Nicola Barker - The Cauliflower

No. Nope. Sorry about that. The swift has suddenly doubled back and is rapidly returning to the panchavati . If you glance to the left you’ll be able to feast your senses upon the farthest reaches of the extensive and perfectly heavenly flower gardens which the Rani has planted to run along the riverbanks either side of the main ghat and the chandni , and which fill the humid air with the heady perfumes of rose, hibiscus, and Arabian jasmine. Just close your eyes for a second and imagine inhaling the intoxicating perfume of …

Ouch!

Thwack!

Crunch!

Eh?! What the—?! I think we may … it — it seems like … We were heading on our way back to the panchavati , minding our own business, when that persistent black shadow which had been dogging us for — for quite some time now suddenly grew darker … more intense, and then — then it appeared to collide with … to tangle with … Brace yourselves! I’m going to turn the audio back up again to try and identify what on earth might be—

Gracious me! What a dreadful—! I think that’s the ground. And I think that’s a claw. And a giant beak. Just jabbing and jabbing at … And the sounds! And the blood ! And the feathers! Those heart-rending squeaks … And in the distance a deafening and victorious caw-caw-cawing. But how could—? Why would—?

I’m going to quickly mute the … If you’re of a sensitive disposition I suggest you turn away for a second, because from what I can tell a murderous crow seems to have — it seems to be … they will sometimes … if they’re hungry, or simply for the sport — or maybe because it caught a quick glimpse of something fascinating and reflective at the circa-1855 swift’s throat as it flew.…

Hang on … what ?! See that?! The shadow has lifted, very suddenly, and if you look to the left of the screen … Is that—? Is that a man approaching, at speed, holding a homemade catapult? Am I correct in deducing that he seems to have shot a pellet from this primitive contraption toward the crow while it busied itself tormenting the … and now he’s running to the spot — barefoot? That’s his toe. Do you see his toe? I’m going to turn the volume up again.… Yes, yes , I know the picture keeps cutting in and cutting out. But you must see the man, surely? A young man, skinny, with a pretty, golden complexion and a moon-shaped face, peering down at our wounded, our fatally injured — our poor dead circa-1855 swift (RIP). He looks very concerned. That’s his — that’s his index finger, gently poking at the bird.…

I’m not sure if he’s noticed the — has he spotted the camera? Tiny as it is? Do you see his eye gazing straight at us? He is picking us up. He is holding us in his hand! Yes, the camera keeps cutting in and cutting out and — yes … yes … the swift is dead. But that’s not … just … just quiet down your wailing, please — over there, at the back.… Because if I’ve not completely lost the plot — and I don’t think I’ve completely lost the plot — the hand that now holds us … the camera … the swift … belongs to none other than a nineteen-year-old (although we can’t be sure that’s his precise age) Gadadhar Chatterjee (if that is actually his real name), who will eventually become — who will eventually be hailed as …

Ahhh . Do you see the tenderness in those brown eyes? Such beautiful eyes! Such intelligent eyes! Fringed with such an abundance of luscious lashes! There remain very few images of him — very few … just three or four … and those only from when he’s much, much older.… But to see this boy … this little Krishna , this artless Mowgli , and to sit in his warm hand, like this, to lie in his revered palm …

He is inspecting us, very closely. He is looking deep into our souls. Do you feel that? Do you? The sheer intensity of his gaze? And there is such — such sadness in those eyes, and then … then there is such resignation, and then there is … there is laughter. Laughter? Of course. Do you see his lips moving? “This is her play,” he murmurs, as if to comfort himself, “This is the play of the Divine Mother.” (He speaks in his rural Bengali dialect — but no stammer. Not a hint of a stammer!)

Ah. Such extraordinary detachment! Such exquisite fatalism! Yes. This is the lila of the Divine Mother. He thinks that this (the circa-1855 swift’s violent death — and, who knows? Us ? The camera?) is her play. This is her divine sport. We are her play.

And who’s to say that we aren’t? Eh?

I’m just … urgh … the words have dried up. I’m rendered inarticulate. I mean if you don’t quite appreciate how significant this moment is — how rare, how precious —then I can only … Although (in your defense) I suppose you’ve clambered a little tardily onto this speeding spiritual train, haven’t you? You’re a fraction green. Feeing slightly travel sick. Somewhat unprepared.

And I’m a — I’m sorry if I’m not proving entirely capable of rising to the … I’m just a little bit — a little bit overwhelmed by it all … flustered.… Just to be — to be held by the hand of … well, of — of God . To be held by this hand … but before everything … at the start of that great journey … years, even decades , before it would all coalesce into …

Oh my, oh my, oh my.

Hup ! Eh? Hang on! What now? We seem to be — we’re suddenly moving toward the … very rapidly … we’re … Good Heavens! Is he—? Are we being—? Is he planning to—? Is he tossing us into the—? Throwing us into the holy Ganga? Into the river? Giving us a sacred burial? Before we’ve even had a chance to retrieve the technology?! Is he—?

Plop!

Aaargh! Into the water … but we’re supposed to be — we’re meant to be waterproofed at — at — at — at some level? Aren’t we?

Have we become detached from the circa-1855 recently deceased swift? Are we alone? Are we sinking? If you press the yellow button on your remote you’ll be able to see how — tell exactly how … how deep …

Oooh . It’s very murky down here.… Did he do that on purpose? Just throw us—? Did he not understand — not recognize…? Did he not want us to be a part of — to see his … to bear witness to his … to his phenomenal…?

Is that a … a giant catfish? Swimming toward us? No! No! No! Please don’t! Please don’t! Aaaargh! It swallowed us! We’ve been swallowed by a giant catfish! And this is — this is its throat … and now this is its upper intestine. I’m not sure if we can … the signal … I’m not sure if it will — if it will carry on for too … for too much … for too … for too … for …

Hmm . Seventy-six percent of the total budget up in smoke. The Cauliflower ™ is now officially in ruins. Seventy-six percent! And that’s from a total budget of … uh … um … of nothing.

So how much does that add up to, exactly? You do the math.

What ?! In pounds sterling?!

Oh! Oh thank goodness! In rupees …

In 1856, Gadadhar Chatterjee, who will one day become Sri Ramakrishna (although we don’t know quite how), is perched, stark naked, on the steps of the main ghat at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple holding a fistful of dirt in one hand and a fistful of coins in the other, repeating, under his breath, with an extraordinary level of concentration and intensity, seemingly ad infinitum:

“ Rupee is dirt, dirt is rupee. Rupee is dirt, dirt is rupee. Rupee is dirt, dirt is rupee .…”

In the not-too-distant future, such will be Sri Ramakrishna’s profound abhorrence for money that even the slightest touch of a coin to his sensitive fingertips will leave unsightly singe marks on his delicate skin. So powerful will become his state of divine non-attachment that he will prove incapable of engaging in financial transactions of any kind. He will not spend money. He will not save money. He will not use money. He will own nothing. Nothing . Other people — devotees, helpers, generous benefactors — will now need to support his every whim.