The cauliflower, p.13
The Cauliflower, page 13
After the Rani’s death, Mathur Baba’s devotion to Uncle—which was always strong—increased still further. Uncle had only to mention an idle whim or a passing need and Mathur Baba would instantly satisfy it. Thank God for Mathur Baba! I thank our lucky stars for his patience and his forbearance! Of course, Mathur Baba is not an especially spiritual man—he is rich and he lives high and he enjoys his luxuries—but he loves Uncle dearly. One could almost go so far as to say that Uncle is Mathur Baba’s greatest indulgence! How fortunate Uncle is that Mathur Baba is so firmly on his side now! Uncle has utterly beguiled him, and without any particular effort. Uncle is simply himself—a clever but guileless child of the universe.
All the temple officials and administrators—even Mathur Baba’s own private priest—have nothing good to say about Uncle. Not a word! They are deeply jealous of the attraction he holds for Mathur Baba. They whisper and accuse him of devilry, of casting spells to bewitch Mathur Baba. Of course, Uncle doesn’t care a jot about such things. Uncle’s mind is fixed on a higher plane. But I must sit and listen, clenching my teeth, to their constant gossip and their endless jibes.
On one occasion when Uncle was visiting Mathur Baba’s residence he was left temporarily alone and fell into a sudden trance—something Uncle has become increasingly prone to—and as he lay on the floor, lost in ecstasy, Mathur Baba’s private priest, Haldar, happened across Uncle, and finding him alone and defenseless, this scoundrel set about kicking Uncle and beating Uncle with all of his might. Uncle’s mind was falling in and out of consciousness. He could tell what was happening but he could not move to defend himself. When I found Uncle a short while later he was balled up in pain and panting like a wounded animal. His ribs were cracked. He was horribly bruised. But he made me swear on my mother’s life not to tell a soul. “If Mathur Babu finds out what Haldar has done he will sack him!” Uncle said. “And what will become of his wife and his family then?” Uncle forced me to hold my tongue. And angry as I am, I must quietly endure it. Uncle insists that he wants no fuss or retribution. Uncle is surely a great soul. He is possessed by the spirit of true resignation. “Dear Hriday, this is simply the lila of the Divine Mother,” Uncle laughs (then he winces, then he clutches at his chest, then he laughs once again).
I have always been very protective of Uncle, but from that time forward I was even more determined never to leave Uncle unsupervised for so much as a moment. Uncle is far too precious. And who would look after Uncle if I did not? Uncle could not be expected to take care of himself—especially now that he has so many jealous enemies and rivals. Although, in truth, I have often thought that Uncle’s greatest and most dangerous adversary will always and forever be Uncle himself.
At around this time—just after the Rani’s death, and during Mathur Baba’s increasing devotion to Uncle—another very important person entered Uncle’s life who—thank God—was to quietly take the place of Uncle’s mean and sharp-tongued sannyasi as his spiritual guide. Uncle was standing in the flower garden one morning, gazing over toward the main bathing ghat, when he saw a beautiful orange-robed Brahmini alight from a boat. It is already well established that Uncle has no interest in either women or gold, but just as soon as Uncle set his two eyes upon her he became very excitable. He called me over and demanded that I go and introduce myself to her and then tell her all about him. Well, I was naturally perplexed and uncomfortable about approaching a strange Brahmini in such a forthright manner, but this is just life with Uncle, I fear. Normal rules and conventions do not apply here.
The Brahmini—although not in her first flush of youth—was a very handsome woman. I told her about Uncle as she sat, cross-legged, in the welcome shade of the chandni. She listened very patiently, and then, instead of coolly dismissing me—as I imagined she would—she asked me to take her to Uncle immediately. I guided her to Uncle’s room, where Uncle was now anxiously waiting, and I was very astonished—once the formal introductions were over—to see that the Brahmini and Uncle behaved toward one another as if they had known each other their whole lives! Uncle told the Brahmini—who, as a true sannyasi, owned nothing in the world but two wearing cloths and a handful of spiritual books—his entire life story, about all his spiritual aspirations and experiences, of how people thought he was insane, and how even he himself doubted his own sanity at times.
