Category: Recalled Conversations

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Almost There

For the first several minutes he said nothing, just guiding his yellow and black Suzuki taxi through the clamorous traffic of midday Delhi.   My daughter wanted me to ask him what his name was.  “Jai Bhagwan,” he said. “An old-fashioned name.” His smile is half apologetic.

“You’ll be going to Jaipur? That’s a beautiful city. They call it the Pink City. Its a five hour drive from Delhi and Pushkar is another 2 or 2 and half hours further.  You’ll stay in Pushkar for a few days? No? I see, just for a day. Ajmer is just a half hour more away. What a place that is. Moinuddin Chisti…the Emperor of India!  Will you be taking the train from Ajmer to Varanasi?  No, from Agra. Ok. I see, your agent arranged it that way. Watch out for these agents. They’re in it for themselves, a lot of them.

“This traffic is like this but not for too long. There’s a fly over up  ahead and the road narrows so everything slows down to a crawl. But soon we’ll be moving again.  Yes, that metro line was made for the Commonwealth Games in 2010. What a rip off!  The organizers stole 80% of the investments. Only 20% was spent on the infrastructure. The main crook, Kapladi is in jail but what does it matter. It won’t change anything. The rich and our netas (leaders) don’t give a shit. All the rules are for the poor, not one of them is for the rich.  It never changes.

“My people used to own the land around the airport.  A long time ago the government came and forced us off the land and gave us Rs. 1.40 per square meter! A very low price. But they got what they wanted. You know Gandhi? They say he is the father of the nation. We say he’s the number one Thief. Don’t believe me? What did he ever do for us? Did he do anything to improve our lot? He and Nehru did everything for themselves and to make their own money and name.  Gandhi, the old bastard, used to feed his goat grapes while the rest of the country starved. 

“The real hero of India was Subhas Chandra Bose. What a guy. You know what his slogan was? Give me your blood and I’ll give you freedom!  He was a man of action. That’s why they killed him. You know Gandhi could have freed Bhagat Singh but he didn’t. He let him hang. All for his own glory.

“Ambedkar? Yeah, he was a good man too.  He wrote the Constitution. No one else could have done that. He was a great man actually. I have nothing bad to say about Ambedkar.

“Right, we’re almost at your destination. Just 5-10 minutes more.”

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The Silent One

After a breakfast of cold TBJ (toast butter jam) at one of the several ‘hippie cafes’ that line the narrow tarmac road running along Puri’s beachfront, I walked down to the station to buy a newspaper.  When I arrived, I was informed that as today is the day after Republic Day there are no papers. 

On my way back to the café I stopped to observe a sadhu who was holding court outside a colourfully decorated, low-ceilinged temple not far from the entrance to the station. 

He was toking up when I arrived. The chilam was offered to me but I declined. A group of rickshaw walas and assorted young men squatted in a semi circle near him. Each drew deep on the pipe as it made the rounds. 

I asked them if they weren’t afraid that the police would round them up. 

This has been purchased under a government license. No problem. 

A man with rotting teeth told me that smoking hash was essential to the people’s daily existence.  Some people eat  paan, others smoke ganja, some like bhang, others charas. Its all for digestion of the food.  It is necessary. 

I reply that I get paranoid when I smoke it.  

They all laugh. Their tired red eyes remain motionless while their faces move in different ways.   Like all addicts, they agree that moderation is the attitude to be employed. But they exclude themselves from their own advice with a shrug of the shoulders. 

I am told the sadhu has not spoken for 12 years.   

He has four more to go before his vow is complete. 

I wonder if he will still remember how to form words after 16 years of silence. 

He communicates through gestures and a penetrating gaze but cracks an engaging smile once in a while. His sidekick, also a sanyasi, seems to have sworn the opposite vow: to talk as much as he can in as short a space as possible. 

He interprets the silent one’s flailing arms and pointing fingers.  He details their recent past and spells out their future intentions. (They are headed to Nepal, next). The sidekick tells of fabulous bright silver coins and good charas in Kashmir.  

We sleep wherever we find a spot. A sanyasi has no home.  

Do you travel by foot, I ask. 

He laughs.  No. No. No. We are sanyasis. We go by train.  Whoever has heard of a sadhu paying for his travel? 

As I leave, the silent one pinches some ashes from his smoldering fire and signals that I should smear some on my forehead, which I do.  

Sidekick then rattles, Now swallow the rest. 

I hesitate but do he says.  I walk away with a gritty taste in my mouth. 

This piece was written in January 1989 while on a holiday in eastern India. The image is called ‘Mussoorie baba’ It is NOT a portrait of the Silent One of Puri, but of a wanderer I met in the hill station , Mussoorie, where I did my pre-university education in a storied boarding school. Such men could be classified as sadhus or sanyasis but are more endearingly referred to as baba. The former terms have a spiritual connotation; that one’s wandering is part of one’s spiritual practice. Baba on the other hand is a more generic term for men who amble around the countryside with no precise motive or destination. It is also sometimes used to refer to young boys. I was referred to as Nate baba, while growing up, by many older Indians.

The photo was one of the first of mine to be published by a company in the Twin Cities that published brochures for churches!