by M G Vassanji
But there was something different about going to see Sai Baba. He was not a god, he was human. Whether they worshipped Ram or Krishna, Shiva-Parvati or Kali-Durga, or Hanuman, and often it was all of them, many people still kept an image of Sai Baba on the mantelpiece or a tabletop or their car’s dashboard, or even a statue of him in the garden. A simple man in a dhoti and shirt, a casual turban, an unkempt beard and barefoot—he had arrived at Shirdi one day from the hills and put up in a shack; soon he was recognized as someone special, an elevated being, a man-god. Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, Christians and others came to worship him in the thousands. It was uncertain whether he had been a Muslim or a Hindu. A Hindu authority had recently declared him a Muslim and not to be worshipped by Hindus; send this Baba to Pakistan, he said. Regardless, people came in the thousands, even the educated and the agnostic, admitting that there was more to the world than met your eyes, or that scientists could explain, even if you couldn’t tell what it was.
Mohini’s parents had been to Varanasi and Haridwar already, the former before she was born, and the latter when she was little, to immerse the ashes of her grandparents in the Ganga; the four of them visited Dwarka during a long holiday in Gujarat when the girls were still in school. Mohini had visited Madurai with Ravi, and had promised her mother a string of pilgrimages beginning with Puri. But, having paid heed to neighbours’ chit-chat recently, Ma had said, “Let’s go see Sai Baba first. He seems to be listening.”
Mohini felt at peace in the taxi van. A warm breeze blew in through the open window, caressing her face, comforting her the way her mother used to when she was little. Asha sat next to Mohini, fast against her, asleep, having read a novel half the night at their hotel room in Nasik. Ma and Bau-ji were in the back seat, Ma acting quite the spoilt child today, wearing a cardigan even in the heat and having demanded the air-conditioning be turned off.
Ravi sat royally in front, upright, an arm across the top of his seat, chatting dryly with the young driver, querying about conditions at Shirdi, the daily crowd numbers, and the seasonal variations, though he probably knew those figures better than the young man. Occasionally he would caution him: “We are not in a hurry, Manu, take your time. We should arrive in one piece.” Manu replied once, “You will arrive, sahab, I know these roads well. With Sai Ram’s blessings, everyone arrives. I’m just trying to get you there in good time…”
* * *
—
They had booked their three-star hotel through an agency in Delhi. Aarti would join them there with her husband and younger daughter—the other was studying in Boston.
In her state, Mohini did not think of Munir. Here she was her Indian, Hindu self. Nevertheless, even dreamily, she was aware of his presence, just outside her conscious mind; a presence, but light as air. Shun all attachments, Mohini, she said to herself, that way lies peace. What did she expect from Sai Baba? A small miracle, regarding this lump of her flesh beside her, Asha; some resolution regarding him…which him?…She dozed off.
* * *
—
As soon as they emerged from the car outside the Sat Sai Hotel, two porters came running out to take their luggage away. A young man called Sivadasa approached and introduced himself. He was to be their guide for the rest of the day and the following day.
“You have a rest for a few hours and come sunset I will show you around and take you to the best place to eat. Excellent thali at reasonable price. And tomorrow you go for Baba’s darshan.”
He went and sat down on the sofa in the reception area and began fidgeting with his phone.
Aarti and family were already in their suite, waiting, and there was a noisy and jubilant family reunion. Kishore and Ravi shook hands heartily, slapped each other on the back, and decided to take a walk out together into town; the two sisters paired off, as did the cousins Asha and Swapna.
Aarti, younger than Mohini, had always remained the more current with the times. Trimmer and fitter than her sister, she was in tight designer jeans and an embroidered yellow shirt open at the neck; her short hair looked recently styled. She was a projects coordinator at Infosys and well travelled, particularly in the United States and Germany. Swapna had just been admitted to Delhi University’s prestigious St. Stephen’s College in the economics honours program. Mohini, reminded of her own daughter, felt a wave of angst. What could she have done differently with Asha?
Aarti looked into her face with concern. “Don’t worry about Asha, Sis,” she said. “It’s the age. And they can never all be the same. It will all come out right, you’ll see.”
“I don’t know, Aarti. Recently she’s begun to question the value of education. She showed me an article from America that said calculus was useless to your happiness. Can you believe that? This comes from putting emphasis on the humanities.”
Aarti smiled. She herself used to say literature and history were a waste of time, then she and Mohini would get into heated arguments.
Having exchanged information about their parents, Mohini doing the reporting, the sisters stretched out to rest on the double bed in Aarti’s room and fell asleep. The two girls went out for a stroll, clutching their phones.
* * *
—
Sivadasa leading, Mohini and Aarti behind him with Asha and Swapna in tow, and the two husbands chatting politics behind them, they headed out towards Shirdi, pushing gently past throngs of people jamming the sidewalk, which was bounded all the way by a row of vendors selling fruits and vegetables; guavas and oranges were in season. Autos weaved in and out through the hooting traffic, buses arrived constantly to spill out more pilgrims. Touts along their way were selling tickets promising quick entry into the shrine, but Sivadasa said not to pay attention. Every hotel and enterprise they saw was named after Sai Baba. They arrived at a restaurant next to a hotel and parking lot, right across from the shrine complex. When they found their seats, Mohini called up her father, instructing him where to join them. He and Ma would come in an auto.
