Vikram Chandra - Sacred Games

So we both knew. I had no pretence of being a seer like Guru-ji, of having his spiritual powers or his insight. But I knew. 'All right, Guru-ji. I remember you said in one of your pravachans that in every meeting there is already the beginning of loss.'

'Yes. We find each other only to lose each other. Loss is inevitable.'

'So there is no need to grieve. Perhaps we will find each other again.'

'Perhaps. But Arjun, even if we are not going to see each other face to face, I don't want to lose you in this life too soon.'

'Guru-ji?'

'I see danger for you in the east. I see great danger.'

'From where, Guru-ji? From whom?'

'I can't tell. But there is danger to your life. Be very careful.'

'I will. As always. I'll be even more careful. Even more.'

'I will watch over you.'

So, we took a walk. There was nothing else to say or do. I lived in danger, I had done it for years now, and now Guru-ji had given me a warning. I would be even more vigilant, if that was possible. Guru-ji liked greenery, he loved flowers and trees, he had spoken of this often in his sermons, about the need to save the environment. In the centre of Munich there was a park, and we went to it, just Guru-ji and I and two of his sadhus. The sadhus walked some distance behind us, out of earshot. Guru-ji and I spoke of ordinary things, about the price of gold, and the increasing number of overweight children in the middle class in India, and the next generation of computers, and the worldwide changes in weather and the implications for the monsoon. After the cosmic conversations that we had had recently, it was a relief to come back to the ground, to this summer day with strolling families, and children who stared at Guru-ji, and leaping dogs. The braver kids came up to Guru-ji, and he talked and laughed with them. Looking at them, I thought of what a perfect shot this was: the rolling grass, the heavy-headed trees moving gently in the breeze, the generous sun, Guru-ji's great bent head, and the slender, pale necks of the children as they clustered about him. Remember this, I told myself, witness this and remember it always.

I tried to see Guru-ji clearly. He was so enlightened, so far advanced that he was somewhat removed from the world of men and women. I knew that he valued cleanliness, that he liked gardens and greenery, that he had vast amounts of knowledge about arcane subjects, that he liked to learn about the latest advances in technology as soon as they happened. But still he hovered a little above the earth, I couldn't know him like I knew Arvind, or Suhasini, or Bunty. I knew them like I knew myself, I knew the shape of their desires, what they were afraid of, how they thought. I could predict what they would do, and I could make them want certain things, I could direct them and control them. I had them.

But Guru-ji, when I tried to think about him, when I imagined him, he appeared in my thoughts like one of those pictures from calendars of Vivekananda or Paramhansa, vivid and unforgettable but not quite human, more than human. I couldn't quite grasp him, my Guru-ji. Even when he was sweeping along in his wheelchair a few feet in front of me, leaning back so he was only on two wheels, followed by a comet's tail of laughing children. I had asked him once about his family, and he had told me quite openly about his air-force father, who kept the country's fighter planes running and had a drinking problem. And about his mother, who suffered from asthma and wept copiously when his motorcycle accident happened, but who was his main supporter in his quest for spiritual knowledge, and his first devotee. I knew about his tastes in food, that he was vegetarian but not at all fussy, that he would share a poor farmer's meagre lunch and enjoy it with the same gusto as he would a prime minister's fancy tea. I knew all this, and yet I knew that I knew him not at all. He remained hidden behind that steady gaze of his, that taking-in which gave back love and peace and certainty. Maybe I was being presumptuous, I thought as I walked along behind him, to hope that I could understand him as I understood other men. He had left the ego behind, and become something divine. And I was not yet close enough to divinity to comprehend this godliness. To attempt to do so was itself an act of ego, a movement of pride. All I could properly hope for was this moment of darshan, a fleeting connection. But still, I had an urge to try. I stepped up to him, past the children, and said, 'Guru-ji?'

'Yes, Arjun.'

'I have a question. Perhaps it's impertinent.'

'All the better. Ask it.'

'Have you ever been in love, Guru-ji?'

'All the time, Arjun.'

'Not like that, Guru-ji. I know you love me, and them –' I pointed at the children '– but with a person. Ishq, pyaar, muhabbat, Guru-ji. Have you ever been a deewana?'

'I was very young when this happened,' he said, pointing at his legs.

'So, never?' I thought I knew the answer already. A man who had realized his own supreme essence loved all creation equally, he would have no need for this partial, fragmented blindness that was love for another person. If you were Brahman itself, why would you need to become Majnoon? But he surprised me.

'A deewana? Yes, maybe once. Before the accident. When I was very young.'

'No, really?'

'Yes, really. We saw each other every day because we lived in neighbouring houses, and yet the hours apart were torture.' He smiled. 'Is that what you are talking about, Ganesh?'

'Yes, Guru-ji,' I said eagerly. 'And when you saw her, you were afraid of each minute because it was passing.'

A grinning blue-eyed boy spoke to Guru-ji in German, and Guru-ji answered him very seriously. He nodded at me – over the boy's little shoulder – and said, 'Yes. Like the other half of you is near you for a moment, but will be taken away.'

I struggled down the choking in my throat. So he was a man after all, an ordinary mortal who had suffered these pangs, and had felt loss. 'What was her name, Guru-ji?'

He patted the boy on the shoulder, sent him away. He was looking towards me, but seeing something else, someone very far away. 'What does it matter, Arjun? Names are lost in time. All infatuation leads to loss.'

'Then what happened, Guru-ji? Was she sent away?'

'This happened. And I went away, into injury and then into myself.'

Then he had become our Guru, and now he loved us instead of her, whoever she had been. No doubt she remembered their love also, but perhaps she was consoled by the fact that he loved her still, in a manner much more profound than the mere love of one small, ignorant mortal for another. I was nevertheless comforted by the knowledge that he had once been something like me. 'Thank you,' I said, 'Guru-ji, thank you for telling me.'

'It's nothing much,' he said, and he was looking over his shoulder at the group of children, who had angled off, and were now running across the fields in a flashing of golden legs, with that boy leading.

The sadhus came up now, and I fell behind, carrying my knowledge of a young man in love like a new treasure in my breast. We walked on.

One of the sadhus was speaking to Guru-ji in French. This sadhu was Swiss, a balding, red-headed fellow, who had been given the name 'Prem Shantam'. Guru-ji had all sorts in his following, and he spoke bits and pieces of many languages. He turned back to me now. 'Arjun!'

I stepped up. 'Guru-ji?'

'Prem here tells me that up ahead there is a section of the park where these Germans give up all modesty. They lie around without any clothes on. He is suggesting that we do not go that way.'

'Maybe we should avoid it, Guru-ji.'

'Why? Are you afraid of seeing their bodies?'

'Me? No, not at all. I am used to it, Guru-ji, from Thailand and all that.'

So we went ahead, down by a sparkling river. And there were the naked Germans, mostly men, lying on the grass and walking about naturally, quite without embarrassment. I had seen them on beaches far away, I was familiar with their white skin, their wrinkled behinds. But here I was vaguely disquieted. Here, in this city of churches and tall spires, this exhibition made no sense.