The Brahmini nodded calmly throughout Uncle’s tales. And when he had finished talking she told him—with many clever spiritual references and the paging through of books—that the whole world is mad for something—money, pleasure, love—and that this was perfectly normal. It just so happened that Uncle was mad for God. She then showed Uncle segments of the bhakti scriptures where all of the symptoms that Uncle had been experiencing were described in great detail. She explained that Uncle had reached a state referred to in the scriptures as mahabhava: a condition of exalted devotion rarely ever seen except in the greatest of saints.
Furthermore, the Brahmini then told Uncle that she was on a mission from God. She had been instructed to wander the earth until she met three spiritual aspirants, with all of whom she was to share the bounty of her extensive Tantric and Vaishnava knowledge. Uncle, it seemed, was to be the third of these disciples. She said that she had been wandering and searching for Uncle for many years.
Ah, how do I explain the sheer relief that Uncle felt upon his meeting with the Brahmini? A charming bond was immediately established. Uncle became the Brahmini’s little Krishna, and she his most beloved mother. I will not deny that I was slightly put out by the Brahmini suddenly becoming Uncle’s all in all. But the pressure of caring for Uncle had become very heavy at this time, and to see Uncle so relieved and so encouraged by the Brahmini was of course a great boon for me as well.
The Brahmini is a strong and most intelligent woman. She is a powerful spiritual force in her own right. As with all good mothers and teachers, she is very stern and controlling. But who am I to voice such an opinion? Who is Hridayram Mukhopadhyay? He is nothing! Nothing! The Brahmini knows this. The Brahmini is never rude but she sees straight through Hridayram. He is transparent to the Brahmini. He is insignificant. He has simply to adjust quietly and uncomplainingly to her special quirks and her curious requirements. Hridayram’s life with Uncle is a long game. The best players must always show a willingness to adapt. And so must he. This is his destiny. He is accustomed to being invisible. He is accustomed to always shining the light upon Uncle. Those who shine the light but who stand in the darkness are still holding the light in their hands, after all.
A fistful of dirt on this mysterious Brahmini:
She was born in East Bengal. In some accounts she is around forty years of age, in others, fifty. She is clever and handsome, powerful and charismatic. She is an itinerant monk and an avowed intellectual, who (for all intents and purposes) lives freely—sans ties or protection—in nineteenth-century Bengali society. She is definitely a force to be reckoned with: a fixer, an opportunist, a mover, and a shaker.
Her avowed aim (her dream) is to firmly and fearlessly guide Sri Ramakrishna (the man who would be God) through the sixty-four dangerous and exotic disciplines of the Tantras, then—once these have been practiced and mastered—to teach him the main ideas, rules, and tenets of Vaishnavism.
The Brahmini finally establishes the—let’s face it—somewhat free-form and errant Sri Ramakrishna in a strong, traditional faith structure. Having arrived spontaneously, after six years of complete devotion and dedication to the spiritual growth and well-being of the Saint she just as suddenly disappears.
Simply “Brahmini”—
This spiritual midwife
Stays anonymous.
His story. Records. Little. Else.
November 1884 (or sometime thereabouts), at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple
Sri Ramakrishna is sitting in his room with a group of shocked disciples discussing the terrible way in which the infamous libertine and playwright Girish Chandra Ghosh has drunkenly abused and humiliated the guru at the theater, in front of a large crowd, the previous night:
Irate Devotee: “Girish has gone too far this time. What he did was unforgivable!”
Sri Ramakrishna sighs, then shrugs, sadly. He turns to another devotee, Ram Chandra Datta, and asks for his opinion.
Sri Ramakrishna: “What do you make of it, Captain?”
Ram Chandra Datta (after pondering for a while): “I think Girish is like the vicious serpent, Kaliya, who has nothing to offer Lord Krishna apart from her venom. And so that is what she offers.”
