A Suitable Boy

  The Raja was bound for a specific encampment down below: the tents of the holy man known as Sanaki Baba. This cheerful, middle-aged man was a devotee of Krishna, and spent his time in his praise and in meditation. He was surrounded by attractive disciples and had a great reputation as a source of peaceful energy. The Raja was determined to visit him even before he visited the encampments of the Shaivite holy men. The Raja’s anti-Muslim feelings had resolved themselves in pan-Hindu aspirations and ceremonies: he had started his procession from a Shiva temple, it had wound its way through the city named after Brahma, and it would conclude with a visit to a devotee of Krishna, Vishnu’s great avatar. The entire Hindu trinity would thus be appeased. Then he would take a dip in the Ganga (immersing one bejewelled toe would be sufficient), and he would have washed away the sins of seven generations, including his own. It was a useful morning’s work. The Raja glanced back towards Chowk and stared for a few seconds at the minarets of the mosque. The trident on top of my temple will outsoar you soon enough, he thought, and the martial blood of his ancestors began to boil within him.

  But thinking of his ancestors made him think of his descendants, and he looked with perplexed impatience at his son, the Rajkumar, who was trailing in a reluctant way after his father. What a useless fellow he is! thought the Raja. I should get him married off at once. I don’t care how many boys he sleeps with as long as he gives me a grandson as well. A few days ago the Raja had taken him to Saeeda Bai’s to make a man of him. The Rajkumar had almost run out in terror! The Raja did not know that his son was not unfamiliar with the brothels of the old town, which his university friends sometimes visited. But to be given intimate tutelage by his crass father had been too much for him.

  The Raja had instructions from his formidable mother, the Dowager Rani of Marh, to pay more attention to her grandson. Recently he had been doing his best to comply. He had dragged himself and his son to the High Court in order to introduce him to Responsibility, Law and Property. The result had been a fiasco. Procreation and the Life of a Man of the World had not gone much better. Today’s lesson was Religion and the Martial Spirit. Even here the Rajkumar had been a wash-out. While the Raja had bellowed ‘Har har Mahadeva!’ with even greater zest whenever they passed by a mosque, the Rajkumar had lowered his head and mumbled the words even more unwillingly. Finally, there was Ritual and Education. The Raja was determined to fling his son into the Ganga. Since the Rajkumar had only a year to go before finishing his university studies, he should partake—even if a trifle prematurely—of the proper Hindu ritual of graduation—the bath or snaan—in order to become a proper graduate or snaatak. And what better place to become a snaatak than in the Holy Ganga during the sexennial Pul Mela, which was always grander than usual? He would fling him in to the cheers of his retainers. And if the milksop couldn’t swim, and had to be dragged spluttering and gasping back to land, that would be hilarious.

  ‘Hurry up, hurry up!’ shouted the Raja, as he stumbled down the long ramp to the sands. ‘Where is this Sanaki Baba’s camp? Where do all these sister-fucking pilgrims come from? Isn’t there any organization? Get me my car!’

  ‘Your Highness, the authorities have forbidden all cars except for police and VIPs. We could not get permission,’ murmured someone.

  ‘Am I not a VIP?’ The Raja’s breast swelled with indignation.

  ‘Yes, your Highness. But—’

  Finally, among the miles of tents and camps, after they had walked for almost half an hour along makeshift roads of metal plates laid out by army engineers on the sands, they arrived within sight of Sanaki Baba’s encampment, and the Raja’s retinue moved towards it gratefully. They were only about a hundred yards away.

  ‘At last!’ cried the Raja of Marh. The heat was telling on him. He was sweating like a swine. ‘Tell the Baba to come out. I want to see him. And I want some sherbet.’

  ‘Your Highness—’

  But hardly had the man run ahead with the message than from the other side a police jeep screeched to a halt before the camp, and several people got down and made their way in.

  The Raja’s eyes popped.

  ‘We were here first. Stop them! I must see the Baba at once,’ he cried in an outburst of outrage.

  But the jeep people had gone in already.

  11.8

  When the jeep had first descended to the sands below the Fort, Dipankar Chatterji, who was one of its passengers, had been truly astonished.

