The Complete Collection of Travel Literature

by Tahir Shah

  The Trickster and I took our places with the men. I wondered whether I might have a chance to chat to Jimmy. As if reading my thoughts, an elderly Parsi behind tapped me on the back.

  “The Divine Lights are the purest of all godly creatures,” he said. “Of course no one can speak to them directly, except for those who’ve been cleansed.”

  “Is that really true?”

  The Parsi agreed it was.

  “Could I be cleansed?” I asked optimistically.

  The gentleman looked me up and down and grimaced.

  “Certainly not!” he fumed. “But you can think clean thoughts. The Divine Lights can read what you’re thinking.”

  “Divine Lights?”

  The man gave me an austere glance.

  “Their holinesses,” he said. “They’re powerful … their energy can unlock a man in chains … it can release the ignorance of the soul.”

  It sounded like strong stuff.

  Jimmy and Gururani were alone on the dais. Behind them rose up an extraordinary scene. Like some backdrop to a Hollywood – or, rather, a Bollywood – fantasy, it depicted ice mountains, forests, mythical creatures, and ten-headed cobras. Directly above the deities’ crowns loomed an oversized rotating parasol, emblazoned with the words “Jimmy” and “Gururani”. Behind their holinesses' heads were mounted immense glitter-encrusted golden halos. With sharp serrated edges like great circular saws, they, too, rotated, emphasizing the couple’s divinity.

  The prohibition from speaking to, or even greeting, Jimmy directly hindered the interview process. Fortunately, the devotees were more than willing to surrender fragments of background about their god.

  When he was aged only seven years, Gururani had seen Jimmy emanating divine light. She adopted the boy and raised him as a deity. Like Gururani, Jimmy was a Parsi. But the couple seemed not to condone or condemn any creed. One of their faithful explained this by saying they were above religion. Another imparted that, as deities, they never wore the same set of robes twice. Re-using garments was beneath them. A film producer who I met later suggested the duo rented their tawdry mantles from a costume-hire firm in Bollywood. He swore the very same gowns had been worn in the popular Indian television soap opera of the Ramayana.

  While the disciples took their places, the deities attended to the more mundane business of preparing for the show. Sitting on their thrones, they were greeted by a stream of aides and sycophants. Some seemed to be holding up letters which needed answering; others may have been hoping to place bulk orders for Jimmy’s special brand of incense.

  The goddess Gururani opened her sensible handbag and whipped out a scarlet lipstick. When her lips were suitably adorned, the festivities began.

  An accordionist ran a set of manicured nails across his instrument’s keys. The hall was filled with the soothing sounds of Hindi music. A primitive system of wires and loud-speakers broadcast the music to the devotees outside. Poised on their thrones, with the electric halos whirring behind them, Jimmy and Gururani held their right palms towards the back of the hall, like Native American chiefs offering a greeting. Then they did what they did best – sat quiescently as those around them prostrated themselves.

  The night’s ritual was long and elaborate. When the band had warmed up, Gururani took a microphone in her right hand, stepped into the center of the stage, and began to sing. An Arab friend of mine says that, to his untrained ear, Italian opera sounds like the wailing of she-camels. In the same way, my ears failed to appreciate the goddess’ ability.

  For almost an hour I endured an agonizing cross-legged position. When Gururani had returned to her throne, and her halo had been reactivated, Jimmy grabbed the microphone. A deep, rhythmical voice streamed from his mouth. The words blared from speakers mounted on every wall.

  Outside, it had begun to rain: not a modest April shower, but a full-blown monsoon downpour. I peered out. The eight thousand adherents were sitting cross-legged and obedient as the water soaked them. They might have left, but the powerful strains of Jimmy’s voice wafted around them, soothing them in their discomfort.

  The shimmering blue robes and the music – which was not dissimilar to an early Elvis ballad – would have delighted the Dorfmans. Jimmy could certainly pound out the tunes. Although I understand no Gujarati, I was mesmerized by the sheer force of his voice. For a split second I entertained the thought of getting Sri Jimmy a recording contract. His alternative clothing, his mellow attitude to life, and his incense know-how would have gone down well at any Los Angeles record label. But communication would be the stumbling block. What record producer would sign a man who was too pure to speak to him?

