A Suitable Boy

  Somewhere where there is nowhere.

  It gnaws. They are all around me, the elders of Sagal.

  No father, no mother, no child, no wife,

  Like a jewel above the water. The parapet, the garden under which a river flows.

  No Satan, no God, no Iblis, no Gabriel.

  Endless, endless, endless, endless, the waters of the Ganga.

  The stars above, below.

  . . . and some were seized by the Cry, and some

  We made the earth to swallow, and some We

  drowned; God would never wrong them, but

  they wronged themselves.

  Peace. No prayers. No more prayers.

  To sleep is better than to pray.

  O my creature, you gave your life too soon. I have made your entry into Paradise unlawful.

  A spring in Paradise.

  O God, O God.

  18.34

  Further down the Ganga, with pomp and practicality, other preparations were proceeding.

  The great Shiva-linga was about the size that the priest’s mantras had said it would be, and in about the same position under the Ganga. But layers of sand and silt covered it. It was some days before it was finally exposed below the murky water, and some days more before it was hoisted up by winches to the first broad step of the cremation ghat above water-level. There it lay beside the Ganga in which it had rested for centuries, at first merely caked with clay and grit, then washed with water and milk and ghee till its black granitic mass glistened in the sun.

  People came from far to gaze and to gape, to admire and to worship it. Old women came to do puja: to sing and to recite and to offer flowers and to smear the head of the hereditary pujari with sandalwood paste. It was a propitious combination: the linga of Shiva, and the river that had emerged from his hair.

  The Raja of Marh had summoned historians and engineers and astrologers and priests, for preparations now had to be made for the journey of the linga up the grand steps of the cremation ghat, through the dense alleys of Old Brahmpur, into the open space of Chowk, and thence to its place of final, triumphal, reconsecrated rest: the sanctum of the completed temple.

  The historians attempted to obtain information about the logistics of other, similar enterprises, such as, for example, the transfer of Ashoka’s pillar from near Ambala to Delhi by Firoz Shah—a Buddhist pillar moved by a Muslim king, reflected the Raja of Marh with bifurcated contempt. The engineers worked out that the cylinder of stone, twenty-five feet long, two feet in diameter, and weighing more than six tons, would require two hundred men to haul it safely up the steep steps of the ghat. (The Raja had forbidden the use of winches or pulleys for the unique and dramatic ceremony.) The astrologers calculated an auspicious time, and informed the Raja that if it was not done in a week, he would have to wait for another four months. And the newly appointed priests of the new Chandrachur Temple made plans for auspicious rituals along the route and a vast, festive reception at its destination, so close to where it had stood in the time of Aurangzeb.

  The Muslims had tried through the Alamgiri Masjid Hifaazat Committee to obtain an injunction against the installation of the profane monolith behind the western wall, but to no avail. The Raja’s title to the land on which the temple stood, now transferred to a trust run by the Linga Rakshak Samiti and dominated by him, was legally clear.

  Even among the Hindus, however, there were some who felt that the linga should be left near the cremation ghat—for that was where ten generations of pujaris had prayed to it in sorrow and destitution, and where it would remind worshippers not only of the generative force of Shiva Mahadeva but of his destructive power as well. The hereditary pujari, having prayed to the visible linga in a kind of ecstasy, now claimed that it had already found its proper home. It should be fixed on the low, broad step where it had chanced to rest, and where it had once again been seen and worshipped by the people—and as the Ganga rose or fell with the seasons, it too should appear to sink or rise.

  But the Raja of Marh and the Linga Rakshak Samiti would not have it. The pujari had fulfilled his function as an informant. The linga had been found; it had been raised; it would be raised further still. It was not for one ragged, ecstatic pujari to obstruct enterprises of such great moment.

  Rounded logs were brought to the site by barge and hauled up the steps of the ghat to form a track of four parallel rollers, ten feet across. A hundred and fifty feet above, where the track turned right from the broad steps into a narrower lane, logs were interlaid to create a gentle guiding curve. From here on, the linga would have to be carried diagonally, and it was necessary to work out an exact and elaborate drill to shift its position.