  The roads on the Pul Mela sands among the tents and encampments were packed with people. Many were carrying rolls of bedding and other possessions with them, including pots and pans for cooking, food supplies, and perhaps a child or two tucked under an arm or clinging on to their back. They carried cloth bags, pails and buckets, sticks, flags, pennants, and garlands of marigolds. Some were panting with heat and exhaustion, others were chatting as if they were on a picnic outing, or singing bhajans and other holy songs because their enthusiasm at finally getting a glimpse of Mother Ganga had removed in an instant the weariness of the journey. Men, women and children, old and young, dark and fair, rich and poor, brahmins and outcastes, Tamils and Kashmiris, saffron-clad sadhus and naked nagas, all jostled together on the roads along the sands. The smells of incense and marijuana and sweat and noonday cooking, the sounds of children crying and loudspeakers blaring and women chanting kirtans and policemen yelling, the sight of the sun glittering on the Ganga and the sand swirling in little eddies wherever the roads were not packed with people, all combined to give Dipankar an overwhelming sense of elation. Here, he felt, he would find something of what he was looking for, or the Something that he was looking for. This was the universe in microcosm; somewhere in its turmoil lay peace.

  The jeep struggled, honking, along the sandy, metal-plated routes. At one point the driver appeared to be lost. They came to a crossroads where a young policeman was attempting with difficulty to direct the traffic. The jeep was the only vehicle as such, but great crowds swirled around the policeman, who shouted and flailed his baton in the air to little effect. Mr Maitra, Dipankar’s elderly host in Brahmpur, an ex-officer of the Indian Police who had in effect requisitioned the jeep, now took matters into his own hands.

  ‘Stop!’ he told the driver in Hindi.

  The driver stopped the jeep.

  The lone policeman, seeing the jeep, approached it.

  ‘Where is the tent of Sanaki Baba?’ asked Mr Maitra in a voice of command.

  ‘There, Sir—two furlongs in that direction—on the left-hand side.’

  ‘Good,’ said Mr Maitra. A sudden thought struck him. ‘Do you know who Maitra was?’

  ‘Maitra?’ said the young policeman.

  ‘R.K. Maitra.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the policeman, but it sounded as if he was just saying so to satisfy the whim of his strange questioner.

  ‘Who was he?’ demanded Mr Maitra.

  ‘He was our first Indian SP,’ replied the policeman.

  ‘I am he!’ said Mr Maitra.

  The policeman saluted with tremendous smartness. Mr Maitra’s face registered delight.

  ‘Let’s go!’ he said, and they were off again.

  Shortly they arrived at Sanaki Baba’s camp. As they were about to go in, Dipankar noticed that a flower-flinging procession of some kind was approaching from the other side. He did not pay it much attention, however, and they entered the first tent of the encampment—a large one that acted as a kind of public audience hall.

  Rough red and blue rugs were spread on the floor in the tent, and everyone was seated on the ground: men on the left, women on the right. At one end was a long platform covered with white cloth. On this sat a young, thin, bearded man in a white robe; he was giving a sermon in a slow and hoarse voice. Behind him was a photograph of Sanaki Baba, a plump man, fairly bald, very cheerful, naked to the waist with a great deal of curly hair on his chest. A pair of baggy shorts was all he wore. A river—probably the Ganga, but possibly, since he was a devotee of Krishna, the Ya
muna—was flowing behind him.

  The young man was in mid-sermon when Dipankar and Mr Maitra entered. The policemen accompanying them stayed outside. Mr Maitra was smiling to himself in anticipation of meeting his favourite holy man. He paid no attention to the young man’s sermon.

  ‘Listen,’ continued the young preacher hoarsely:

  ‘You may have noticed that when it rains it is the useless plants, the grass and weeds and shrubs that flourish.

  ‘They flourish without effort.

  ‘But if you want to grow a worthwhile plant: a rose, a fruit tree, a vine of paan, then you need effort.

  ‘You must water, apply manure, weed it, prune it.

  ‘It is not simple.

  ‘So it is with the world. We are coloured by its colour. We are coloured by its colour without effort. As the world is, so we become.

  ‘We go blindly through the world, as is our nature. It is easy.

  ‘But for knowledge of God, for knowledge of truth, we have to make an effort. . . .’