  The solo ballads came and went. After the music, each devotee lit a miniature ghee lamp. These were handed to footmen, who bore them up to the dais on silver trays. When the gods had blessed each tray, the lamps were conveyed back down to the followers. Only then did the audience participation ensue. With the lamps balanced precariously on their laps, the devotees swayed back and forth ecstatically. Every so often a member of the congregation would jump up and run all around, gripped by the divine light. In the commotion a woman’s sari caught alight. She flapped her arms back and forth frantically like a moth’s wings. Eventually those around her realized their companion was all but a ball of flames. The inferno was quietly extinguished.

  Outside the hall, the eight thousand weather-worn disciples were still struggling to light their ghee lamps with damp matches. The monsoon and the winds were not making the task any easier.

  When all the lamps had been blessed by the deities, the band struck up again. I leaned back and savored the encounter. The folk music, the headscarves worn by all, the flaming colors of the robes, the flickering lamps, and the scenic backdrop – they were all reminiscent of a gypsy encampment. I nudged Bhalu and asked him what he thought of my analogy. He had not been to a Romany encampment and so refrained from commenting. But the bearded man beside me was more than willing to offer his opinion. He told me that if I denigrated Sri Jimmy further, he would take me outside and deal with me.

  The last thing on my mind was knocking the part-time god. It would have been wrong to vilify Jimmy and his group. Certainly, international cults with their multi-million-dollar turnovers may be fair game. Yet here was a man who was taking nothing from his disciples. He wasn’t even performing pseudo-miracles. His followers seemed content with a selection of gypsy ballads. Granted, they provided him with opulent gowns, but there were none of the tell-tale signs hinting at a big business dynamic. The hall was rented on an ad hoc basis. The robes were, supposedly, hired when needed; and I didn’t hear the swiping of credit card donations or the nervous laughter of foreign supporters.

  Jimmy’s incense was on sale at a stall outside the auditorium. Priced at ten rupees a box, it was cheaper than competing brands; as were the key fobs and badges which bore the haunting image of the five-headed cobra.

  Jimmy’s extravaganza ended abruptly at three a.m. As Bhalu and I made our way from the hall, I felt deflated. At first I wondered why I had been hit by the sudden change of mood. Was it that I had been lured by the prospect of deception, and found none? Or had my twisted alter ego been craving to make fun of the deity? Perhaps it was a little of both. On reflection I had to admit the truth: Jimmy, the part-time god, may have been a showman of unparalleled expertise … but he was no laughing matter.

  * * * *

  Sitting in the doorway of Jan Fishan’s tomb, Hafiz Jan had recounted all he knew about the Anglo-Afghan Wars. He had told me of the blood and gore; and he had deliberated on how the British had been routed on three occasions from Afghan soil.

  The British may have forgotten the three wars they fought in Afghanistan. But in a neglected corner of Mumbai a memory of the sanguinary encounters remains. It was Hafiz Jan who had first mentioned the Afghan Church, located at the southern tip of Colaba. I remember our conversation well. I had said an Afghan church was a contradiction in terms. Almost all Afghans are followers of Islam.
The guardian of Jan Fishan’s mausoleum had rolled about with laughter. The Afghan Church was, he had said, a nickname. It was there, overlooking the Arabian Sea that the British war dead from the Anglo-Afghan campaigns had been honored.

  Before my triumphant return to Calcutta, I had an afternoon to spare. A second meeting with Blake had reminded me of Hafiz Jan’s conversation about the church. Bhalu had no interest in inspecting the names of dead colonials carved into floor slabs. And so I set out by myself.

