by M G Vassanji
The snake stirred, sent a lazy ripple through its coiled body.
“The deva is very happy with you,” the man said.
Nagji stared at the snake, the head thinner than the body, the gleaming naked eyes.
“Stroke the deva, he likes it.”
Nagji lifted a hand, leaned forward: hesitantly, fearfully, drawn on. On the snake’s back, up and down, he ran his hand, in small gentle strokes against the muscular brown-grey surface, rough one way, smooth the other, and with a part of his mind ready at any moment to jump up and make his escape.
The man suddenly picked up the snake with both hands, uncoiling it as he did so, his right hand just beneath the head—and Nagji fell backward, caught himself upon his hands.
Here, the man said, hold the deva, after all you are his disciple, na—
And Nagji was holding the snake, one hand under the head, the other supporting its belly, the man slowly letting go of the lower portion which was swishing gently, and the snake slowly moving its body around Nagji’s, caressing his back and arm, though he never could recall later what thoughts went through his mind, or even how much time passed as he held the snake in his hands. He would retain a picture of the snake’s black eyes holding his, and the sound of someone speaking in a raspy voice, as if scolding the snake man, who then gently relieved him of the reptile. As he got up on his feet he was dizzy, most likely from having been in a crouching position so long, and he was aware of the brilliant glare of the sun, and of the dust, and of the noise of people and buses. Someone was holding him up. The beggars had gone away.
He had a drink of ice-cold orange soda at a booth and contemplated the prospect ahead of him that day, aware uneasily that people were staring at him. He was on his way to his ancestral village of Be-raja, the name meaning “two kings,” some twenty-five miles out of Jamnagar, this dusty metropolis at which he had arrived yesterday afternoon. There, in that village, he hoped to find an uncle; and perhaps, too, he would find a bride to his liking.
The snake man covered his charge with a lid and, carrying his two baskets in a sack, started walking. When he passed Nagji at the drink stand he put his load down and joined his hands in a gesture of salutation, without quite turning. Nagji, taken aback, attempted likewise, standing up straight, his hands around the soda bottle.
A man in his twenties, dressed in clean but worn clothes—black pants and white shirt—came over and said, “I understand you’ve been inquiring about Be-raja.”
“Yes,” Nagji said, “I’m taking a bus there.”
“The only bus that goes there leaves early in the morning,” the man said. “But I’m going there myself, you can come with me.” Nagji hesitated, observed that the man was about as tall as he was, which was average, though he looked more stolid and a couple of years older. “Do you have a car?” he asked, before realizing the folly of the question.
“No, but we can take a bus to my village, called Bhola; from there it’s a short distance, and we’ll go on my motorbike.”
Nagji followed.
“I’m a teacher,” the man said, “every Wednesday I go to the villages around Be-raja to teach the kids. There are
so no schools in the area. I live in Jamnagar now, but I keep my motorbike in the village, it’s easier that way.” His name was Amin.
“I really believe,” Nagji said, while in the midst of telling his story many years later in Toronto, “that my ancestors in India must have been snake worshippers; that man in the bus station, and myself, we must have been related by our previous births. I remember that in Africa my mother always spoke respectfully of snakes; once when a cobra was reported in the vicinity where we lived, for a few days she would put out a bowl of milk under the lemon tree just outside of our house. This story I heard from my older brother and sisters, it happened when I was a mere toddler, when I would go and play under that lemon tree. My mother, as you know”—Nagji said this rather matter-of-factly—“was up to all sorts of strange things.”
He was talking to his real estate agent who was also the mukhi, the head of his mosque, during one of their drives around looking for a suitable house in the Thornhill area of Toronto. He was relating the story of how once he had become a holy man in India. The mukhi recalled Nagji’s mother as an eccentric who used to mutter to herself as she walked, a mannerism attributed sometimes to an advanced spirituality. Nagji’s father on the other hand had been ordinary, neither the silent type nor the overly gregarious, but simply ordinary, a broker of some sorts dealing in clothing merchandise.
“But we don’t believe in snakes,” the mukhi said, looking at Nagji sceptically. “That’s primitive superstition.”
“But before we became Muslims”—Nagji asserted—“if our ancestors believed in snakes, those beliefs must still be true, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps,” the mukhi said, thinking to himself: What do I know? If you keep faith in a snake or an elephant or a turtle, perhaps that’s all that counts.
A few villagers of Bhola saw the bus’s thick cloud of dust recede with the groan of the engine into the distance, leaving in the wake two figures of men, who then came hurrying down the path from the highway. As they neared the village, a small crowd of men and children had already gathered outside to greet them. When they were close enough to the crowd, Amin hastened forward, ahead of his companion, who took the cue and slowed down, then stopped and watched. Amin had a long chat with the men, some of whom would look up to stare at the visitor. Most of them were barefoot and dressed rather shabbily in dhotis and singlets. They all spoke softly, not a sound escaped to reach Nagji. Amin finally finished and came and said to Nagji, “Why don’t you rest awhile before going on to Be-raja?” “All right,” Nagji said. “They want you to bless their houses,” Amin explained. “All right,” the visitor replied again, nonchalantly, knowing that elders resorted to all manner of formal flattery toward strangers. “Come,” said Amin, and Nagji followed.