  It was at this point that the Raja of Marh and his retinue entered. The Raja had sent a man a couple of minutes ahead, but he had not been so bold as to interrupt the sermon. The Raja, however, was not a man to be awed by a Chief Justice or a Subsidiary Baba. He caught the young preacher’s eye. The young man did namaste, glanced at his watch, and directed a man in a grey khadi kurta to see what the Raja wanted. Mr Maitra thought this an excellent opportunity to get his own arrival announced to Sanaki Baba, who was known to be quite casual about times and places—and sometimes people—and might well not appear for hours. The man in the grey kurta left the tent and went to another, smaller tent deeper in the encampment. Mr Maitra looked impatient, the Raja impatient and highly agitated. Dipankar looked neither impatient nor agitated. He had all the time in the world, and he concentrated again on the sermon. He had come to find an Answer or Answers at the Pul Mela, and a Quest could not be rushed.

  The young baba continued in his hoarse, earnest voice:

  ‘What is envy? It is so common. We look at the outside, and we long for things. . . .’

  The Raja of Marh was stamping his feet. He was used to giving audiences, not waiting for them. And what had happened to the glass of sherbet he had ordered?

  ‘A flame goes up. Why? Because it yearns for its greater form, which is the sun.

  ‘A clod of mud falls down. Why? Because it yearns for its greater form, the earth.

  ‘The air in a balloon escapes if it can. Why? To join its greater form, the outer air.

  ‘So also the soul in our bodies longs to join the greater world-soul.

  ‘Now we must take God’s name:

  Haré Rama, haré Rama, Rama Rama, haré haré.

  Haré Krishna, haré Krishna, Krishna Krishna, haré haré.’

  He began chanting slowly and softly. A few of the women joined in, then some more women and some of the men, and soon almost everyone:

  ‘Haré Rama, haré Rama, Rama Rama, haré haré.

  Haré Krishna, haré Krishna, Krishna Krishna, haré haré.’

  Soon the repetitions had built up to such an extent that the audience, still seated, was swaying from side to side. Small cymbals were clashed, high notes of ecstasy sounded on some of the words. The effect on the singers was hypnotic. Dipankar, feeling he ought to join in, did so out of politeness, but remained unhypnotized. The Raja of Marh glowered. Suddenly the kirtan stopped, and a hymn—a bhajan—began.

  ‘Gopala, Gopala, make me yours—

  I am the sinner, you are the merciful one—’

  But hardly had this begun than Sanaki Baba, clad only in his shorts, entered the tent, still engaged in conversation with the man in the grey kurta. ‘Yes, yes,’ Sanaki Baba was saying, his small eyes twinkling, ‘you had better go and make arrangements: some pumpkins, some onions, some potatoes. Where will you get carrots in this season? . . . No, no, spread this there. . . . Yes, tell Maitra Sahib . . . and the Professor.’

  He disappeared as suddenly as he had come. He had not even noticed the Raja of Marh.

  The man in the grey kurta approached Mr Maitra and told him that Sanaki Baba would see them in his tent. Another man, about sixty years old, presumably the Professor, was also asked to join them. The Raja of Marh almost exploded in wrath.

  ‘And what about me?’

  ‘Babaji will see you soon, Raja Sahib. He will make special time for you.’

  ‘I must see him now! I don’t care for his special time.’

  The man, apparently realizing that the Raja would make mischief unless contained, beckoned to one of Sanaki Baba’s closest disciples, a young woman called Pushpa. She was, Dipankar noted with appreciation, very beautiful and serious. He immediately thought of his Search for the Ideal. Surely it could run concurrently with his Quest for an Answer. He noticed Pushpa speak to the Raja and bewitch him into compliance.

  Meanwhile the favoured ones entered Sanaki Baba’s small tent. Mr Maitra introduced Dipankar to Sanaki Baba.

  ‘His father is a judge of the Calcutta High Court,’ said Mr Maitra. ‘And he is searching for the Truth.’

  Dipankar said nothing but looked at Sanaki Baba’s radiant face. A sense of calm had come upon him.

  Sanaki Baba appeared impressed. ‘Very good, very good,’ he said, smiling cheerfully. He turned to the Professor and said: ‘And how is your bride?’

  The Baba intended this as a compliment to his wife of many years, a woman who usually visited him when her husband came. ‘Oh, she’s visiting her son-in-law in Bareilly,’ said the Professor. ‘She’s sorry she could not come.’

