Nicola Barker - The Cauliflower

The Prince scowls ferociously. A short silence follows. A small cough may be heard from behind the curtain, the gentle shifting of a chair, several soft footfalls, the quiet opening and closing of a door.

The Prince remains standing with Mathur for a minute or so, both of them furiously resisting eye contact, then he suddenly expostulates and clamps an angry hand onto one side of his lean, tanned neck. It seems possible — nay, probable, even — that history has just bitten him there.

August 1885, the garden house in Cossipore, North Calcutta

On the floor, by the bed, is a half-consumed bowl of farina pudding. The visitor sits down, cross-legged, by the Great Master’s side and inadvertently knocks it with his knee. He glances toward it and then sharply recoils. The milky pudding, this congealed baby food — the only substance which the Great Master has been capable of consuming for many months now — is liberally splattered with not only numerous thick, dark clots of blood but also several ghoulish streaks of stinking yellow pus.

The visitor half-retches and glances over toward the naked and emaciated Master, who — supported by a long bolster on his bed — is lost deep in a trance. He has a magnificent garland of flowers around his neck which almost manages to conceal the great, suppurating, cancerous hole that now ominously pulsates in the center of his throat.

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

We poor Hindus must accept our station in life and simply do the best that we can under whatever circumstances we find ourselves in, no matter how difficult or unfair or hopeless they may sometimes seem. We are not all born equal. It is God’s will — and the burden of karma —that we should enter the world rich or poor, healthy or sick, loved or despised. We must resign ourselves to these circumstances. What is the point in fighting them? What good will it do us? There are always clear boundaries in life which must never be crossed. Every caste has its role and plays its part within the wider body of its community. Where would we be without the warriors to defend us, or the farmers and traders to feed us, or the laborers to do all the footwork? Uncle always says that only humility and renunciation and selflessness and devotion may bring us some relief in this harsh life and perhaps help to improve our fortunes during our next incarnation. Uncle despises ambition. Uncle despises my ambition. He laughs at it all the time. “Just look at Hriday — so tall, handsome, and strong, and so determined to make the best of himself!” Uncle chuckles.

Uncle comes from a family of brahmana . We are Brahmin s — a caste of priests and teachers — and we worship the Veda s. There is only one God in our Vedic faith, but he may be worshipped in many different forms. The world of the Brahmin is full of rules and rituals, and one of the most important of these for a Brahmin boy is uponayon : the investment with a sacred thread. Uncle was invested with his thread when he was eight or nine years old, but even then, when Uncle was so young, he managed to provide his family with an additional measure of heartache and perplexity. Because, well, that is Uncle, after all.

The upabeet , as we like to call it in Bengal, is nothing more than a simple cord made up of three separate strands which are twisted into a single thread. It is pulled over the head and under one arm and so hangs across the chest. It must be worn at all times. The knot in the middle which ties the two ends together represents the formless Brahman , or God, who is the beginning and end and middle of all things.

There are many different meanings surrounding the sacred thread, not all of which I can recall, but one of them is that the first strand signifies the wearer’s debt to his guru or teacher (the person who initiates him and teaches him how to recite the daily devotions, or sandhyavandanam , which are the prayers and rituals we like to perform at dawn, at noon, and at dusk). The second debt is to one’s parents and ancestors. The third is to the learned rishi s, or scholars, who have brought us knowledge and wisdom, although some of us believe that this debt is only to God, who is wisdom itself. These are our three chief debts, and the sacred thread constantly serves to remind us of them.

Some like to think that the three strands also symbolize the three great devi s, or goddesses: Ma Saraswati, who is the Goddess of Knowledge, Ma Lakshmi, who is the Goddess of Riches, and Ma Parvati, who is the Goddess of Strength. And sometimes we hope to remind ourselves with those three humble strands of how purity is expected from all good Brahmin s, first in thought, then in word, and finally in deed.

The uponayon is a kind of rebirth. I am told that Christians are also born twice or even three times in their faith. And the Jews and the Mohammedans celebrate the journey from boyhood to manhood with a ritual whose name I have never learned.

Toward the end of the uponayon ceremony — after the boy has received his sacred word or mantram from his guru , which is known only to him and whose constant repetition in japam , or prayer, throughout his life will guard him from misfortune and bring him prosperity — the boy will be obliged to beg his food from a close member of his community. In fact, he will then go on to beg for three days like a humble monk seeking alms. It is a great honor to be the first individual to offer alms to the newly initiated child, and, as we know all too well, Uncle was universally adored by the womenfolk of Kamarpukur and so many were eager to be afforded this special privilege. But one woman in particular was most devoted to Uncle — the old blacksmith’s daughter, Dhani, who had helped Chandradevi at his birth. She had for a very long time indeed dreamed that Uncle would approach her first, receive her food, and then address her as Ma (as is the custom during this ritual). This was her heart’s greatest desire. Uncle — who loved Dhani very much — immediately agreed to Dhani’s fond request, and thought little more of it until his oldest brother, Ramkumar, had been made aware of their longstanding agreement and became deeply troubled by it.

Uncle was to become a Brahmin , and Dhani was of the blacksmith caste. The first person to offer alms was traditionally always of a similar caste to the boy to whom it was offered. Ramkumar told Uncle firmly that Dhani could not make the first offering. Uncle was to tell her that this was impossible.

You may imagine that Uncle might have regretfully obeyed his brother — and the traditions of this ancient custom — by telling Dhani the bad news. But no. Uncle dug in his heels and refused to disappoint his dear friend. Ramkumar insisted. Uncle resisted. A terrible scene was forthcoming! But still Uncle held his ground.

In the end a village elder well versed in the scriptures was consulted. Uncle presented his arguments before him. He said, “Surely, in such a case, it is more important that the young initiate should keep his word and not indulge in untruthfulness than that the rules of caste should be upheld?”

After some deep consideration the elder agreed with Uncle’s viewpoint, and humble Dhani was permitted to be the first to feed Uncle at his special ceremony.

So Uncle had his way. He is very clever in such matters. He has an intellect as sharp as a new blade. We should only be grateful that Uncle was drawn to an honorable life. Imagine what havoc such a keen and disruptive mind as Uncle’s might have wrought on the world had it not been completely God-centered!

I tell you this story of Uncle’s uponayon —which may seem slight and insignificant to some — only because of a complete turnaround in the views of Uncle (and, indeed, the views of his brother) with regard to the rules of caste and the partaking of food cooked by a Sudra shortly after his arrival at the beautiful Dakshineswar Kali Temple (when Uncle was around nineteen years of age).