Nicola Barker - The Cauliflower

So it was only Hridayram. It was only Hridayram who was obliged to leave. And Uncle would not go with him. But Hridayram tried. Hridayram tried to persuade Uncle to go with him. Had not the Goddess shown him that they were created from the same luminous material, after all? If Uncle was God, was Hriday not God also? Had the Goddess not clearly demonstrated to him that it was so?

Hridayram stayed at Jadu Mallick’s garden house for some days, trying to persuade Uncle that they should leave Dakshineswar together. Uncle sent Hridayram meals. Uncle visited. But Uncle would not leave the Dakshineswar Kali Temple. Hridayram told Uncle of his hopes to set up a Kali temple somewhere new. But Uncle was not ambitious to run his own temple. Uncle is not ambitious. Uncle is happy to stay exactly as he is, and Uncle has his other nephew — his other, younger, fresher, more handsome and helpful nephew, Ramlal — to wait upon him now. So when Hridayram persisted, when he nagged at Uncle and wheedled and cajoled him, Uncle became incensed and finally, his eyes burning, he exclaimed, “What am I, Hridayram? Will you treat me like some cheap trinket to be hawked from door to door?!”

It was finished. It was done. Twenty-five years of loyal service had all come to this — to nothing. And so Hridayram left with a heavy heart, a broken heart. He returned to his home village, to Sihar, and his family farm. But as he stood there and he quietly looked around him, he plainly saw that there was something wrong. There was something missing. Uncle. Uncle was not there. There was sky but no sun. There were stars but no moon. There were clouds, but no rain.

With Uncle gone, who is Hridayram, after all? Without Uncle, how might Hridayram find his true path to God? Or even his path to worldly wealth? Because Uncle is surely the feast. Uncle is the heavenly carcass that the maggot of Hridayram must feed himself upon. Where has that carcass gone? How will Hridayram feed? How will Hridayram breathe? How can Hridayram even bear to look at himself, knowing that his hopeful face is no longer reflected in the heavenly eyes of Uncle?

Hridayram’s health has broken down. Hridayram is a collapsing roof. He tries to save himself by remembering Uncle and doing just as Uncle does. Hridayram is no longer Uncle’s shadow — he may not be permitted to stand close enough for that — but he is still his echo. He is practicing the left-handed Tantric disciplines. These are dangerous disciplines. Uncle practiced them under the Brahmini , but he sternly warns others against them. Perhaps this is because Uncle fears that they will make Hridayram as powerful as he is? Did the Goddess not reveal in her sacred vision that Hridayram is also made of light? Why did Uncle stop Hridayram’s bliss on that fateful day? Was it love or jealousy that guided his hand?

Uncle has asked his Supplier of Provisions to send his sick nephew money. But this money has no life to it. It cannot grow. Uncle was the Wish-fulfilling Tree, the kalpataru . All of Uncle’s leaves and branches tinkled like rupee s. Uncle was the orchard and Hridayram the bird who pecked upon his fruit. Now Hridayram is just a beggar, crouching by the roadside. The fence of Uncle’s orchard is too high for him to scale. Now Hridayram’s only hope is for Uncle to persuade mere strangers, out of pity, to toss his estranged nephew rotting windfalls.

Uncle is free at last, is he not? Uncle is free of Hridayram. And now that Hridayram is banished, the bees are arriving in large numbers to pollinate Uncle’s flowers. Uncle is blooming. But Hridayram watered Uncle and tended him before there ever were flowers. Hridayram waded through manure. Hridayram shielded Uncle from the violent blasts of his sadhana . But who will shield Hridayram?

Hridayram has become a hawker, selling clothes from door to door. He has been told that his Uncle is unwell, that his Uncle is dying, but he has not troubled to visit him. He keeps himself away. He is an abandoned dog. He wanders the streets searching everywhere for something, but finding nothing. He is hungry. His soul is aching. His heart is hollow. He is tossed between the storms of rage and the droughts of remorse. He knocks on doors and offers his wares. He is old and tired and worn.

Uncle sees God in everything. Is there God in Hridayram? He desperately yearns to find him. He is hungry for God. He is parched for God. He is panting. But when he thinks of God a strange thing happens: he can see only Uncle. His Uncle’s back is turned. He tries to serve him, but his service is rejected. Uncle kicks out his foot and the dog screams and cowers. The dog sits in dark corners, crying and gnawing at its own tail. Hridayram tries to serve Uncle, but Uncle rejects his service. So he snaps at Uncle’s hems. He nips furiously at his ankles. He smashes his loving fists against the wall of Uncle, but Uncle is a stronghold he can no longer assail.

They say Uncle is an avatar . They say Uncle will be reborn and reborn, and that the members of Uncle’s divine play — his lila —will be reborn along with him. So there is to be no rest for poor Hridayram. No peace. And no path, except a jagged one. There is no truth, only confusion. There is no help. Who may he call upon? And who may call upon him? There is no hope. Because there is no Uncle. He was my master, my love, my guru , my ape, my wife, my corpse, my pain, my child, my disappointment, my every joy, my world.

But there is no Uncle.

I am a rent cloth. I am a spoiled meal. I am a shallow breath. I am a broken drum which can no longer be beaten.

Because there is no Uncle.

“I opened for my beloved,

But my beloved had turned

away and was gone.

My heart leaped up when he

spoke.

I sought him but I could not

find him;

I called him, but he gave me no

answer.

The watchmen who went about

the city found me.

They struck me, they wounded

me;

The keepers of the walls

Took my veil away from me.…”

—Song of Solomon 5:6–7

A dastardly plot

16th August 1886, the Cossipore garden house. In dark corners, there’s a whispering.…

Outside in the hazy sunlight, a series of photographs are taken of the guru ’s frail body as it lies in its coffin swamped in garlands of fragrant flowers and surrounded by a legion of devotees. A crowd has been gathering all morning. As one force, one voice, one colossal energy, they lift the guru onto their shoulders and march, singing rousingly, to the Cossipore cremation ground. A special banner has been made, covered in symbols of all the world religions. Firewood has been collected by those attending. The devotee who will become Swami Ramakrishnananda sits some way off from the giant pyre, clutching a fan, sobbing inconsolably.

The guru ’s frail body is washed in Ganga water, dressed in a new cloth, covered in fresh garlands, and placed on the pyre, which is doused in sandalwood and rich yellow ghee . The pyre is then lit. The flames lick and grow. The cremation ground shakes with cacophonous chanting, the violent beating of drums, and the sounding of cymbals. Devotees pelt the burning body with flowers.

When the fire has burned itself out, three of the devotees collect the guru ’s remains and tip them into a copper urn. On the march back to the garden house (the urn carefully balanced on a devotee’s head — Sri Ramakrishna has specifically asked that his earthly remains always be transported in this manner), one of the party is violently bitten by a snake (ah … perhaps it is the Master’s legendary kundalini out on the rampage, having fled from his burning body). All hell breaks loose. An atmosphere of farce — of panic and chaos — is engendered. The bite — potentially lethal — must be quickly and painfully cauterized by a hot iron.