj’s hand in his own, looked wistfully at his fingernails, pressed his knuckles, and moved his hand over his soft downy arm. Then, as if the spell had broken, he said, ‘Run away!’
Once Sarnam clutched Shivraj in his arms and digging his face into his hair sighed deeply. ‘Shivraj, look at me,’ he said, lifting his chin. Shivraj, fluttering to disengage himself from his clasp, stared at him like a helpless bird. Relaxing his grip, Sarnam said, ‘Shiva, I’m sure you were related to me in your previous birth. No? Once I caught mother like this. She slapped me in the face and then overwhelmed with maternal affection, started crying.’ Shivraj’s heart which was filled with revulsion suddenly melted. Sarnam did everything to please Shivraj and bought him the nicest things currently in vogue.
What kind of love is this? Shivraj wondered. And why does it stink? Where did it begin and where will it end? Shouldn’t he draw a line somewhere and keep Sarnam Singh from overstepping it so that their love was saved from festering?
Translated by Jai Ratan
Pages from a Diary
Bhupen Khakhar
When we left the Garden, he was impatient to reach home. I was crossing the road slowly. Jitubhai had already crossed over, weaving his way between the rickshaws with not a worry for himself; then he waited on the other side impatiently. I was halfway to the other side and had just managed to avoid the last cyclist in my way, when he asked, ‘Where is the scooter?’
I said, ‘Next to the Acharya Book Depot. So we will have to go round the circle.’
‘Come, walk a little faster.’
He was soon standing near the Acharya Book Depot. Then he said, ‘Which scooter?’
‘The grey one.’
‘There are three here.’
‘Here, this one.’
I had to obey the authority in his commanding voice. I ripped out the scooter key from the back pocket of my trousers and started the scooter.
‘Which way?’
‘The lane next to the fire-brigade station.’
Impatience, curiosity and eagerness to arrive were Jitubhai’s. That’s why he had been commanding me. I too was aware that this relationship was to last no more than half an hour. Both of us would forget each other within a day. There was no joy or excitement in my mind. There was a weariness, a monotony in the chain of happenings in such relationships.
I knew what kind of house it would be. A house with a Rexine-covered sofa, a mini swing, ceiling fan, and walls painted white or grey . . . Lost in thought, I reached the third floor. He had already climbed the staircase ahead of me. I saw him press the bell of room number 305. I climbed the stairs and stood behind Jitubhai. He too was breathless. The door opened three inches.
Jitubhai: Key.
The door shut. Two minutes later, a bunch of keys was held out by the fingers of a child. She wore bangles on her wrist. Jitubhai took the key.
He unlocked the house right opposite. Inside, an office table, under it a mattress gathered into a roll. Jitubhai switched on the fan. The glass window was shut. The typewriter on the table was covered. Since I wasn’t certain where to sit, I pulled out the chair that was pushed into the space under the table and sat on it. The lower fringe of his shirt touched my mouth. Once in a while, it flapped across my face when the wind blew.
Jitubhai: Wouldn’t you like to stay here?
I shuddered at the thought of spending the night in that room with no ventilation. I lied. ‘I have to catch the morning bus to Ahmedabad at six.’
‘Go from here.’
‘I have to collect some office papers from home. Besides, I haven’t told my people at home, either.’
We both knew that this first encounter was also the last one. Jitubhai took off his cap and shirt and stood close to the chair. For the first time, I looked at his face in the stark tubelight. An illness years ago had scarred it. The shining head, the sweat-drenched and pockmarked face looked ugly. Moreover, the thin lips made it look cruel too.
A hoarse voice emanated from the tall, strong body.
‘The building gate closes at nine every night, so be quick.’
With this, he moved the typewriter with a jerk, and sat on the table. Before my eyes I now saw the white vest, the white dhoti and the phallus that sprang from it. I looked up. The pockmarked cheeks were smiling. Both eyes were shut to a slit, like the eyes of a Chinese.
He said, ‘All well?’
I said, ‘Let’s skip this today.’
‘Why?’
‘Some other time.’
‘You know as well as I do that—’
‘What?’
‘We shall never meet again.’
He caught my hand. Involvements, allurement, attraction had disappeared from my heart. I was thinking of paintings. A complete canvas full of white vest, the white dhoti and the slight transparency that revealed the phallus. I tried to get up from the chair. He took my hand, made me sit and said, ‘What’s wrong today?’
‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘What happened to your mood? Did I do something wrong?’
‘No, just feeling off.’
‘Come on, for my sake.’
I stayed there till nine for the sake of a man I would never meet again in my life.
Translated by G.N. Devy
O Pomponia Mine!
Sultan Padamsee
Shall I knot my tie a little more superbly,
OPomponia mine?
A little more because we dine at the Astoria
To have bubbles in our wine?
You will wear your black, I think,
The new one, made of Agatha’s heirloomed lace,
And add a touch of colour to your face
And leave a little on the glass from which you drink.
We shall play it bravely; only,
Pomponia, alone.
We shall never groan
Even if the rolls are hard,
And the prices on the card
Make us feel a little lonely.
Never mind,
I shall touch my tie,
And lie that we are of a different kind.
Yaraana Page 5
