Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard

10

By the time a month had passed, Mr Chawla had made all sorts of improvements to his family’s living arrangements in the orchard, for, after all, they had been forced to relocate to rural surroundings and were unused to doing without town comforts — and why should they have to? He had tapped the hospital electricity lines for light with the help of the electrician, trailing a mess of wires leading from the electricity poles directly to the orchard. Courtesy of the excellent hospital supply, he spared them from all the breakdowns and fluctuations suffered by the rest of the town. He had also directed a whole slew of regular orchard visitors in laying a network of water pipes leading from an appropriate hole they had made in one of the main water pipes one dark night into a private water tank. Provisions such as matches, kerosene, candles and soap were delivered to him from the shop in town as a special courtesy, though they lived far out of the radius within which deliveries were usually made. Of these accomplishments, Mr Chawla was extremely proud.

Water gushed into the water tank all day long. In the evenings, a string of coloured lights decorated the paths in the orchard, dramatically illuminating the foliage and casting their soft light upon the family relaxing upon their cots in front of the watchman’s shed. Over this shed there was now proper roofing of corrugated tin instead of just thatch, and inside there was a television and a tin trunk full of warm quilts and shawls. Soon, perhaps, he would be able to build an extension to their residence with a kitchen and a bathroom. He would buy a refrigerator and a scooter. True, Sampath had brought in no dowry, but Mr Chawla was not one to sit around and complain.

‘Everybody can make something from nothing,’ he intoned beneath the tree, for he liked to think that Sampath still appreciated and learned from his old father. ‘If you try hard enough, something will work out. You yourself know how—’

‘— a potter makes a pot from a lump of mud. A painter paints with camel’s urine. A beggar holds out his empty hand,’ said Sampath, finishing his sentence in such a glib manner Mr Chawla was a little taken aback at his son’s cheekiness, but he repeated his point. ‘The thing is to make do with what you have, even if it is nothing.’

But was there nothing? He looked up at Sampath, watched his face, thought of what he had said and felt slightly unsettled …

Then, after a while, he did not listen or look too closely any more. He rented out their old house in Shahkot to a secretary from the fertilizer company. He opened a new bank account and approached businesses in the area that might be interested in advertising about the orchard, a place that would not only ensure their products a large audience but also endow them with a sanitized glow of purity. And he began to think of stocks and shares. Stocks and shares were a good idea because they were not in the least ostentatious and Mr Chawla realized, when he saw the respect for the austerity of Sampath’s life that visitors displayed, that he must keep a careful balance between the look of abstemiousness and actual comfort.

Perhaps the family should do without the refrigerator and motor scooter? Even the advertising? Oh no! Perhaps the bank account should be opened in the name of a special fund for building a temple? That way attention would be diverted to religious matters and donations would pour in. Not that he planned to embezzle and steal. They would build a temple! Then there would be even more donations. Endlessly, his mind bounded from scheme to enchanting scheme.

He obtained cuts from the scooter rickshaw men and the bus drivers to enter and park in the compound, and they were glad to oblige, for they themselves were doing a colossally good business by charging a flat fee for the round trip from the bazaar up to the orchard and back. Even buses thundering up the highways en route to farther destinations began making regular detours for their passengers to view the famous Baba in his treetop hermitage, the sweetness of his smile, the vacant peace of his gaze.

The path to Sampath’s tree had been widened and was kept swept clean and sprinkled with rose-water; a small ladder had been set against the trunk so those interested in asking for blessing (and everybody was interested, of course) could climb up to the spot where Sampath dangled his legs. With his toes placed reverently upon their heads, they would claim his blessing and descend feeling smug and rather proud.

Other arrangements had been provided too. Ammaji had been put in sole charge of a tea stall operating from under a bit of canvas sheeting attached to four poles, and consequently she was able to spend her time chatting to her heart’s content with visitors who ordered a snack or two, a Campa Cola, or even a light lunch to complete the pleasure of their outing.

Near the tea stall, Mr Chawla managed a small cart. Here, while also keeping his eye on everything else, he sold flower garlands, fruit and incense to those inclined towards leaving offerings for Sampath. This was a very nice system, because although he had to buy the supplies from the bazaar, he was given a large discount (after all, he was the father of the Shahkot hermit). These items he sold at a large profit, and then, in another lucky financial twist, the family reclaimed many of the coconuts and sweetmeats from the bottom of Sampath’s tree at the end of the day to pile them back upon the cart so they could be sold once more the next day.

