Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

What people got from him was difficult to say. Sometimes he spoke to them, sometimes not, sometimes he blessed them, sometimes not. This thin man, as withered as a scarecrow, burned to the colour of dark tanned leather by the sun and the wind, gaunt, exhausted, squatted on his platform, his knees near his ears, his long head faintly visible over the ledge of the parapet. He had a white beard, matted black hair, and sunken eyes that stared almost sightlessly across the sea of people, as if they were so many grains of sand or drops of water.

The crowds of pilgrims — many of whom were clutching copies of the Shri Bhagavad Charit, a yellow-covered edition of which was on sale here — were held back by young volunteers, who were in turn controlled by the gestures of an older man. This man, who in some sense appeared to officiate over the proceedings, had thick spectacles, and looked like an academic. He had in fact been in government service for many years, but had left it in order to serve Ramjap Baba.

One scraggly arm of Ramjap Baba’s frail frame rested on the parapet, and with it he blessed the people who were brought forward to receive his blessing. He whispered words to them in a weak voice. Sometimes he just stared ahead. The volunteers were holding the crowds back with difficulty. They were almost hoarse with shouting:

‘Get back — get back — please only bring one copy of the book to be touched by Babaji—’

The old holy man touched it exhaustedly with the middle finger of his right hand.

‘In order, please — in order — yes, I know you are a student of Brahmpur University with twenty-five companions — please wait your turn — sit down, sit down — get back, Mataji, please get back, don’t make things difficult for us—’

Hands outstretched, tears in their eyes, the crowd surged forward. Some wanted to be blessed, some just to have closer darshan of Ramjap Baba, some to give offerings to him: bowls, bags, books, paper, grain, sweets, fruits, money.

‘Put the prasad in this shallow basket — put the prasad in this basket,’ said the volunteers. What the people had given would be blessed, and having been made sacred would be distributed among them again.

‘Why is he so famous?’ Pran asked a man standing next to him. He hoped he had not been overheard by his companions.

‘I don’t know,’ said the man. ‘But in his place and time he has done many things. He just is.’ Then he tried to push himself forward once more.

‘They say he takes Rama’s name all day. Why does he do so?’

‘Wood burns when rubbed and rubbed till it gives you the light you desire.’

While Pran pondered this answer, the thickly bespectacled man who was in charge of things came up to Mrs Mahesh Kapoor and did a very deep namaste.

‘You have brought your presence here?’ he said in surprise and with deep respect. ‘And your husband?’ Having been in government service, he knew Mrs Mahesh Kapoor by sight.

‘He — well, he was detained by work. May we—?’ asked Mrs Mahesh Kapoor shyly.

The man went to the platform, said a few words, and returned.

‘Babaji said, it is kind of you to come.’

‘But may we go forward?’

‘I will ask.’

After a while he returned with three guavas and four bananas, which he gave Mrs Mahesh Kapoor.

‘We want to be blessed,’ she said.

‘Oh, yes, yes, I’ll see.’

Eventually they got to the front. They were introduced in turn to the holy man.

‘Thank you, thank you—’ whispered the haggard face through thin lips.

‘Mrs Tandon—’

‘Thank you, thank you—’

‘Kedarnath Tandon and his wife Veena—’

‘Aah?’

‘Kedarnath Tandon and his wife.’

‘Aah, thank you, thank you, Rama, Rama, Rama, Rama. . ’

‘Babaji, this is Pran Kapoor, son of the Minister of Revenue, Mahesh Kapoor. And this is the Minister’s wife.’

The Baba peered at Pran, and repeated tiredly:

‘Thank you, thank you.’

He leaned a finger out and touched Pran on the forehead.

But before she could be hurried along, Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, in a beseeching voice, said:

‘Baba, the boy is very ill — he has had asthma since he was a child. Now that you have touched him—’

‘Thank you, thank you,’ said the old wraith. ‘Thank you, thank you.’

‘Baba, will he be cured?’

The Baba pointed upwards to the sky with the finger that he had used to bless Pran with.

‘And Baba, what about his work? I am so worried—’

The Baba leaned forward. The escort tried to plead with Mrs Mahesh Kapoor to give way.

‘Work?’ The voice was very soft. ‘God’s work?’

‘No, Baba, he is looking for a position. Will he get it?’

‘It will depend. Death will make all the difference.’ It was almost as if the lips were opening and some other spirit speaking through the skeletal chest.

‘A death? Whose, Baba, whose?’ asked Mrs Mahesh Kapoor in sudden fear.

‘The Lord — your Lord — the Lord of us all — he was — he thought he was—’

The strange, ambiguous words chilled her blood. If it should be her husband! In a panic-stricken voice, Mrs Mahesh Kapoor implored: ‘Tell me, Baba, I pray you — will it be a death close to me?’

The Baba seemed to register the terror in the woman’s voice; something that may have been compassion passed over the skin-stretched mask of his face. ‘Even if so, it would not make a difference to you. . ’ he said. The words appeared to cost him immense effort.

He was talking of her own death. That was what he must mean. She felt it in her bones. Her trembling lips could barely form the next question:

‘Are you talking of my death?’

‘No. . ’

Ramjap Baba closed his eyes. Relief and agitation struggled in Mrs Mahesh Kapoor’s heart, and she moved forward. Behind her she could hear the voice whispering, ‘Thank you, thank you.’

‘Thank you, thank you,’ it continued to whisper more and more faintly as she, her son, his sister, her husband, and his mother — a chain of love and, consequently, of fear — moved slowly out of the crush on to the open sands.

Sanaki Baba, his eyes closed, was speaking.

‘Om. Om. Om.

‘Lord is ocean of the bliss, and I am his drop.

‘Lord is ocean of love, and I am part and parcel of it.

‘I am part and parcel of Lord.

‘Inhale the bivrations through the nostrils.

‘Inhale and exhale.

‘Om alokam, Om anandam.

‘The Lord is in you and you are part of Lord.

‘Inhale the environment and divine master.

‘Exhale the bad feelings.

‘Feel, do not think.

‘Do not feel or think.

‘This body is not yours. . this mind is not yours. . this intellect is not yours.

‘Christ, Muhammad, Buddha, Rama, Krishna, Shiva: mantra is anjapa jaap, the Lord is no any name.

‘Music is unheard bivrations. Let music open the centres like lovely lotus flower.

‘You must not swim, you must flow.

‘Or float like lotus flower.

‘OK.’

It was over. Sanaki Baba closed his mouth and opened his eyes. Slowly and reluctantly the meditators returned to the world they had left. Outside, the rain poured down. For twenty minutes they had found peace and oneness in a world far from strife and striving. Dipankar felt that everyone who had shared in the meditation must feel a warmth, an affection for all the others. He was all the more shocked by what followed.

The session was barely over when the Professor said: ‘Can I ask a question?’

‘Why not?’ said Sanaki Baba dreamily.

The Professor cleared his throat. ‘This question is addressed to Madam,’ he said, stressing the word ‘Madam’ in a manner that implied an open challenge. ‘In the inhalation and exhalation that you talked about, is the effect due to oxidation or meditation?’