He wondered why the kayrawalli was travelling away from the city and towards the suburbs. People like her brought fruit to the city. Maybe she was on the wrong train.
Just like Father and Mother and me. To think that I put the thought in their heads.
Once, in the midst of a bitter outburst, he had said, “Why don’t you ask your famous Bhagwan Baba if he also handles matchmaking? Maybe he’ll be in my favour.” He spoke with what he thought was biting sarcasm. Everything now had a habit of degenerating into a sarcasm contest.
But they liked the idea very much. “It was only a joke,” Jehangir pleaded, sarcasm retreating in alarm.
Mother and Father thought it was the best way to decide his future. They tried to convince him to make the visit. Mother was harshly dictatorial at first, then lachrymose and pleading. “What we want,” she tearfully entreated, “is for you to come and talk to Bhagwan Baba about the girl, to find out if she is right for you. Agree that Bhagwan Baba is never wrong, believe again as you believed once when you were younger.”
And Jehangir stopped objecting when reminded of the many miracles wrought within the world of his childhood. Miracles were no doubt easier to believe in that long ago world. But the memories began to prey on his notions of loyalty to the past, his nostalgia for a home happy and loving despite its material meagreness, and guilt for considering (however briefly) repudiation of Bhagwan Baba. Besides, he reasoned, he had nothing to lose, it could not get worse. If he was lucky, a favourable pronouncement would make things much easier.
And with the agreement to take Bhagwan Baba’s advice, a measure of calm returned to their lives. Hostilities were suspended and the harsh words temporarily silenced.
The kayrawalli awoke and balanced the basket of plantains on her head. She got off at the next station, which was also the one Jehangir and his parents were waiting for.
The medium-sized house had a spacious veranda at the front. A wooden bench sat on the veranda, and around the house a lush vegetable garden with several pumpkin vines and tomato plants. Tucked away in one corner was a large bench-swing, hanging still. Still, too, was the greenery in the garden. Not a breath of breeze.
A large crowd was waiting for Bhagwan Baba. People stood in a line leading up to the veranda, in silence or soft conversation, reverent hands clutching packets with offerings for Bhagwan Baba. There was none of the hysterical activity usually associated with holy men, no burning of incense, no chanting, no peddling of holy pictures or religious artifacts.
Jehangir’s parents explained that when Bhagwan Baba was ready he came out to the wooden bench. The visitors then went up to the veranda and sat with him, one by one or in a group if it was a group consultation.
A man just ahead of them in line overheard, and spoke up as though waiting for the cue: “There is nothing to worry about. Bhagwan Baba is wonderful. Whatever he will say or do, it is only for your own benefit.” Bhagwan Baba started granting audiences at eleven A.M. It was now eleven-thirty. With the air of one privy to special information the man said, “Bhagwan Baba knows best. If he is late it is for a good reason.” His hands performed practised gestures to embellish the earnestly devout speech: fingers bunched together to describe a vertical line in the air; right index finger wisely held aloft and lowered through an arc into the left hand; palms together in a clasp; and so on. “We are only simple human beings, so how to understand everything Bhagwan Baba will say or do, how to know why his spirituality is manifesting in one way and not in another?” He paused, then added unctuously, “For us, it is only to stand and wait till Baba is ready to mingle with poor souls like you and me!”
Jehangir found the man’s effusive devotional talk embarrassing. He wished his parents would stop encouraging him by nodding pious looks of agreement. Bhagwan Baba appeared now, supported by two men. Something like a collective suspiration was audible in the garden. Then the scattered whispering fell silent. He was dressed in a white kurta-pyjama, and looked quite frail, with bare feet. His head was bald but he had a white beard. A short stubbly beard. And he wore dark glasses.
“Sometimes he takes off the glasses,” the man whispered, “then at once puts them back on. Everyone waits for that, to see his eyes. Exactly what it means I don’t understand. But it is absolutely significant, most definitely.”
Two little boys and their older sister climbed onto the bench-swing in the corner of the vegetable garden. Their clambering set it into a gentle, squeaky oscillation. The sister sustained the motion of the swing with a pushing-kicking movement of her legs. During the forward swing her skirt billowed, then fell with the retreat; forward and back, billowed and fell.
Out of a long-formed habit Jehangir, craning, positioned himself to obtain the best view. When he had newly started going to college he discovered a pastime to which the Law of Diminishing Returns did not apply. The excitement of descending the stairs sometimes kept him from paying proper attention during class. There were two flights to each floor, and as he rounded the splendidly carved newel at the end of the first flight, his eyes lifted upwards. Above him flowed a stream of panties, a cascade of crotches out of the heavens, while he descended slowly, hand upon the balustrade to keep his balance, for it was heady stuff.
The thrills of this sport suffered greatly after that day at choir practice when she spoke to him. He realized that she could be amidst the descending crowd while his head was thrown back at a right angle to his trunk. It would be mortifying if she spotted him in this stance, she who believed him shy and, doubtless, pure of mind. Like Mother who, until recently, would say with pride, “My Jehangir, such a quiet good boy, aitlö dahyö, make choon or chaan. Does everything I tell him.” What a revelation if she could enter his prurient mind. Ironic that two women so different could share the same misconception, both beguiled in identical ways.
The bench-swing reminded him of the exercisers in the children’s playground. He now gave that place a wide berth when he visited the Hanging Gardens, preferring to think that the playground and the exercisers belonged to a part of his life which had concluded for good. He wondered if the exercisers still went there every night, if their muscles had developed further since he last saw them more than two years ago.
The children lost interest in the swing. It slowed down, steadying into its former stillness, with the squeaks coming further and further apart, then dying away completely. Jehangir turned away from it, feeling victorious after his sighting. Not only had he succeeded, he had done so in Bhagwan Baba’s garden amidst devotees thinking pious thoughts, and the touch of blasphemy was particularly satisfying. The sanctimonious fellow in front had been quiet for a while, not sharing any more of his insider’s information. His turn was next. He smiled at Jehangir and his parents, and stepped up to the veranda. The sun had progressed in its descent, and the pumpkin vines and tomatoes would soon need watering. A slight breeze was evident in the faint rustle of leaves.
Now they were first in line. Jehangir’s apprehension and uncertainty returned. He began digging frantically in his trousers for the photograph before remembering that on the train, while his parents slept, he had transferred it from his wallet to his shirt pocket. “How do we start this?” he asked. “Do I show the photo first?”
Mother said she would take care of that. All he should do was listen carefully when Bhagwan Baba spoke.