Nicola Barker - The Cauliflower

12. Illustrious Ma Kali, Mother of the Universe, your blissful power, it seems, is infinite. But how may our pens hope to describe this infinity without promptly running out of ink? How may your great bliss be expressed by our mean and paltry descriptions of it? How may the dreadful fire of your ecstasy be controlled within our fleshy torsos? How, how, how may the creatress of all words (of language) be clumsily manacled by their petty meanings?

How indeed?

Sri Ramakrishna on Truth:

“Always speak the truth—

The tusks of an elephant

Can’t be retracted.”

Winter 1857, at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple (six miles north of Calcutta)

Uncle has gone completely mad. And who am I? Who is Hridayram Mukhopadhyay — still so young and strong and full of promise, tall and handsome, once his dear mother’s greatest hope. Who is he? Yes! The servant of a madman! And is not the servant of a madman a madman also? Ah! How can this stain not stick?

I am Uncle’s shadow, his keeper, his watchman, his guard. I am tied to Uncle by the clinging vines of love. And I live in a state of dreadful doubt and confusion. I live in profound uncertainty. I am sick with worry and anxiety. Not unlike poor Uncle himself.

Poor Uncle hardly sleeps! I carry his towel and water pot to the pine grove at 3:00 a.m. when Uncle answers the call of nature. I say nothing. I am fearful. And then on to the ghat , where Uncle washes himself. I say nothing. I am fearful. And then he sits and I carefully smear his emaciated body with oil. Still saying nothing. Still fearful.

But this is a good day. On a bad day Uncle will not clean himself. Uncle will roll in the dirt on the banks of the Ganga, hour after hour, howling and weeping. He has a tantrum. He calls for Ma Kali like a child bleating for its mother. He cries with such yearning that the crowds form around him. “Isn’t this the young temple priest?” they ask. “Has his mother just died?”

What can I say? How do I explain to them? Uncle suffers so dreadfully. Because Uncle has such a longing to see the Mother, and she will not appear to him. Ma Kali eludes Uncle. Uncle’s charms will not work on her. And Uncle cannot stand it.

He spends all his days in prayer and in worship and in japa . He will not eat. Like an angry child, a spoiled child, Uncle is fractious. He will not rest. He grinds his teeth. He whimpers and wrings his hands.

And I am fractious, too. I must guard Uncle. At night — if I close my eyes for just a second — he disappears, and I must then go out and find him. Where is he? Where has Uncle gone? Uncle? Where are you? Uncle! Uncle! Come back!

Oh why, oh why must Uncle play such games?

I am so tired. I am worn down with Uncle. I must cover for him at the Temple, but every moment as I perform the arati —as I wave burning camphor before Ma Kali or offer her choice morsels of food — I am thinking only of Uncle. Where is he? What might Uncle be doing? What scandal might now be unfolding while I, Hriday, faithful Hridayram, am not there to extinguish the flames?

Uncle has taken to wandering alone in the jungle at night. His bare feet sliced and pricked by spiky plants. Surrounded by a halo of biting insects. Stalked by wild animals. I am too afraid to follow him there. It’s as though Uncle is in a trance. He is lovelorn. Since Ramkumar died Uncle cares for nothing but God. But God eludes him. So Uncle yearns. Uncle is hungry for God. He thirsts for God’s nipple. His chapped lips open and close, but often now he is too tired to wail.

Uncle is so thin. He cannot eat. He cannot keep his wearing cloth upon him. It falls off. He does not care. He walks around naked, his chest stained a dark red. I do not know why. And the wind! Uncle has dreadful wind! Uncle is flatulent! Whenever he does appear at the temple — filthy, like a madman — he dances and sings (the strangest songs! the wildest dances!) before Ma Kali and he flatulates with every step. The temple administrators are astonished by Uncle’s displays. And the visitors. The pilgrims. They ask, “Who is this lunatic! What is he doing here?” They stare at him in revulsion and horror and fear. It is dreadful! And I am with Uncle. I am Uncle’s nephew. They laugh at me behind my back. I hear them! I hear them laughing! But never to my face. I am tall and strong. I will defend our honor even through all of my crippling doubt. I will defend Uncle’s honor with my life. Or else my fists. But what am I defending? What has Uncle left us with?

Man is a simple creature. And for the most part the formless Brahman is beyond his foolish comprehension. How are we to worship him, then, without using the familiar examples of our daily lives? When we Hindus worship the divine we find many different ways to adore him. We call this worship bhakti . Sometimes we like to worship him as his servants — he is our master. Sometimes he is our divine spouse, our lover. Sometimes God is our mother or our father and we throw out our arms for comfort and worship him, moaning, like a child. Or else God is our dearest friend, our great strength and companion through every earthly trial.

Uncle was Ma Kali’s neglected suckling. He moaned and moaned, but she would not comfort him. Her dark nipples were full of milk, but she would not feed him so much as a single blessed drop. Uncle could not rest without her comfort. I was always full of doubt. But now Uncle, too, became doubtful. Questions. So many questions. Is the Mother real? he would ask. Am I going mad? he would ask. If Mother is real, then why will she not appear to me? he would ask. Where is Mother? he would ask, striking his chest. Mother! Mother! Hridayram! Why does she still hide from me? he would ask. What have I done wrong, Hriday? Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!

I could not answer. I could only stare. Fear had silenced my tongue. But I could still hear. I could still listen. And what I heard made me yet more fearful. Because there were many complaints about Uncle. The temple guards, the other priests, the administrators, the cooks, they all complained about Uncle. First there were simply mutterings, but then they grew louder. Soon it was a roar. It was only a matter of time until such a great racket must reach the ears of Mathur Baba and the Rani. Then we would be ruined.

One night, when Uncle rose, in secret, and wandered, sobbing, into the jungle, I steeled my nerve and I followed him there. I needed to know where Uncle was going. After a while I saw him pause in a small clearing under a sacred vilwa tree. I was some distance away. I was too afraid to draw closer. I saw Uncle calmly remove his wearing cloth and sit down. And then I saw something truly dreadful. I saw Uncle remove his sacred thread and place it onto the ground beside him. What to do? How to respond? I bent over and I picked up a small stone and I threw it at Uncle. Then I picked up another stone, and then another. Soon stones of all sizes were raining down on Uncle. Uncle was deep in meditation, but eventually his eyes flew open and he beheld his nephew.

“What are you doing, Hriday?” he called.

“You have removed your sacred thread, Uncle,” I called back. “What are you thinking, Uncle? This is too much, now, too much! This is not acceptable, Uncle!”

(Was this not the same man who on grounds of caste had refused to eat the temple prasad ? And now to remove the very symbol of his proud Brahmin inheritance?!)

Uncle shrugged. “To see God one must be free of all earthy ties, Hriday, even ties of caste. My Brahmanical thread is a source of status and pride. To see the Mother clearly during meditation I must toss aside such fetters.”

I shook my head at Uncle. Then I cast down the remaining stones. What more could I say? What more could I do? I was truly at my wit’s end with Uncle. How might I reason with Uncle when Uncle always had an answer to every question I might think to ask him? Uncle has always been possessed of a devilish logic.