As they arrived at the village entrance, which was a gap between two perpendicular rows of dwellings, men and women suddenly came forward and respectfully kissed Nagji’s hands and touched his feet. He was embarrassed and startled, these were not children bowing to him but men and women as old as his parents. As quickly as he could he disentangled himself, pulling his hands back and stepping forward with resolve. In the company of a few men he toured the village, stopping at the houses, all of them very meagre and dark inside, and sometimes laid out with mats. At one of them he sat outside to rest, and was brought water in a glass, then sweet milk to drink from a saucer. He was mildly surprised that nothing to eat was forthcoming. The men were curious about him, and he told them what he suspected Amin had already spread around. He was from Africa, and one of his grandfathers had emigrated from Be-raja. They informed him that some of their people too had gone to Africa long ago. Before Nagji left, he was brought the village’s children to bless. This he did the only way he knew how, by running a hand over their heads.
On Amin’s motorcycle they raced along a back route, on a path that ran between parched fields. “The rains have failed!”—Amin called out over the bike’s roar—“you’ve come at the right time!” “Yes,” shouted back Nagji, confounded. Why was a drought the right time? Perhaps he had not heard right. They hadn’t seen a soul since they left Bhola. The track brought them to a dry road upon which they blazed a trail of dust, slowing down only when they reached a handful of men and women digging inside a ditch. The diggers looked up with the barest curiosity, returned greetings with a similar enthusiasm. They were covered in dust and looked old, and remarkably there seemed nothing to dig for. “Government assistance,” Amin explained to Nagji, “the men and women get paid simply for digging!”
Past this weird sight they came upon a sudden burst of greenery—a good-sized fenced area with leafy mango and other trees, outside a large house painted white. “Some fifteen years ago, a relation of these people came visiting from Africa, and since then he has been sending money to them,” Am
in explained, having slowed down. “And the others—have their relations also visited?” “No, but they are hopeful.” This oasis lay at the edge of Be-raja, and no sooner had they passed it than they reached a junction from which a cart track headed off for the village. Amin dropped him off here, saying, “I have to go further to where I have to teach today, Be-raja is just up the track ahead.”
Nagji started slowly walking. The sky was blue, the sun blazed down. His handkerchief was wet and ragged, he ran it again around the inside of his collar. His brow dripped like a tap. He was thirsty, and so he stopped, removed his bottle of water from his backpack and took a long drink. The yellow track, powdery under his feet, went up a slow incline between the oasis to one side and sparse scrubland to the other. Finally, beyond the summit and behind a mound of dried shrubbery, he had arrived outside the village. A group of some twenty men, women, and children had gathered, expecting him. They must have heard the motorbike.
A thin garland of wilted flowers was put around his neck by one of the men; he was given a glass of sweet milk. As he moved forward some women greeted him with a shower of rice. Such respect and devotion for a returning native!
“I’ve come to see Jivraj Bhai,” he said to the men around him. A diminutive, scrawny man shuffled closer to him, his hands joined respectfully: “I am Jivraj.” He was, Nagji had been told at home, his father’s cousin. Somehow Jivraj was pushed aside and Nagji understood that a hierarchy was in place and he was in the hands of the elders.
The women were in saris and the men wore dhotis round the waist, singlets on top. All were barefoot. In a slow procession of men, Nagji was escorted inside the village to the house of the head man or mukhi, a mud structure like the others but finished with cement. He was invited to sit outside on the raised porch with some of the men to await the mukhi; others stood in a huddle at a distance, watching and listening. Above the main doorway of the house hung a few old and dusty framed photographs. The people in them reminded Nagji of his grandparents.
It took some time for the mukhi to appear; when he did, at the doorway, he looked bathed, shaved, and combed, and he wore slippers. For some moments he appraised Nagji from where he stood. Then he stepped out, space was made for him, and he sat down, facing his guest.
“We are so glad you’ve come,” the mukhi said in a soft, even voice. His name was Hirani. The men around him nodded and murmured agreement. The mukhi added, “The visit of a returning native has been foretold since ancient times; many have left this village, and a few have returned; but you seem to be the one we have expected.”
Nagji looked at the mukhi, befuddled. He didn’t know how to reply. He explained instead, “My grandfather left Be-raja some seventy years ago.”
Hirani and the men nodded.
“Are there more of my relations in the village besides Jivraj?” Nagji asked.
“No,” the mukhi said. “But aren’t we all your relatives?”
“Yes,” Nagji replied, “that is true.”
They were summoned for food, and a few men ate with the guest inside the house, which was a single room with a corner kitchen. The meal was exceedingly simple: a vegetable curry and a daal without much taste, with rice. The vegetables had been mashed in the cooking and were individually indiscernible; they had apparently been grown outside, in the shadow of the raised porch, between houses.