The fare was sumptuous, making you wonder at the austerity of the man they had come to for blessings. Did there lurk a shade of guilt in all the happy faces gathered here, in expectation perhaps of even greater material gifts? For Mohini, that spiritual high of before had been snapped. But this was family, and you had duties and obligations. She had not become a sadhvi, though she had wished recently that she could lock herself up in some ashram. Bau-ji and Ma were beaming with happiness. They chatted on about the shrines they had visited in the past. Mohini and Aarti recalled the Tara Devi temple in Shimla, right at their doorstep, so to speak—you simply hiked up to there on some Sunday. Bau-ji recalled going with his parents to Vaishno Devi in Jammu. Ma had been ill with typhoid when her own family went; but the goddess had saved her life. Kishore surprised them by revealing that he had been to Ajmer Sharif, the famous Sufi shrine, when a particularly tricky deal for his business was at stake. They all wanted to know what it was like.
Afterwards the men said they would walk back to the hotel, and the rest of them took two autos.
That night in bed she said to Ravi, “You drank beer with Kishore, was it in his room? I could smell it on you. How could you do that when we’ve come to see Sai Baba?”
“It’s not that you yourself don’t touch alcohol. What difference does it make when I take it?”
“You know the difference…”
But he was already lost in sleep, emitting that low note she’d known since their honeymoon at the Hotel Cecil in Shimla. He never had trouble falling asleep.
* * *
—
At six the next morning they all walked to the shrine complex, Bau-ji and Ma included, despite protests by their daughters. Now Aarti was also in a salwar-kameez, and both Ravi and Kishore were in pure white kurta-pyjamas, which they had purchased the previous afternoon when they went out together. It was a joyous procession, in the company of dozens who had also decided to begin early for a
single purpose. If they had gone even earlier, they would have witnessed Baba being bathed. The queues, they had been warned, would be long. And once more a lightness overcame Mohini, and she preferred to walk a little apart, as though seeking that detachment she had experienced before, refraining from all but the necessary conversation. She did not want to think, she wanted the experience; she wanted to float. And then, if only the rest of her life were like that?
Buses were lined up on the road, visitors descending in a daze and making their way to the gate of the shrine. Bhajans were being played in the restaurants. The fruit-sellers were setting up.
The lines were indeed long. Ma and Bau-ji were informed by volunteers that they could go into a seniors’ queue, and they headed off, accompanied by Asha and Swapna.
The lines, which began in several spots, moved slowly but steadily, in winding paths, and they were orderly. This was not the place for argument or pushing past and grabbing advantage. Sai Baba’s oversized statue became visible ahead and Mohini, in a flutter, asked herself, What to ask? Take whatever comes, she answered, it will all be for the good. When she was in front of the idol—those mesmerizing eyes and the benign gaze, the soft, short white beard—she threw her flowers towards the heap already piled there; Ravi had picked a couple from her basket and he too threw them before Baba. What could he want?—a fleeting thought at the edge of her mind. Mohini then suddenly remembered and quickly held out her plate of boondi offering, and the attendant priest put his hand on the sweet. They moved on. This was it. You should feel different now. Outside, after some effort, they sighted Ma and Bau-ji with Sivadasa. The girls had gone out to the street. Now they moved around the site, walked into the various exhibition rooms displaying photos of other saintly figures, who had been Sai Baba’s early followers; there were photos of his first retreat when he came to Shirdi, an ordinary mendicant. On their way out they came upon a nondescript white building, which was the meditation hall. They peeped inside and saw an array of men and women sitting quietly on the floor, reading from small red books resting on wooden desk-stands before them. Mohini told her entourage to keep going, she would meet them later.
Mohini went inside and sat down behind a desk-stand and picked up a red book. She read a few pages of Sai Baba’s story, then unwittingly began to reflect upon her own life. She looked up from her desk towards the front of the hall at the benign, holy image of the saint, this saint of the people, his hand raised to give her a benediction, and said, “I am not a bad person, Baba.” She would not remember what else she said. She stood up and left.
As she made her way among the throngs of worshippers towards the outside gate, ready to switch on her phone—and the world—and join her family, she saw a mendicant, dressed in a dirty orange dhoti, sitting outside a makeshift shed on the lawn a short distance to her left. Their eyes locked. “Come, daughter,” he gestured. “Tell me what troubles you.”
She hesitated, then stopped, and said, “I have already prayed to Baba, Guru-ji.”
She pointed. But she didn’t walk on and he said again, “Come inside.”
She stepped onto the grass, followed him into the shed, where he sat down on the ground before a low table on which were flowers and various small objects including a bell. She sat down across from him. Without a prompt, she said, “I want blessings for my daughter. I want her to be successful and happy in life.”
“Everyone wants that for their children, my daughter. If Baba grants you this wish, what do you promise him in return?”