Sri Ramakrishna smiles, nods, orders a carriage, and promptly drives over to Girish’s house to forgive him.
1882 (or sometime thereabouts). Sri Ramakrishna talks to a new disciple about sadness:
“Misery is good!
If the whole world was happy
Who would chant God’s name?”
A passing observation:
First the Rani, and now the Brahmini? Both negotiating paths of such extraordinary freedom and flexibility within the restricting manacles of nineteenth-century tradition, sex, and caste? How on earth did they manage it?
First answer:
Feminine guile!
Second answer:
Native wit!
Real answer:
“Ah, Hinduism:
This, the Pair of Opposites,
Binds and releases!”
Two haiku about Tantra:
“‘Consciousness’—‘Being’—‘Bliss’ —
All three are identical,
And all hail from God.”
(or)
“‘Chit’ —‘Sat’ — ‘Ananda’—
You are one with the Godhead;
God lives within you.”
Winter 1881, at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple. Sri Ramakrishna finally gets to meet the one person he has been waiting for his whole damned life!!:
(Suggested subheading: True Romance! Uh … Oh. Although—gulp!—not with his wife…)
Part 1.
The undoubtedly brilliant but somewhat cynical and world-weary eighteen-year-old Narendra Nath Datta is encouraged to visit the well-known (nay, notorious?) and rather eccentric guru Sri Ramakrishna by a couple of his friends. His mood on approaching the Master’s domain is a little haughty and somewhat less than enthusiastic. He enters Sri Ramakrishna’s room, sits down, and after some prompting (he has a lovely voice) is persuaded to sing. When his song is finished, Sri Ramakrishna (now forty-five years of age) beckons him outside, onto his northern verandah (which is protected—as it is winter—from strong winds and bad weather by a matted screen). He closes the door behind them with great care and deliberation. They are now completely alone. A curious scene here unfolds:
Sri Ramakrishna (grabbing the bemused eighteen-year-old boy’s hand and bursting into noisy tears): “You’ve come so late! Why has it taken you so long? Didn’t you know how I’ve been waiting for you? I’ve been driven almost mad by the worldly talk of all these fools around me. I thought I would burst without anyone to tell my true feelings to!”
Narendra Nath Datta (eyes widening with alarm): “But I—I don’t…”
Sri Ramakrishna (dropping the boy’s hand, stepping back, and pressing his palms together prayerfully as if addressing a deity): “I know your true identity. You are Nara, incarnation of Narayana. You have returned here to earth to relieve the burdens and sufferings of mankind!”
Narendra Nath Datta (frankly astonished, and not a little horrified): “I’m—I’m not sure if…”
Sri Ramakrishna (excitedly): “Wait! Wait! One minute!”
The guru dashes back into his room and returns, moments later (carefully closing the door behind him again), with a plate of Indian sweets. He then proceeds to gently push them, piece by piece, between the shocked teenager’s lips. After several mouthfuls a startled Narendra speaks:
Narendra Nath Datta (embarrassed): “Perhaps if you gave me the plate I could carry it back inside and distribute these treats among my friends?”
Sri Ramakrishna (indignant): “No! These sweets are for you. They’re yours. The others [waves dismissively] can have theirs later.”
The guru (who will not be called a guru) continues to feed Narendra until all the sweets are gone and the plate is empty.
Narendra Nath Datta (dabbing anxiously at his lips, perplexed, feeling a sudden, slightly sickening sugar rush, glancing toward the door): “Maybe we should think about joining the…?”
Sri Ramakrishna grabs the teenager’s hand again.
Sri Ramakrishna (desperate and earnest): “I won’t move from this spot until you promise me that you will return here again, very soon, and that the next time you visit you’ll come alone.”
Narendra Nath Datta (clears his throat—uncomfortable, slightly cornered): “Yes. Yes. Of course.”
