Nicola Barker - The Cauliflower

I worry for Uncle. I hate this ape-Uncle. I want my dear, dear old Uncle back again. Now that I think about it, I regret all that I have said previously about Uncle’s childlike ways. At least a child has a pure heart. A child is innocent. But this creature? This ape-Uncle? It is furtive and mischievous. It throws soft fruit at passing pilgrims. It wrestles with the temple dogs. There’s no end of mischief it might get itself into.

Can God be here? In this wretched place? Hello? Hello? Is God here? Here beside ape-Uncle? I swear I can see nothing but a filthy monkey covered in fleas and circled by swarms of buzzing flies. Gadai! My dear friend! Where are you? Where have you gone? Uncle! Beloved Uncle! Come back! Come back to me, please!

Oh, this latest crazy phase of Uncle’s sadhana is truly a fearful blight on us all!

Eight haiku

Sri Ramakrishna says :

“Please make some effort —

However small it may be

Or you shan’t find God.”

“When searching for God,

Take one small step toward him

And God will walk ten.”

“There are two main paths:

There is the path of knowledge [1]—

Or of devotion [2].”

“The path of knowledge [1]

Means killing attachments through

Renunciation.”

[1 = Neti! Neti! Not this! Not this!]

Constant devotion [2]—

To worship God in your heart—

Is the path of love.

[2 = Iti! Iti! This! This!]

“I have cooked the food—

Now just sit yourself down, please

And partake of it!”

“Be a cast-off leaf—

Just blown around by the wind—

And you will find God.”

“Ask me for nothing—

Your prayers will be answered

If Mother wills it.”

The curious fable of the straightening of the crooked heart of Girish Chandra Ghosh

or

How sometimes doing nothing is the hardest path of all

Once upon a time there was a man called Girish Chandra Ghosh who was rather famous in the state of Bengal on account of his being one of India’s most celebrated writers, poets, playwrights, and novelists. In fact, the handsome(ish), disarmingly funny, and devastatingly witty Girish might credibly be ascribed the honor of being the Father of the Golden Age of Bengali Theater. But alas, while undoubtedly brilliant and immensely talented, Girish was also a notorious drunk and a voracious libertine.

Poor Girish suffered a fair portion of personal tragedy in his lifetime. As a child he lost his mother at age eleven, then his father three years later. He responded to these awful traumas by growing up into a wild, dissolute, and cynical young man. He was fearless, pugnacious, argumentative, cunning, and irreverent — quite the cock o’ the north, in fact! But Girish was also — at root — a bit of a soppy idealist. He was secretly quite kind and sweet — although of course he didn’t tend to make a great big song and dance about it!

While an active member of a notorious gang which generated endless amounts of mischief in his local neighborhood (this naughty lad thought nothing of desecrating the images of Hindu gods and goddesses), Girish also, somewhat paradoxically, liked to raise money to help the poor buy food or medicine or to cremate their dead.

When Girish was a little itty-bitty boy, his wise old grandmother had liked to entertain him nightly with marvelous stories from the Indian epics — those astonishingly colorful tales of adventure, heroism, and mythology — which the little itty-bitty Girish truly loved. One night she described, in great detail, a moving scene from the Bhagavatam . In this scene the adorable Krishna is compelled by his powerful uncle Akrura to leave behind his idyllic home of Vrindaban, thereby abandoning the happy troupe of innocent shepherd boys and girls who had, hitherto, been his constant, all-singing, all-dancing childhood companions. When his grandmother reached the point in the story of Krishna’s actual leaving — during which packs of weeping gopi s clung to the reins of his horses, howling with despair — Girish suddenly interrupted her and demanded to know if the adorable Krishna was ever to return during his lifetime to his happy idyll of Vrindaban. On being gently told that he would not, Girish burst into violent tears, stormed off in a huff, and for quite some time thereafter refused, point-blank, to listen to any more of his ancient grandmother’s cruel and destructive tales.

Dear Girish was in possession of a fine and sensitive soul (and an artist’s eye, and a poet’s sensibility) but this rather naughty man was definitely not a lover of authority or of rules. He had a questioning mind (“But why, Grandma? Why? Why? Why? Why? ”), yet he was very easily disillusioned (“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”). And while having experienced what would generally be considered a series of strange and miraculous signs and visions at various critical stages in his life — not least the appearance of a glowing, scarlet-clad female form by the side of his sickbed during a severe bout of cholera, who cured him with an imaginary offering of prasad [ insert fairy wand tinkle sound ] after doctors had abandoned every last shred of hope for his future recovery — he was still deeply resistant to the idea of sacrificing his many idle pleasures to dedicate himself to God.

The mysterious, magical, and moonfaced guru Sri Ramakrishna ( whose name must always be accompanied by the jaunty parp-parping of a clown’s horn ), was, for quite some time, an intermittent presence in Girish’s exotic Calcutta-based social milieu. He met him (yay!) — and was singularly unimpressed by him (boo!) — on several occasions at the houses of various friends and acquaintances. But gradually the guru ( parp-parp! ) who would not be called a guru ( parp-parp! ) — who would not be called anything , in fact ( silence ) — seemed to insinuate himself into naughty Girish’s consciousness (and then, rather more fatally, into the core of his fragile and tender soul).

“Will the crookedness ever leave my heart?” a winsome Girish once demanded (probably somewhat tipsily) of the mysterious and moonfaced Sri Ramakrishna ( parp-parp! ) after a certain period of polite acquaintance. Sri Ramakrishna ( parp-parp! ) nodded. “It will go,” he gently confirmed. But Girish wouldn’t be so easily convinced. He asked a second time, then a third. “Will the crookedness ever leave my heart?” Each time Sri Ramakrishna ( parp-parp! ) calmly and smilingly responded in the affirmative.

Sri Ramakrishna( parp-parp! )’s relationship with Girish wasn’t ever going to be plain sailing (Of course not! Because where would be the fun in that?!). He ( parp-parp! ) firmly believed that Girish was, by nature, of a “heroic” disposition, and that people of this particular bent must always be allowed a certain measure of license and only ever be very carefully handled (if at all).

Because of this belief, Sri Ramakrishna ( parp-parp! ) always refused, point-blank, to impose any kind of nasty or difficult rules or restrictions on Girish. So naughty Girish would often turn up at the temple or the theater drunk and insult Sri Ramakrishna ( parp-parp! ) in front of everyone! But Sri Ramakrishna ( parp-parp! ) never reacted harshly or meanly or stood in cruel judgment over poor, silly Girish. Good heavens, no! In fact Sri Ramakrishna ( parp-parp! ), employing what was manifestly a profound and impressively mature insight into basic human psychology, eventually contrived to convert a man who was considered completely unconvertible simply by dint of refusing to change him in any way at all !