“Anything…,” she said without a thought, but with a tremor in her voice.
He reached out and she tilted forward to let him place a hand on her head and it felt light. He said, “Be chaste and pure. Give up something dear to you.”
“I will try.”
“You must. Then he will give. Baba is kind. He is merciful.”
“Yes, Guru-ji.”
She did a deep pranam and got up. She hesitated, then from her purse she took out a bill and placed it respectfully on the small table. She turned around and went on her way. Instead of joining her family for lunch she proceeded straight to her room. She called her sister to tell her where she was and got into bed and fell asleep.
* * *
—
She was woken by the sound of the door clicking open and shut, as Aarti arrived. She kicked off her shoes, posted two bags on the round table next to the door, and came and sat down on the bed with a sigh.
“Where were you? Why did you abandon us, Didi? We had such a nice lunch.”
“I wasn’t feeling well…”
“You’re not going to tell me what ails you, big sister?”
Mohini stared at her. “What d’you mean, what ails me?”
“Ma said you’ve got yourself into some jam.” There was the slightest flash of mischief on Aarti’s lips. So she knew. What had Ma told her? “Tell me, Sis.”
Mohini paused a long moment, then shook her head. “Sometimes things just happen to you that you can’t control.”
“I wish they did to me. Now listen, we brought some food for you. Don’t tell me you are not hungry after that long day.”
“I am,” Mohini said gratefully. She got out of bed and went over to the table. She opened the food bag and laid out the vegetarian fare. “What’s in this?” she asked, indicating the second bag.
Aarti came over. “I bought some things for you—a Sai Baba photo and pennant, and a little image for the house. And this should please you—Asha and Ravi bought holy threads. Ma bought a lot of stuff to give away to neighbours, and Bau-ji was grumbling.”
Mohini gave her sister a hug and suddenly, without letting go, started crying.
“There, there, Sis. Don’t cry, please. Everyone has problems. I hope it all works out for you. Coming to Shirdi was the right thing to do. The saint’s blessings will heal you.”
Munir
HE WAS BEING WATCHED. A young man, almost a boy, dressed in pure white kurta and pyjamas, with an orange scarf round his neck that he was pulling to and fro by its ends, had followed Munir out of the lounge after tea and sat down at the other end of the patio from him, conspicuously within sight. A protegé—or follower—of Jetha Lal, self-styled guardian of purity. Keep your distance from those madmen, Mohini had warned him.
During his last visit, when he had stayed briefly at the guest house on Bahadur Shah Zafar Road, he’d discovered that his laptop had been interfered with. A routine security check, he was told. It had made him angry, then a little wary. And now this shadow in white across the patio? Munir looked, and saw that he had gotten up and gone away. Perhaps it’s only my imagination, he thought.
* * *
—
He was sitting in a coach of the Paschim Express, submitting to its rocking and clackety-clack, and memories of train rides in Kenya as a boy when he would stare out the window in complete absorption. Evening would yield to pitch-dark night, then beautiful dawn; the landscape went from forest to savannah, then coast; the weather from cool to humid and hot. Palm trees and salty air. You would notice zebras and giraffes on the way, elephants if you were lucky.
He came to, in another world and another time, on another night train, on his way to Vadodara in Gujarat, having consented to give a keynote lecture at a conference at the M.S. University there. “You remember,” Dr. Raj Mohan had said, calling him all the way in Toronto, “when I was in Toronto you promised—if you visited India you would come to our university and give a lecture? You kindly invited me to your home and offered me tea and cookies.” The resourceful professor, making a routine check of foreign visitors to Delhi, had discovered Munir’s reservation at DRC. “But that was…how many years ago!” Munir had protested. “A long time ago…” Dr. Mohan was unmoved. The subject of the conference was New Trends in Canadian Literature. No amount of pleading could convince the man that Munir was the wrong person for the lecture. He did not t
hink in terms of “Literature,” he had no concept of “Canadian Literature,” he had written three books set in Nairobi—which was in Kenya, he reminded Dr. Mohan—after which he had run out of gas and stopped.
But the professor’s resolve was not shaken. “Still, sir, you must come. Say anything. The students are eagerly awaiting your arrival.”
Now on his way there, he had fully awakened from a restless sleep, and having gone and washed himself before the morning traffic got underway, was back at his seat by the window, making mental notes on what to say in his lecture as dawn slipped its meagre colours into the grey scenery outside. They were passing a small town, its small, deserted station followed by a settlement with the most elementary dwellings, some of them nothing more than oversized crates balanced upon each other. How long does one live like this, what does one do for a living, does anyone ever manage to escape? The sight of an open countryside with two men crouched in the grass in the semi-darkness, relieving themselves, came as ironic relief.
“You must be from Foreign.”
It took Munir a moment to wake up from his reverie, register the full sentence and that it had come from close by and was addressed to him. He shifted his gaze uncertainly. The man, sitting directly opposite him, was smallish, wearing beige pants and a brown sweater in the colour combination that seemed so favoured by Indian men. Was it because the colours didn’t fade?