Such were her promises and Baboo Nob Kissin accepted without question that they would be redeemed at a time of her choosing. But suddenly one day, with the temple still unbuilt, she was seized by a wasting fever. For the first time in two decades, Baboo Nob Kissin stopped going to work; he banished Ma Taramony's disciples and hangers-on from his house and nursed her himself. When he saw that his devotion was powerless against her disease, he begged her: Take me with you; don't abandon me to live alone in this world. Other than you there is nothing of value in my life; it is a void, an emptiness, an eternity of wasted time. What will I do on this earth without you?
You won't be on your own, she promised him. And your work in this world is not done yet. You must prepare yourself – for your body will be the vessel for my return. There will come a day when my spirit will manifest itself in you, and then the two of us, united by Krishna 's love, will achieve the most perfect union – you will become Taramony.
Her words caused a wild surging of hope in his heart. When will that day come? he cried. How will I know?
There will be signs, she said. You must keep careful watch, for the indications may be obscure and unexpected. But when they show themselves, you must not hesitate or hold back: you must follow them wherever they lead, even if they take you across the sea.
You give me your word? he said, falling to his knees. You promise it will not be too long?
You have my word, she replied. A day will come when I will pour myself into you: but till then you must be patient.
How long ago that was! Nine years and fifty weeks had passed since the day of her death and he had continued to live his accustomed life, clothed in the garb of a busy gomusta, working harder and harder, even as he grew ever more weary of the world and his work. As the tenth anniversary of her death approached he had begun to fear for his reason and had come to the decision that if the day passed without any sign yet being manifested, then he would renounce the world and go to Brindavan to live the life of a mendicant. And in making this pledge, he came to be convinced that the moment was at hand, the manifestation was on its way. He had grown so certain of this that now he felt no further anxiety or disquiet: it was at a calm, unhurried pace that he stepped off his caranchie and carried the ship's books into his silent, empty house. Spreading the papers on his bed, he leafed through them one by one until he came to the schooner's original crew manifest. When at last he saw the notation beside Zachary's name – 'Black' – he uttered no wild cry of joy – it was rather with a sigh of quiet jubilation that he rested his eyes on the scribbled word that revealed the hand of the Dark Lord. This was the confirmation he needed, he was certain of it – just as he was certain, also, that the messenger himself knew nothing of his mission. Does an envelope know what is contained in the letter that is folded inside it? Is a sheet of paper aware of what is written upon it? No, the signs were contained in the transformation that had been wrought during the voyage: it was the very fact of the world's changeability that proved the presence of divine illusion, of Sri Krishna's leela.
Separating the manifest from the other papers, Baboo Nob Kissin carried it to an almirah and placed it inside. Tomorrow he would roll it up tightly and take it to a coppersmith, to have it encased inside an amulet, so that it could be worn like a necklace. Should Mr Burnham ask for the manifest, he would tell him it was lost – such things happened often enough on long voyages.
As he was closing the almirah, Baboo Nob Kissin's eyes fell on a saffron-coloured alkhalla – one of the long, loose gowns that Taramony had liked to wear. On an impulse, he slipped it on, over his dhoti and kurta, and went over to a looking-glass. He was amazed by how well the robe fitted him. Reaching up to his head he undid the bindings of his tikki, shaking out his hair so that it fell to his shoulders. From now on, he decided, he would never again tie it or cut it; he would leave it open, to grow, so that it hung down to his waist, like Taramony's long, black locks. As he gazed at his own image, he became aware of a glow, spreading slowly through his body, as if it were being suffused by another presence. Suddenly his ears were filled by Taramony's voice: he heard her saying, once again, the words she had spoken in this very room – she was telling him that he must be prepared to follow the signs wherever they led, even across the sea. All at once, everything was clear and he knew why things had happened as they had: it was because the Ibis was to take him to the place where his temple would be built.
Neel and Raj Rattan were flying kites, on the roof of the Raskhali mansion in Calcutta, when the Commissioner of Police arrived with a detachment of silahdars and darogas. It was early evening, on a hot April day, with the last light of the setting sun shimmering on the Hooghly River. The nearby ghats were crowded with bathers, scrubbing away the dust of the day, and the moss-darkened roofs and terraces around the Raskhali Rajbari were filled with people, out to enjoy the sunset breeze. Everywhere in the neighbourhood conch-shells were sounding, to mark the lighting of the first lamps, and the muezzin's call could be heard at a distance, floating over the city.
When Parimal burst in, Neel's attention was centred on his kite, which was soaring high on the swirling green breeze of the month of Phalgun: he had no ears for what was said. Huzoor, Parimal repeated himself. You have to go down. He wants you.
Who? said Neel.
The English afsar from the jel-khana – he's come with a police paltan.
The news made little impression on Neeclass="underline" it often happened that officials from the constabulary came to see him on some matter related to the zemindary. Still intent on his kite, Neel said: What's happened? Has there been a burglary or dacoity nearby? If they want help, tell them to talk with the gomusta-babus.
No, huzoor: it's you they want.
Then they should come back in the morning, Neel said sharply. This is not the time of day to come to a gentleman's house.
Huzoor: they won't listen to us. They insist…
Now, with the drum-like spindle of the kite-string still spinning in his hands, Neel shot a glance at Parimal and was surprised to see that he was on his knees, and that his eyes were overflowing. Parimal? he said, in astonishment. Yeh kya bát hai? Why are you making such a tamasha? What is going on?
Huzoor, Parimal said again, choking. They want you. They're in the daftar. They were on their way up here. I had to beg them to wait downstairs.
They were coming up here? Neel was speechless for a moment: this part of the roof lay in the most secluded part of the house, above the zenana; it defied credence that an outsider should think of setting foot in it.
Have they gone mad? he said to Parimal. How could they even think of such a thing?
Huzoor, Parimal implored him, they said not to waste time. They're waiting.
All right. Neel was more intrigued than alarmed by the sudden summons, but as he was leaving the roof, he stopped to ruffle Raj Rattan's hair.