  Long before birdsong on the appointed day, conches began to sound their pompous, plaintive, enchanted calls. The linga was bathed once more, and wrapped first in silk-cotton and then in jute matting. Over the thick brown jute huge ropes were attached, from which branched lesser ropes of varying length. Tens of thousands of marigold flowers were strewn on or stuck into the matting, and it was covered with rose petals. The small drum, the damaru of Shiva, began to sound its high, mesmerizing beat, and the priests kept up a continuous chant that rose for hours through a loudspeaker above the undulating clamour of the crowd.

  At noon, in the great heat of the day, the period of greatest austerities, two hundred barefooted, barebacked young initiates of a great Shaivite akhara, five each on either side of the rollers on each of twenty steps, straining forward with the ropes biting into their shoulders, began to move the great linga. The logs creaked, the linga rolled slowly, uncomplainingly upwards, and from the chanting, singing, praying, chattering crowd rose a great gasp of awe.

  The doms left their work at the cremation ghat to gaze with wonder at the linga moving slowly away, and the corpses burned on, unattended.

  Only the dispossessed pujari and a small group of devotees cried out in distress.

  Step by step the linga rolled upwards, pulled in controlled jerks from above. It was even pushed from below by a few men with crowbars. Every so often they inserted wedges beneath it so that the men hauling the linga could rest for a while.

  The steep, irregular steps of the ghat burned the soles of their feet, the sun burned down on them from above, and they gasped with effort and from thirst. But their rhythm remained steady, and after an hour the linga had risen seventy feet above the Ganga.

  The Raja of Marh, high on the steps, looked downwards with satisfaction and broke out into loud, joyous cries, almost roars, of ‘Har har Mahadeva!’ He was dressed in full white silken court dress despite the heat, his bulk was thickly beaded with pearls and sweat, and he carried a great golden trident in his right hand.

  The young Rajkumar of Marh, an arrogant sneer on his face resembling that of his father, shouted ‘Faster! Faster!’ in a kind of possession. He thumped the young novitiates on their backs, excited beyond measure by the blood on their shoulders that had begun to ooze out from under the ropes.

  The men tried to move faster. Their movement became more ragged.

  The ropes on their shoulders, slippery with sweat and blood, had begun to lose some of their purchase.

  At the curve where the steps narrowed into a lane, the linga had to be turned sideways. From here on, the Ganga would be seen no more.

  On the outer side of the bend, a rope snapped, and a man staggered. The jerk caused a ripple of unequal stresses, and the linga shifted a little. Another rope ripped, and another, and the linga began to jolt. And now a wave of panic smashed through the formation.

  ‘Insert the wedges—insert the wedges!’

  ‘Don’t let go—’

  ‘Stay there—wait—don’t kill us—’

  ‘Get out—get out—we can’t hold it—’

  ‘Stand down—stand down a step—slacken the tension—’

  ‘Pull the rope—’

  ‘Release the ropes—you’ll be dragged down—’

  ‘Har har Mahadeva—’

  ‘Run—ru
n for your lives—’

  ‘The wedges—the wedges—’

  Another rope snapped, and another, as the linga shifted downwards very slightly, first this way, then that. The cries of the men in front as their bodies were snapped backwards on to the steps were interspersed with the quieter but still more dreadful sounds of the shifting and sliding of the monolith, and the creaking of the rollers beneath. The men below scrambled out of the way. The men above dropped their ropes in a bloodstained tangle, pulled their shocked and injured fellows to one side, and stared down at the orange linga, into the matting of which the marigold flowers had by now been completely crushed. The drumbeat halted. The crowd scattered, screaming in terror. The steps of the ghat below the linga were suddenly deserted, and, far below, the doms too fled from the ghat—as well as the relatives of the burning dead.

  The linga protested against the hastily inserted wedges. But for half a minute, if it moved at all, the movement was infinitesimal.

  Then it shifted. A wedge gave way. It shifted again and the other wedges slipped and it began slowly to roll down the way it had come.