  ‘These arrangements for my camp are all right,’ said Sanaki Baba. ‘Only this water problem persists. There is the Ganga, and here—no water!’

  The Professor, who appeared to be on the advisory administrative board of the Mela, replied half-unctuously, half-confidently: ‘It is all through your kindness and grace, Babaji, that things are basically running so smoothly. I will immediately go and see what can be done in this case.’ However, he made no immediate move, and sat staring with adoration at Sanaki Baba.

  11.9

  Now Sanaki Baba turned to Dipankar and asked:

  ‘Where will you stay during the week of the Pul Mela?’

  ‘He is staying with me here in Brahmpur,’ said Mr Maitra.

  ‘And coming such a long distance each day?’ said Sanaki Baba. ‘No, no, you must stay here in this camp, and go for a bath in the Ganga three times every day. You just follow me!’ He laughed. ‘You see, I am wearing swimming clothes. It is because I am the swimming champion of the Mela. What a Mela this is. Each year it gets bigger. And every six years it explodes. There are thousands of babas. There is a Ramjap Baba, a Tota Baba, even an Engine-Driver Baba. Who knows the truth? Does anyone? I can see you are searching.’ He looked at Dipankar and continued kindly: ‘You will find it, but who knows when.’ To Mr Maitra he said: ‘You can leave him here. He will be good. What did you say your name is—Divyakar?’

  ‘Dipankar, Babaji.’

  ‘Dipankar.’ He said the word very lovingly, and Dipankar felt suddenly happy. ‘Dipankar, you must speak to me in English, because I must learn it. I speak only a little. Some foreign people have come to listen to my sermons, so I am learning how to preach and meditate in English too.’

  Mr Maitra had been containing himself longer than he could bear. Now he burst out: ‘Baba, I can get no peace. What shall I do? Tell me a way.’

  Sanaki Baba looked at him, smiling, and said: ‘I will tell you an unfailing way.’

  Mr Maitra said: ‘Tell me now.’

  Sanaki Baba said: ‘It is simple. You will get peace.’ He passed his hand backwards—his fingertips scraping the skin—over Mr Maitra’s forehead, and asked: ‘How does it feel?’

  Mr Maitra smiled and said, ‘Good.’ Then he went on, pettishly: ‘I take the name of Rama and tell my beads as you advise. Then I feel calm, but afterwards, thoughts come crowding in.’ His heart was on his sleeve and he hardl
y cared that the Professor was listening. ‘My son—he does not want to live in Brahmpur. He took a three-year extension in his job, and I accepted that, but I did not know that he was building a house in Calcutta. He will live there when he retires, not here. Can I live like a pigeon cooped up in Calcutta? He is not the same boy. I am hurt.’

  Sanaki Baba looked pleased. ‘Did I not tell you that none of your sons would come back? You did not believe me.’

  ‘Yes. What shall I do?’

  ‘What do you need them for? This is the stage of sannyaas, of renunciation.’

  ‘But I get no peace.’

  ‘Sannyaas itself is peace.’

  But this did not satisfy Mr Maitra. ‘Tell me some method,’ he pleaded.

  Sanaki Baba soothed him. ‘I will, I will,’ he said. ‘When you come next time.’

  ‘Why not today?’

  Sanaki Baba looked around. ‘Some other day. Whenever you want to come, come.’

  ‘Will you be here?’

  ‘I will be here until the 20th.’

  ‘How about the 17th? the 18th?’

  ‘It will be very crowded because of the full moon bathing day,’ said Sanaki Baba, smiling. ‘Come on the morning of the 19th.’

  ‘Morning. What time?’

  ‘19th morning . . . eleven o’clock.’

  Mr Maitra beamed with pleasure, having succeeded in getting an exact time for Peace. ‘I will come,’ he said delightedly.

  ‘Now where will you be going?’ asked Sanaki Baba. ‘You can leave Divyakar here.’

  ‘I am going to visit Ramjap Baba on the northern shore. I have a jeep, so we’ll cross Pontoon Bridge Number Four. Two years ago I visited him and he remembered me—he remembered me from twenty years before. He had a platform in the Ganga then, and you had to wade out to see him.’

  ‘Hiss mammary berry shurp,’ said Sanaki Baba to Dipankar in English. ‘Old, old, old man. Like a stick.’