V
‘Bhedia! Bhedia!’ you say, as he grins, ‘Bhedia, how did you ever come here?’ and he smiles with his broad hands, he makes signs with his nose (lifting it back and forth, and then hiding his face between the knees), he answers, does Bhedia, ‘The cucumber was bad so it became sad. The cucumber was bad so it became sad.’ ‘Now what does that mean?’ you may ask Bhedia, and he replies as if it were clear as his eyes (and he had beautiful dark eyes, with rounded eyebrows, long eyelashes and a limpid wheat-coloured skin under). ‘The moon went up to the sky and stood, and the hill suddenly became a lake so that Ramji and Krishnaji could besport themselves in Vrindavan, you understand!’ And Bhedia takes a long gasp of breath, with his hookah. ‘So Benares became a hotel.1 You understand— you buy and you sell. You sell puri and halva, and cowries for gold, and all the monkeys make marriages. All the marriages in this city are made by monkeys,’ affirms Bhedia with a look of friendly contempt. ‘First Arjun came to the forest and got caught in the house of wax and that was in Benares. Now, Rama lost his sheep, and the donkeys went astray. You know donkeys like those who graze on the Ganges banks. And I came here, the noble son of Kunti, and that was long ago. Long after the Mahabharata was,’2 says Bhedia and laughs into his things. ‘Life is so funny, Maharaj. Before the war I served a Prince. He was so kind, and he had four black horses. I groomed them and fed them and harnessed them, and crying, “Hé, Hé, the prince of Chandrapur!” I took him about town in his large, spacious landau, made in London you understand, yes, in London, and drove him to the railway station, to the mills, to the club, to his mistresses. Oh, to be sure he had a concubine and a good one at that. She always had jellebies and sent them to me through the backyard — she knew I loved sweets. I gave them all to the horses. My horses were like Nala’s, they could span the skies in an hour, and be in Indra’s kingdom in a day. In my own time I have seen many a swayamvara ceremony. I was at Bhoja Raja’s swayamvara and at that of Vikramaditya’s daughters. I was wherever there was duty to perform,’ and here suddenly Bhedia burst into tears, and the pilgrims who stood by the Ganges banks, prasad in their hands and hair, would look at Bhedia, his woebegone tatters, his idiotic smile, his long nails and his unwashed presence, and would turn away and look at the Ganges to feel pure and safe.
But Bhedia was, if you want to know, one of the great men in Benares. He never scorned. He never spat on anyone. He felt he was a saint ‘Why sir,’ he would say, ‘in the kingdom of Indra deep in Heaven,’ and he would point at the sky, ‘there’s a lake called the lake of Vishada. There, there are many mermaids and each one more beautiful than the other. I used to go up there betimes when my master slept in the afternoon: mills and back, and drink, and lunch. And thus,’ Bhedia would show the palm of his hand, and lay his head on it, ‘Master Krishna Prakash used to sleep up till three or four. Meanwhile I would whisk the flies off my horses and take a trip to Indra’s Kingdom. The difference between the two is simple. Here train runs, there cities move. You don’t go to a city. The city comes to you. You think, and it is there! “Palace,” you shout and you are in a bright lit palace, with marble halls — and, what shall I say, even woman guards, and fierce cockfights. What’s the use of a palace without a cockfight? Once upon a time I used to own cocks and fought them till they bled. One of them, Chilla, was like a buffoon. He played tricks with everyone, and when he struck it was like a thunderbolt, it killed every other cock. That’s why I am so happy in Benares, do you hear, sir? The river goes where it willeth, the crows caw, they caw, caw! Dancing girls become saints in this city, Maharajas wash the feet of Sadhus, and your Bhedia is here because one day his master got so angry. “Hé, you idiot”, he cried from the porch of the bungalow (and that was in Lucknow, and he was a rich man and a big man), “hé, Bhedia you idiot, and you haven’t even learnt to make my bedding roll, you a thousand times idiot, a million times idiot!” and sir, he gave me such a kick, here, just on my man’s big little titbit, I just rolled and rolled on the floor squealing like a panicked cur, and praying to Shivji: “Take me away, Lord, and make me anything but make me a good servant.” A good servant sir,’ and here Bhedia adds some more chillum into his smoke, ‘a good servant is like a good swing. It knows exactly where to go and when to come. A good servant is like nobody. A good servant is like a big jackfruit, like a saint, like a wide-eared elephant. It’s no use being a bad servant, sir, it’s unpleasing unto God. God did not make man to be bad, it is like a monkey that apes man. Better be a monkey, I said to myself, sir, and came to the holy city of Benares. But I cannot climb trees. I can steal fruits all right,’ and here from the folds of his dhoti Bhedia would produce all sorts of curious finds: dirty newspapers, beedies, sacred threads, nails, toothbrush of neem-twigs — he would produce babies’ caps, a woman’s cholipiece with lovely peacock designs, mango-stones, a gold ring, and some squashed coconut bits, two buttons, and an orange. ‘Hé,’ he giggled, ‘don’t you think I steal better than they?’ and he looked up and laughed at the monkeys. ‘Life is easier for me than for them. I hate calling them by their real name. They understand man’s language and one day or the other they take revenge. So I was saying, I am a man, therefore, I walk on foot. They have to crawl on all their limbs. A man trusts man. A man does not trust a four-legged thief. Two legs are right. And you steal and you run just like this. Hé,’ and he shouts. But the whole lane laughs. Who does not know Bhedia, our younger brother? So noble, so heart-clean, friend to all creatures and stones, and look here, he takes a stone out of his pocket and throws it at the dustbin crows, and—‘and — and,’ he could find no words, so Bhedia looks up at you and laughs.
He is so lovable, is Bhedia, you would have to create him like Brahma himself if he did not be. For him all things are so real, so simple, and he can play a cat against the moon and the earth against Indra’s kingdom, and yet he would not harm a chameleon. Chameleons change colour and so are evil. That’s why Muslims kill them — he, the brute, the betrayer. For Bhedia there is no betrayal. In Benares all is right. Shivji in the temple will make him a good servant, one day. The fact is, there is no sadhu however full of ire and tong-tonguing who does not pat him on the back ‘Hé Bhedia, what’s the news from Heaven?’ they ask. ‘It’s cold,’ shouts Bhedia turning on himself with chill shivering. ‘The sun has forgotten Indra’s Heaven. And so it is chill like on the snows. When you have too much cold,’ says Bhedia, ‘you become like the Man of the Snows.’ Some eager Europeans even come to Bhedia led by an overeager guide. ‘This man, sir, has seen seven Snow Men. He comes from their country. How are they, Bhedia?’ Bhedia answers something in Hindi, and the guide gives the apt answers. ‘The Snow Men are tall. They are all white like the Europeans. The Snow Man eats only snow. One was even seen mating on the lake sides. The little ones are already big as a pony, etc.’ The Benares guides have such greed and a great imagination. I tell you, you cannot live in Benares if you have no imagination which explains why Bhedia is so happy here For him the world is imaginationings. To live in one’s imagination is truly to live in heaven, has said some village vulgar singer, has he not? But that’s the truth of the matter. There is no better representative of man than Bhedia. Unless you think of Shalwar Khan.