Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

Someone at the back said: ‘Speak in Hindi.’ The Professor repeated his question in Hindi.

But it was a curious question, which was either unamenable to any answer — or which could only be answered by a bewildered, ‘Both.’ For there was no either/or, no necessary contradiction in the two possibilities of oxidation and meditation, whatever they might mean. Clearly the Professor believed that the woman who had usurped too much power and closeness to Babaji needed to be put in her place, and that a question like this would show up both her ignorance and her pretensions.

Pushpa went and stood to the right of Sanaki Baba. He had closed his eyes again, and was smiling beatifically. Indeed, he continued to smile beatifically through the entire exchange that followed.

Everyone’s eyes other than Baba’s were on Pushpa. She reverted to English and spoke with spirit, and with cold anger:

‘Let me make it quite clear that quastions here are not addrassed to “Madam” or anyone else but to the Master. If we give teachings here it is in his voice, and we translate or speak because of his vibrations speaking through us. The “Madam” knows nothing. So quastions should be addrassed to the Master. That is all.’

Dipankar was transfixed by the severity of her response. He looked at the Baba to see what he would say. The Baba’s eyes were still closed in a smile, and he did not alter his stance of meditation. Now he opened his eyes and said:

‘It is as Pushpa says, and I ask her to speak with my bivrations.’

At the word ‘bivrations’ there was a flash of lightning outside, followed by a clap of thunder.

The Master had forced Pushpa to answer the question. She covered her face with a cloth from distress and embarrassment.

Then she spoke with anger and sincerity and embattled defensiveness.

Looking straight at the Professor, she said:

‘One thing is a must to say, and that is that we are all sadhikas, we are all learning, no matter how aged, and we must only ask the quastion which is ralevant, not any quastion for sake of quastion only, or to hold an examination of “Madam” or Master or anyone. If you are truly troubled by a quastion then you can ask it — if otherwise, then you will not get grace from the guru. So I should make that clear, and now I will answer the quastion. Because I can tell that we will have more quastion and answer sassion, and I must make all that clear from the beginning—’

Here the Professor attempted to interrupt, but she shot him down.

‘Let me speak and finish. I am answering Professor Sahib’s quastion, whatever spirit it is asked in, then why should the Professor Sahib interrupt? Now I am not a scientist of oxidation. . oxidation is natural, but it is always there. But what is happening? You may be seeing or hearing, but word or picture as such: what is that? What is effact? It can be different. If you see obscene picture, that will have one effact on you, a strong effact’—she screwed up her nose and closed her eyes in distaste—‘and a beautiful picture, different. So, music also. Bhajan music is music, film music also is music, but in one you have certain effact; in other, other. In smell also. It may be burning, but incense burning has wonderful smell, and shoes burning has tarrible smell. Or take prosassions of akharas tomorrow: some are in good spirit, some are fighting. It depends what. And sankirtan also, like this evening: you can have sankirtan with good people, or with bad people.’ This was said very pointedly. ‘That is why Saint Chaitanya only had sankirtans with good people.

‘So let me tell the Professor Sahib, it is not a quastion “Is it maditation? Is it oxidation?” The real quastion is: “What is your dastination? Where do you want to go?”’

Now Sanaki Baba opened his eyes and began to speak. The rain was loud, and his voice was soft, but it was not difficult to hear him. The guru’s words were calm and soothing, even as they sought to make distinctions and point out errors. But Pushpa shook her head from left to right as her Master spoke, gleefully smiling as he made his telling points, points which she took to be directed against the ‘defeated’ Professor. It was all so unloving, possessive and defensive that Dipankar could hardly stand it. The violent revulsion of feeling he was undergoing made him see this beautiful woman in a completely different light. She was gloating over her rival’s discomfiture in a way that almost made him sick.

The wind was now whistling down the alleys of Old Brahmpur and shaking the pipal tree on the ramp with all its force. The pilgrims who were making their way down were wet through by the time they reached the foot of the Fort. Rain was running down the steps of the ghats, merging with the surface of the Ganga, and gouging out channels in the Pul Mela sands. The face of the moon was almost hidden. Above, clouds scurried confusedly across the sky. Below, men and women scurried confusedly around on the ground — trying to protect their belongings; hammering their tent-pegs more firmly into the sand; and tottering through the lashing rain and howling sand-laden wind towards the Ganga to bathe, for the most auspicious bathing time — which would last fifteen hours, until about three the next afternoon — had just begun.

The storm was violent enough to blow a few tents away on the Pul Mela sands, and — in the old town above — to flood a few alleys, shake tiles off some roofs, and even uproot a small pipal tree that stood more than a hundred yards away from the ramp that led down to the sands. But these events were soon magnified by darkness and fear.

‘The great pipal tree has come down,’ cried someone in dismay. And though it was not true, the rumour spread like the erratic wind itself through the crowds of awestruck pilgrims. They looked at each other and wondered what it all could mean. For if the great pipal tree that stood by the ramp had indeed fallen, what would become of the bridge of leaves, of the Pul Mela itself, or indeed of the very order of things?

Halfway through the night the storm ceased. The clouds disappeared, the full moon reappeared. The pilgrims bathed in their hundreds of thousands through the night and into the next day.

In the morning the processions of the great akharas began. The sadhus of each order in turn paraded down the main road of the Mela, which ran parallel to the river but a couple of hundred yards up the sands. The display was magnificent: floats, bands, men on horseback, mahants carried on palanquins, banners, flags, drums, whisks, naked nagas bearing fire-tongs or tridents, a huge, barbaric man who yelled holy verses as he brandished a great sword from side to side. Great crowds gathered to gaze at the spectacle and cheer the sadhus on. Hawkers sold flutes, false hair, holy thread, bangles, earrings, balloons, and snacks — peanuts and chana-jor-garam and rapidly melting ice-cream. Policemen on foot — or mounted on horses and in one case on a camel — maintained order. The processions were staggered to avoid confusion — or conflict between one sect of sadhus and another. Since the sadhus were as militant as they were arrogant and competitive, the authorities of the Pul Mela had taken pains to ensure that at least fifteen minutes elapsed between one procession and the next. At the end of their march, the sadhus of each procession took a sharp left turn and made straight for the Ganga, where — to shouts of ‘Jai Ganga!’ and ‘Ganga Maiya ki Jai!’—they took an enthusiastic and rowdy communal dip. Then they returned by another, narrower parallel road to their camps, satisfied that no akhara could be more magnificent or pious than theirs.

The great pipal tree above the broad earthen ramp was, as anyone could now see, intact, and would probably continue to flourish for a few hundred years more. It had not, unlike some lesser trees, been uprooted by the storm. The pilgrims continued to arrive in droves at the Pul Mela Railway Station; they passed by the tree, folded their hands in respect and prayer, and began to make the journey down the ramp to the sands and the Ganga. But today, from time to time, whenever a procession passed along the main Mela route by the foot of the ramp, there was a slight obstruction to the cross-traffic and some congestion on the ramp itself. However, it was all taken in good spirit, especially since the ramp provided to many who stood on it a general view of the processions below — and for those pilgrims who had just arrived on this auspicious day, a first view of the whole tent-covered expanse and the holy river beyond.