‘Baba, can you talk about the problem of religious unrest in our country?’
‘Haven’t you heard a mother-in-law shouting at her daughter-in-law: “Is this the way to prepare dal?” Of course she thinks her way is best. But north, south, east and west, everyone eats lentils in some form or another and everybody receives their nutritional benefits.’
‘I try to interest my children in spiritual matters, but they turn a deaf ear.’
‘There is no sign of the fruit when you buy the shoot. A watermelon does not exist unless it is the watermelon season. Before you cut it open you should always put your ear to the rind while tapping on the side. In this way you can make sure it will be completely ripe.’
The spy made notes in a school notebook and scratched his head dubiously. This was his first important mission since he had joined the society that boasted of such distinguished members as the man who had revealed the mechanism that gave rise to the electric-shock guru, the woman who had uncovered the exploding-toilet scam, the clerk who had hidden himself in a vat of sweetened curd to overhear a conversation that led to the indictment of the BMW guru for everything from money-laundering and tax fraud to murder by poison. In fact, it had been a lucky thing the clerk had not eaten any of that curd.
The spy was determined that he too would thus distinguish himself. He was lonely in Shahkot; his village was far away and he was as yet unmarried. He hated his job as a teacher at the public school, hated the boys who drew unflattering portraits of him in their notebooks and pulled faces behind his back. Often he gave them exercises to do and escaped to the staff room, where he sat staring out of the window and smoking cigarettes. One day he would show the world; he would rise above his poverty-stricken childhood, the hovel he had grown up in with eleven brothers and sisters, his drunken and drugged father, his worn-out mother. One day the world would turn its attention to him at last. Applause. Prizes. Newspaper reporters. He would hold his face out to the light and, in the midst of adulation, discover his poise, discussing fluently and with the seriousness of an intellectual on television his opinion of things. ‘Well, you know, liberation, as I comprehend it, comes from freeing yourself from the tawdry grasp of superstition. This is not a simple matter, you understand, for it is embroiled in historical issues, in issues of poverty and illiteracy.’ Yes, his life had been hard. But he would overcome.
‘What should I do, sir?’ he ventured once more. ‘I do not know what path I should take. I do not know what questions to ask. In fact, I do not even know what I want.’
‘A child cries for its mother’s milk, doesn’t it?’
‘I do not understand.’
‘A baby bird cries for an insect.’
‘But, sir … milk and insects?’
‘A mother knows what its child wants and recognizes her child from the noises it makes. Consequently, you will be quite all right if you stop asking questions and wait for your mother to come to you. Be patient.’
‘But —’ he persisted. ‘But, sir-’
Sampath’s head began to buzz. What on earth was this man being so annoying for? He looked out into the leafy avenues about him and gazed moodily into the distance.
The spy from the Atheist Society looked happier. Clearly Sampath was at a loss for a reply to his clever questioning and was trying hard to avoid him. He went behind a tree and made more top-secret notes in his school notebook. ‘Avoids questioning by pretending otherworldliness. Unable to discuss deeper matters of philosophy.’
Below Sampath the hallowed silence grew until Ammaji became uncomfortable with the quiet so loud and so big. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘sometimes his mind leaves the earthly plane. Don’t be offended.’
It had not occurred to anybody to be offended.
‘I myself have seen many holy men like this,’ said Lakshmiji. ‘Sometimes they sit completely still. Nothing can move them. They are like a bird on her eggs. Sometimes, though, they are frivolous and laugh, leap and dance. Yes, they can be like a child or a madman. Other times, instructing others, they return to the plane of consciousness to share their wisdom.’
‘Yes, it is the face of a vijnani, no ordinary countenance at all. Look, just look at his face.’
Sampath’s normal usual face! Pinky listened with astonishment to the things she was hearing.
‘Oh,’ said Ammaji, chiming in delightedly as she rolled a betel leaf, ‘he was born with spiritual tendencies. Everybody was saying maybe he is a little mad, maybe he is a little simple-minded, but it is just that he could never interest himself in the material world. One time I gave him five rupees to pay the milkman and the next thing I heard was the milkman shouting: “Oi, ji. Look, ji, what your grandson has done.” There was a strong breeze that day and while the milkman was measuring the milk, he had made a boat out of the bill and floated it into the canister. And hai hai, when it came to school what a terrible time we had. All the time: fail in Hindi, fail in Sanskrit, fail in mathematics, fail in history. Never could he concentrate on his studies.’
‘Ah! For one like him, it is hard to keep the mind on such petty and mundane matters. He will look out of the window and everywhere there is the glory of God.’
‘It is true,’ said Ammaji. ‘I cannot tell you what a terrible time we have been having. It is very hard for a family. There we would be begging him: “Please study a little; at least pass; we are not asking for any miracles.” But he would continue as he was, sitting for hours, looking at a flower, staring at the sky …’
‘I knew of a sadhu from Rishikesh,’ said a schoolteacher who had travelled all the way from Chittagong, ‘who every day would emerge from his hut, look at a hot spring and meditate. He never practised any other austerities or study. Just the sight of the hot spring would send him into samadhi.’
‘Oh, what terrible trouble we had in the post office.’ Miss Jyotsna, who had become a regular visitor, was happy to claim intimacy with Sampath’s formative years. ‘Sometimes he would make an attempt, but we all said better not to do anything. Better let one of us do it or else there will be such a mess, we will never be able to sort it out.’
‘And such a pretty girl we found for him!’ said Ammaji, getting more and more carried away. ‘But no, he would have nothing to do with her …’
‘What use can a hermit have for ladies? For such a person, it is an affront even to suggest marriage.’
At this everyone nodded their heads. In that moment they too would like to be sitting like this, clean and pure, in such pleasant surroundings without their husbands and wives and extended families. How beautiful the Himalayan foothills were! How bountiful and lush! Butterflies fluttered through the landscape, tree pies and flycatchers flew from tree to tree, lizards sunned themselves on the tin roof of the watchman’s shed, sliding down in a stupor during the warm afternoon, and the breeze rustled the leaves. Here and there were sprinklings of wild flowers, flowers with the colour and fragrance of fruit; flowers with gaping mouths and tongues that left the devotees tiger-striped with pollen as they passed by; that waved their anthers and brandished their stamens, that sent such scents up into the air, nobody could help lowering their noses into their fragrant petals.
Quietly, but in a sure, pleasant voice, Miss Jyotsna began to sing:
‘There are footprints entering my house, but I have no visitors.
There is the sound of music in the trees, but the wind is still.
There are fingerprints over all my belongings,
But they don’t match those of anyone in this household!