Sampath looked down at his charming visitors.

‘Why are there so many opinions about the nature of God?’ asked a disguised spy from the Atheist Society (AS) and a member of the Branch to Uncover Fraudulent Holy Men (BUFHM). ‘Some say he has form. Others say he is formless. Why all this controversy?’

‘The city inspector makes a journey to see a river,’ answered unsuspecting Sampath, ‘but he goes right at the time of the monsoon. He comes home and says the river is an enormous sheet of water with very high waves. Many months later, his aunty makes the same trip. She comes home and says: “Sadly my nephew is a bit of an idiot. The river is nothing but a dirty little drain.” At the height of the summer a neighbour makes the same trip and says: “That whole family is unintelligent. The river is nothing but a dry stretch of mud.’”

‘Can anybody comprehend all there is to know about God?’ asked someone else.

‘Once you have broken the bottle you can no longer distinguish the air inside from the air outside.’

‘Baba, can you talk about the problem of religious unrest in our country?’

‘Haven’t you heard a mother-in-law shouting at her daughter-in-law: “Is this the way to prepare dal?” Of course she thinks her way is best. But north, south, east and west, everyone eats lentils in some form or another and everybody receives their nutritional benefits.’

‘I try to interest my children in spiritual matters, but they turn a deaf ear.’

‘There is no sign of the fruit when you buy the shoot. A watermelon does not exist unless it is the watermelon season. Before you cut it open you should always put your ear to the rind while tapping on the side. In this way you can make sure it will be completely ripe.’

The spy made notes in a school notebook and scratched his head dubiously. This was his first important mission since he had joined the society that boasted of such distinguished members as the man who had revealed the mechanism that gave rise to the electric-shock guru, the woman who had uncovered the exploding-toilet scam, the clerk who had hidden himself in a vat of sweetened curd to overhear a conversation that led to the indictment of the BMW guru for everything from money-laundering and tax fraud to murder by poison. In fact, it had been a lucky thing the clerk had not eaten any of that curd.

The spy was determined that he too would thus distinguish himself. He was lonely in Shahkot; his village was far away and he was as yet unmarried. He hated his job as a teacher at the public school, hated the boys who drew unflattering portraits of him in their notebooks and pulled faces behind his back. Often he gave them exercises to do and escaped to the staff room, where he sat staring out of the window and smoking cigarettes. One day he would show the world; he would rise above his poverty-stricken childhood, the hovel he had grown up in with eleven brothers and sisters, his drunken and drugged father, his worn-out mother. One day the world would turn its attention to him at last. Applause. Prizes. Newspaper reporters. He would hold his face out to the light and, in the midst of adulation, discover his poise, discussing fluently and with the seriousness of an intellectual on television his opinion of things. ‘Well, you know, liberation, as I comprehend it, comes from freeing yourself from the tawdry grasp of superstition. This is not a simple matter, you understand, for it is embroiled in historical issues, in issues of poverty and illiteracy.’ Yes, his life had been hard. But he would overcome.

‘What should I do, sir?’ he ventured once more. ‘I do not know what path I should take. I do not know what questions to ask. In fact, I do not even know what I want.’

‘A child cries for its mother’s milk, doesn’t it?’

‘I do not understand.’

‘A baby bird cries for an insect.’

‘But, sir … milk and insects?’

‘A mother knows what its child wants and recognizes her child from the noises it makes. Consequently, you will be quite all right if you stop asking questions and wait for your mother to come to you. Be patient.’

‘But —’ he persisted. ‘But, sir-’

Sampath’s head began to buzz. What on earth was this man being so annoying for? He looked out into the leafy avenues about him and gazed moodily into the distance.

The spy from the Atheist Society looked happier. Clearly Sampath was at a loss for a reply to his clever questioning and was trying hard to avoid him. He went behind a tree and made more top-secret notes in his school notebook. ‘Avoids questioning by pretending otherworldliness. Unable to discuss deeper matters of philosophy.’

Below Sampath the hallowed silence grew until Ammaji became uncomfortable with the quiet so loud and so big. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘sometimes his mind leaves the earthly plane. Don’t be offended.’

It had not occurred to anybody to be offended.

‘I myself have seen many holy men like this,’ said Lakshmiji. ‘Sometimes they sit completely still. Nothing can move them. They are like a bird on her eggs. Sometimes, though, they are frivolous and laugh, leap and dance. Yes, they can be like a child or a madman. Other times, instructing others, they return to the plane of consciousness to share their wisdom.’