  Down the rollers rolled the great linga, past the next step, and the next, and the next, gathering speed as it rolled. The tree-trunks cracked under the impact of its weight, it veered to left and right, but it kept rolling on, down, down, swifter and swifter towards the Ganga, crushing the pujari who now stood in its downward path with his arms upraised, smashing into the burning pyres of the cremation ghat, and sinking into the water of the Ganga at last, down its submerged stone steps, and on to its muddy bed.

  The Shiva-linga rested on the bed of the Ganga once more, the turbid waters passing over it, its bloodstains slowly washed away.

  Part Nineteen

  19.1

  Dearest Kalpana,

  This is written in haste because Varun is coming to Delhi at the end of February or so to attend the IAS interview, and we hope you and your father can put him up for a few days. It is like a dream come true, though only one out of five boys interviewed for the civil service is taken in. We can only hope and pray, such things are entirely in His hands. But Varun has squeezed through the first hurdle, since thousands of boys sit the written exams for the IAS and IFS and so few are asked to go to Delhi.

  When the letter came intimating Varun of the interview, Arun refused to believe this, and used some strong language at the breakfast table, with Aparna there and the servants, who, I believe, understand every word. He said there must be some mistake, but it was true all right. I was not there, being in Brahmpur around the time of Lata and Haresh’s joyful news, but when Varun sent me a letter, I went to the expense of even booking a trunk call through to Calcutta from Pran’s house to congratulate my darling boy, and I made Varun tell me all the details and reactions, which he could because Arun and Meenakshi were not at home, they had gone out to a party as is quite usual. He sounded quite surprised, but I told him that in life one only gets what one deserves. Now D.V. he will surprise us in the interview once again. It is all up to you, dearest Kalpana, to make sure that he eats well, and is not nervous and is on his best behaviour and dressed to the nines. Also that he avoids bad company and alcohol, which I am sorry to say he is a little susceptible to. I know you will take care of him, he is so much in need of boosting up.

  I am not writing any more news because I am in haste and also have given you the joyous news of Lata and Haresh in the previous letter to which I have yet had no answer or congratulations, but you must be busy, I know, with your father’s hip operation. I hope he is now fully recovered. It must be hard for him, he is so impatient with illness, and now he is himself experiencing it. And you must also take care of yourself. Health is truly the most precious possession.

  With fondest love to you both,

  Yours,

  Ma

  (Mrs Rupa Mehra)

  P.S. Please send me a telegram after the interview is over, otherwise I will not be able to sleep.

  Varun looked nervously around at his fellow-passengers as the cold, dry, flat countryside around Delhi hurtled past the windows of the train. No one appeared to realize how momentous this journey was for him. Having read the Delhi edition of the Times of India from the first page to the last and back again—for who knew what the predatory interviewers might decide to ask him about current affairs?—he stealthily glanced at an advertisement that seemed to leap out at him:

  Dr Dugle. Highly honoured and patronised for his social services (Inland and Overseas) by many eminent persons, Rajas, Maharajas, and chiefs. Dr Dugle. India’s leading specialist with international fame in chronic diseases such as nervous debility, premature old age, run down conditions, lack of vigour and vitality, and similar acute diseases. Consultations in complete confidence.

  Varun fell gloomily to pondering his innumerable social, intellectual and other inadequacies. Then another ad attracted his attention.

  Dress your hair with the creamed oils of Brylcreem.

  Why creamed oils? Brylcreem is a creamed mixture of tonic oils. It is easier to apply, cleaner to use and its creaminess gives the right amount of all Brylcreem ingredients each time. Brylcreem gives that smooth soft lustre to the hair which so many women admire. Buy Brylcreem today.

  Varun felt suddenly miserable. He doubted that even Brylcreem would help women to admire him. He knew he was going to make a fool of himself in the interview, just as in everything else.

  ‘The servants will be coming in half an hour,’ whispered Kalpana Gaur tenderly, pushing Varun gently out of her bed.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And you’d better sleep in your own bed for half an hour, so that they don’t wonder.’