A young man came in and said to Hirani that Murad Bhai had come and was waiting outside.
“Murad Bhai, come and join us,” Hirani called out, though there were scant remains in the pans and the women had yet to eat.
“I’ve eaten,” came Murad Bhai’s jovial voice.
“You will stay at the Big House,” the mukhi informed Nagji. “Murad Bhai will take you there. It is his house.”
There was a tamarind tree a short distance from the mango tree in the enclosed garden of the Big House. It reminded the young man of similar trees near his home in Africa, except that this one had the look of the original thing, with a thick straight stem, thick glistening leaves, and fat tamarind pods dangling alluringly from the branches. On his first morning at the House, after a short walk he went and sat down in its shade, leaning his back against its trunk. He had been given a white dhoti to wear, which he found perfect for the heat. As he sat contemplating the scenery—the bits of green close at hand and the parched brown and yellow beyond—he felt a sense of great calmness. His worries were far behind him now, across the ocean.
Having finished school, Nagji had worked for three years with his father. He expected to get married, but when the neighbours’ girl whom he had always known and liked married someone else, Nagji would not consider another match. He became depressed and turned into a bit of a loner. And so his father suggested that he go to India, look up their relation, and inquire about the family property. He could also try to find a bride. And so here he was in his homeland, where people spoke his language, in exactly the same manner as his mother and father did. They had accepted him so readily, though they were perhaps too effusive in the manner in which they showed this.
Nagji had forgotten to say his prayers that morning; now, his legs crossed under him, he closed his eyes and quickly, by rote, recited them in his mind. When he opened his eyes, he was startled to see a small group of people standing outside the wire fence of the garden, staring at him. Among them were his relation Jivraj and Hirani the mukhi. When they saw him staring back at them, they joined their hands in greeting. Nagji greeted them likewise, as was appropriate. But then, to his amazement, the men entered the garden through the gate and proceeded in deliberate and careful steps toward him, and went down on their knees and bowed low before him, touching their heads to the ground.
“We knew you were the guru promised to us,” Hirani said.
Unwilling to offend those who were his elders, after all, and a little flattered too by their respect, he resolved to play along until time came for him to depart. Slowly, people began to trickle by where he sat, out of respect and from curiosity. They expected to hear him, and so he spoke to them about East Africa: the cities there, the Indians in them, their occupations. The villagers had little idea of the world, except that everything was wonderful elsewhere, while here they were forlorn and forgotten. Over the years, in the past, people had left here and gone far away, crossed the seas to go to Burma and Singapore, Oman, Muscat, Zanzibar and the east coast of Africa; some would return for a bride, a very few others to stay; but gradually those visits had stopped, and for years there would be barely a word from overseas. Those who remained were left with the droughts to face, and increasing hopelessness. The young visitor told them about hardships where he came from, but those were nowhere near what his hosts had always experienced, as they very well knew—hadn’t he afforded the voyage back from all that distance across the sea? Their world had not merely stood still for fifty years and more, it had actually degenerated.
The young man, before setting off for India, had imagined he was going back to the fount of his essence, where peasants were simple and joyful, the women voluptuous and melodic, as in the Indian films; where people had honest, simple values and were spiritual; and from where, when at last he had reached his ancestral village, he would learn the meanings behind all those confusing sectarian practices of faith and ritual and tradition that he had been brought up with. He had found the village; but the people he had discovered turned out to know less than he, who had grown up in a largely prosperous community, and gone daily to a large house of worship with its set and abundant routines. And so he taught them what he knew. In their ramshackle mosque in the evening, he recited hymns for them that they had not heard; he told them the history of their sect that they had long forgotten. He was giving them sermons, not in the haranguing ways he had heard in his childhood, but in the plain manner of a conversation.
One afternoon as he sat at his favourite place, Jivraj recited all the woes that had befallen him. To obtain medical treatment for his partly blinded son, he might have to sell the f
amily plot of land and travel to Bombay. How would he earn a living in the big city? Would he be able to return to his wife and other children? What use was a life that involved so much struggle?
Jivraj had spoken a few times of inviting Nagji home, but was perhaps too embarrassed to have him there. Nagji had met his wife with a young boy one evening in the village; the woman had looked old and pathetic. In better times, she said, she would sell roasted peanuts at the bus stand on the highway; now there was nothing to sell. Nagji had put a few rupees in her boy’s hand.
Now Nagji found himself telling his uncle that one’s struggles were what gave meaning to one’s life; success or defeat were God’s to decide. And much else on the virtues of struggle. He wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, it was simply a homily from his childhood and youth; the type of piety he recalled not too long ago having scorned. Jivraj, unshaved and barefoot, clothed almost in rags, heard him out, and then his face lighted up and he left.
From that day onward it became the practice that every morning as he sat under his tamarind tree, a stream of people would come to bring before him their personal woes, and he would give them the sort of advice he had given his relation Jivraj.