‘Yes, it is the face of a vijnani, no ordinary countenance at all. Look, just look at his face.’

Sampath’s normal usual face! Pinky listened with astonishment to the things she was hearing.

‘Oh,’ said Ammaji, chiming in delightedly as she rolled a betel leaf, ‘he was born with spiritual tendencies. Everybody was saying maybe he is a little mad, maybe he is a little simple-minded, but it is just that he could never interest himself in the material world. One time I gave him five rupees to pay the milkman and the next thing I heard was the milkman shouting: “Oi, ji. Look, ji, what your grandson has done.” There was a strong breeze that day and while the milkman was measuring the milk, he had made a boat out of the bill and floated it into the canister. And hai hai, when it came to school what a terrible time we had. All the time: fail in Hindi, fail in Sanskrit, fail in mathematics, fail in history. Never could he concentrate on his studies.’

‘Ah! For one like him, it is hard to keep the mind on such petty and mundane matters. He will look out of the window and everywhere there is the glory of God.’

‘It is true,’ said Ammaji. ‘I cannot tell you what a terrible time we have been having. It is very hard for a family. There we would be begging him: “Please study a little; at least pass; we are not asking for any miracles.” But he would continue as he was, sitting for hours, looking at a flower, staring at the sky …’

‘I knew of a sadhu from Rishikesh,’ said a schoolteacher who had travelled all the way from Chittagong, ‘who every day would emerge from his hut, look at a hot spring and meditate. He never practised any other austerities or study. Just the sight of the hot spring would send him into samadhi.’

‘Oh, what terrible trouble we had in the post office.’ Miss Jyotsna, who had become a regular visitor, was happy to claim intimacy with Sampath’s formative years. ‘Sometimes he would make an attempt, but we all said better not to do anything. Better let one of us do it or else there will be such a mess, we will never be able to sort it out.’

‘And such a pretty girl we found for him!’ said Ammaji, getting more and more carried away. ‘But no, he would have nothing to do with her …’

‘What use can a hermit have for ladies? For such a person, it is an affront even to suggest marriage.’

At this everyone nodded their heads. In that moment they too would like to be sitting like this, clean and pure, in such pleasant surroundings without their husbands and wives and extended families. How beautiful the Himalayan foothills were! How bountiful and lush! Butterflies fluttered through the landscape, tree pies and flycatchers flew from tree to tree, lizards sunned themselves on the tin roof of the watchman’s shed, sliding down in a stupor during the warm afternoon, and the breeze rustled the leaves. Here and there were sprinklings of wild flowers, flowers with the colour and fragrance of fruit; flowers with gaping mouths and tongues that left the devotees tiger-striped with pollen as they passed by; that waved their anthers and brandished their stamens, that sent such scents up into the air, nobody could help lowering their noses into their fragrant petals.

Quietly, but in a sure, pleasant voice, Miss Jyotsna began to sing:

‘There are footprints entering my house, but I have no visitors.

There is the sound of music in the trees, but the wind is still.

There are fingerprints over all my belongings,

But they don’t match those of anyone in this household!

O Lord,

This hide and seek

Would tire even a patient man.’

How pretty she is, thought Sampath, looking down. He had always found her pretty. She was sweet too and had a beautiful voice. Eyes closed, swaying from side to side, she seemed genuinely lost in the words that flew from her small, round, ruby mouth. In a while, he joined her, all the devotees chiming in one by one. They had a wonderful time singing together.

How could he fool all these people? wondered the spy from the Atheist Society peeping out from behind the tree. What hold did he have upon them? What was it about him? He sniffed the air. The scent of cardamom and cloves wreathed up into the leaves from a cooking pot somewhere. Cardamom and cloves and … what else? He sniffed again. The smell entered his nostrils and wormed its way into his brain. Yes … he sniffed. Something else … He made some more notes in his book.

In the mouse-hole-sized room he rented in a house full of lodgers, he drew up a plan for his investigation of the case that included research into Sampath’s past and a list of all the basic information he should know about his suspect: when he slept, whom he talked to, what he ate and drank.

Then the spy remembered the mysterious smell in the orchard that day. A whiff of it still clung to his skin and clothes.

Could Sampath be drugged?

What had been cooking in that pot?

No doubt he was smoking ganja — it grew wild all over the hillside. But perhaps he was taking opium as well? And who knew what else?

The spy thought late into the night.