  Varun looked at her, amazed. She smiled at him in a motherly sort of way, the pale green quilt up around her neck.

  ‘And then you’d better get ready for breakfast and the interview. Today’s your big day.’

  ‘Ah.’ Varun seemed speechless.

  ‘Now, Varun, don’t be tongue-tied, it won’t do—at least not today. You have to impress them and charm them. I promised your mother I’d make sure you were well taken care of and that I’d boost your confidence. Do you feel boosted?’

  Varun blushed, then smiled weakly. ‘Heh, heh,’ he laughed anxiously, wondering how he was going to get out of bed without embarrassment. And it was so cold in Delhi compared to Calcutta. The mornings were freezing.

  ‘It’s so cold,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Do you know,’ said Kalpana Gaur, ‘I often feel hot spots on my feet which trouble me throughout the night, but last night I didn’t feel any at all. You were marvellous, Varun. Now remember, if at any time during the interview you begin to feel anxious, think of last night, and tell yourself: “I am the Iron Frame of India.”’

  Varun still looked dazed, though not unhappy.

  ‘Use my dressing gown,’ suggested Kalpana Gaur.

  Varun gave her a grateful and puzzled glance.

  A couple of hours later, after breakfast, she examined his appearance critically, patted his pockets, adjusted his striped tie, wiped off the excessive Brylcreem in his hair, and combed it again.

  ‘But—’ protested Varun.

  ‘Now I’ll make sure you get to the right place at the right time.’

  ‘That’s not necessary,’ said Varun, not wanting to cause trouble.

  ‘It’s on my way to the hospital.’

  ‘Er, give my best to your father when you get there.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Kalpana?’

  ‘Yes, Varun?’

  ‘What happened to that mysterious illness of yours that Ma kept telling us about? It was more than just hot spots, according to her.’

  ‘Oh, that?’ Kalpana looked thoughtful. ‘It sorted itself out the moment my father had to go to hospital. It made no sense for both of us to be ill.’

  The Union Public Service Commission was holding its interviews in a temporary structure in Connaught Place, one which had been set up during the War and had not yet
been dismantled. Kalpana Gaur squeezed Varun’s hand in the taxi. ‘Don’t look so dazed,’ she said. ‘And remember, never say, “I don’t know”; always say, “I’m afraid I haven’t any idea.” You look very presentable, Varun. Much more handsome than your brother.’

  Varun glanced at her with a mixture of bewilderment and tenderness, and got out.

  In the waiting room, he noticed a couple of candidates who looked like south Indians. They were shivering. They had been even less prepared for the Delhi weather than himself, and it was a particularly cold day. One of them was saying to the other: ‘And they say that the Chairman of the UPSC can read you like a book. He can assess you as soon as you enter the door. Every weakness of your personality is laid bare within seconds.’

  Varun felt his knees tremble. He went to the bathroom, got out a small bottle that he had managed to secrete on his person, and took two quick swigs. His knees settled down, and he began to think he would conduct himself superbly after all.

  ‘I’m afraid I really have no idea,’ he repeated to himself.

  ‘About what?’ asked one of his fellow-candidates after a pause.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Varun. ‘I mean, I’m afraid I really couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘And then I said “Good morning”, and they all nodded, but the Chairman, a sort of bulldog man, said, “Namaste” instead. I was quite shocked for a second, but somehow I got over it.’

  ‘And then?’ asked Kalpana eagerly.

  ‘And then he asked me to sit down. It was a roundish table, and I was at one end and the bulldog man was at the other end, he looked at me as if he could read every thought of mine before I had even thought it. Mr Chatterji—no, Mr Bannerji, they called him. And there was a Vice-Chancellor and someone from the Ministry of External Affairs, and—’

  ‘But how did it go?’ asked Kalpana. ‘Do you think it went well?’

  ‘I don’t know. They asked me a question about Prohibition, you see, and I’d just been drinking, so naturally I was nervous—’

  ‘You had just been what?’