Narendra Nath Datta returns to the Master’s room and there he sings a second song. Later, travelling home in a hired carriage, he licks his lips and is startled to discover that they are still sugary from the sweets the Master has fed him. He is both thrilled and appalled by his recent encounter. He is also utterly convinced—more than he has ever been convinced of anything in his whole short life—that Sri Ramakrishna is a complete lunatic, a crazy madman, a cunning and dangerous monomaniac.
Ah …
To be wooed with sweets …
To be hand-fed the prasad
By a crazy man!
Psssst!
Please never go back!
Listen to your wise parents!
Don’t fall for his tricks!
Are you listening, Narendra?
Hello? Hello? Narendra?
Narendra?!
Part 2.
Oh dear. After a good deal of soul-searching … a few weeks later
Narendra Nath Datta returns to the Dakshineswar Kali Temple alone and on foot. The last time he made the journey—when he came with his friends—it was in a hired carriage. He’d hardly noticed the distance. But this is actually—the teenager quickly realizes—a grueling six-mile hike, and he is unsure of the way. He keeps asking people for directions. He grows increasingly stressed and exhausted. He is full of misgivings.
What draws him here?
What is this compulsion?
Eh?
Faith?
Boredom?
Naivety?
Spiritual hunger?
Vanity?
Stupidity?
He has often heard mention of Sri Ramakrishna’s “incredible attraction.” If the dark rumors are to be believed, this famous guru is a still flame who draws fluttering moths to his light and then singes their wings.
Narendra finally arrives at the temple and makes his way to Sri Ramakrishna’s room. Sri Ramakrishna is—unusually enough—alone. His room—with its red concrete floor spread with straw mats—has few possessions in it. There is a collection of pictures on the walls—of Hindu gods and goddesses, one of Jesus.…
On the right-hand side of the room are two beds, one larger, one smaller, pushed up against each other (the larger benefits from the luxurious addition of a mosquito net). Sri Ramakrishna is perched on the smaller of these.
The guru (who will not be called a guru) greets Narendra joyfully. He beckons him to sit on the end of the smaller bed. Narendra tentatively does as he is instructed.
He observes that the Master is in a strange mood. He seems introspective, preoccupied. He is grumbling and muttering to himself under his breath. Narendra is somewhat alarmed by this and consequently is on his guard.
There is something about the Master which confuses him (and it has confused many others). One might imagine that Sri Ramakrishna (with his childlike, almost feminine demeanor) would be small, even slight. And sometimes he is. But then at other times he seems perfectly … how to express it?… Huge. He seems huge. Nobody quite understands how or why.
(When you inspect the few remaining photographs of the saint (such as a notable one in which he is in a trancelike state being watched by members of the Brahmo Samaj, and supported, from behind, by his nephew, Hridayram), he seems tiny—fragile.)
After the guru’s death, when questions are asked about his size so that a marble sculpture can be commissioned, nobody can agree on how big he was. Eventually a coat is found (a green coat) and a photograph of the Master wearing it, and by dint of careful reckoning, it is decided that the Master was five foot eight.
Narendra watches the Master with a combination of social unease, teenage hauteur, and exhaustion.
The Master—after a little more muttering—turns, looks hard at the boy, then suddenly stands up and moves toward him. Narendra panics. On no! Is there about to be another of those exquisitely embarrassing scenes? Like the last time he visited?
He has barely begun to process this thought (and its concomitant dread) when the guru lifts his leg and places his bare foot firmly upon the teenager’s body (where, we do not know—the lower thigh? The hip? The chest?) and then everything goes completely haywire. The walls of the guru’s room collapse backward, everything starts to spin at an extraordinary speed, and the teenager has the powerful inkling that his consciousness—his essence—is about to be swallowed up into a massive, ravenous, rotating vortex, an all-engulfing void.
In terror he hears his own voice scream out (all signs of teenage hubris instantly evaporating), “What’s happening to me? Help! What would my parents think?”
The laughing guru lifts his foot and gently touches his hand to the terrified teenager’s chest. “All right,” he murmurs, half to himself, “let it stop. This needn’t happen all at once.”