  Colaba may be part of Mumbai’s bustling downtown area, but its southern expanse, towards Cuffe Parade, is seldom visited by well-dressed professionals or by the city’s share of emaciated, low-budget tourists. I meandered down Colaba Causeway. It was still early. Street vendors were setting up their stalls. Visitors from the Arabian Gulf, who favor the district’s sea-front hotels, were still in bed. On Strand Road a ball-point-pen-seller was displaying his new range of Japanese pens. He demonstrated the subtle clicking action of their mechanism. When I rejected his wares, the merchant threw stones at a three-legged pye dog. It was a dastardly retaliation. Like everyone else, he knew that Westerners cannot stand to see a dog in pain. I bought a pen and strolled on.

  On past the Sassoon Docks and the Koli fisherwomen. Fine-boned, with baskets of pomfret on their heads, they hurried about in the early-morning light. Fish is a scarce commodity in the monsoon. The strengthened currents and the seasonal rains are the bane of fishermen across Asia.

  Very soon the tarmac road was wending its way through groves of palms and lush vegetation. It was hard to imagine that the turbulent streets of Mumbai were only a mile or so to the north. Turning a corner, I set eyes upon the so-called Afghan Church.

  Officially known as the Church of St. John, the Neo-Gothic building is topped by a formidable steeple, reaching over two hundred feet into the sky. Its coarse buff basalt facing was in excellent condition, considering it was over a hundred and thirty years old.

  As I pushed open the gate to the enclosure, large irregular droplets of rain started to fall: warning that a far heavier monsoon downpour would soon follow. I rushed to the church’s main door, twisted the iron handle. Within moments I was transported back in time.

  The interior of the Afghan Church was silent and austere. It reeked of an era when the subcontinent was in the grip of the British Raj. Walking on the cool flagstones at the back of the nave, one could almost sense the survivors of the Anglo-Afghan campaigns praying there. The air was stale and dank. Dim monsoon light filtered through the stained-glass friezes of the chancel. The church was like a remote isle, sequestered from the clamor of modern Mumbai. It was as if the spirits of the dead haunted the place, unwilling to relinquish it.

  Tiny, insignificant reminders of their presence were all around. The scuff of a hobnailed boot on the skirting; the initials of an infantryman, etched into a lacquered frame; and, most poignant of all, the actual British battle standards from the First Anglo-Afghan War. Shrouded behind antique glass like anatomical specimens, they were at the point of disintegration. Delicate as dragonfly wings, they hung like medieval pennons from a knight’s lance. Had my own ancestor – Jan Fishan Khan – ridden against these standards during the battles of 1842?

  Outside, the day’s first monsoon deluge was well under way. Drops of rain were splattering on to the granite flagstones through multiple perforations in the roof. I ran a hand over the row of lacquered chairs at the back of the church. Each had a notch for a soldier’s rifle – insurance against being taken unawares, instituted after the Revolt of 1857. As my fingers progressed over the glossed wood, a chill ran down my spine.

  A man was sitting in the front row.

  From where I was standing, I could just see the back of his head. His hair was pigeon-gray and brushed back. At first I thought it might be a ghost. Perhaps one of the soldiers. Had he been slain by Jan Fishan and, realizing who I was, come for retribution? My forebear would, I was sure, have wanted me to face any ghost head on. And so I marched down the nave to confront whatever spirit it might be.

  Five rows before the altar, and I felt a sharp pang at the base of my stomach. Was it a warning to turn on my heel and flee? Three more rows and my nose warned me of a well known aroma. One more step. I was inches from the figure. Just as I was about to touch him on the shoulder, he swiveled sharply to face me.

  No face – living or dead – could have filled me with a greater sensation of astonishment.

  It was Feroze.

  Delighted that I had collapsed into the chair behind his, the Master stood up.

  “Surprised to see me?” he sniffed.

  “Well, er …”

  Feroze swished an “F” in the air with his reliable bull’s pizzle riding crop. He was obviously jubilant.

  “There’s no time to dilly-dally,” he said. “Haven’t heard from you in ages. Thought I’d better come and check you hadn’t run off.”

  I wiped the perspiration from my top lip.

  “How did you know to find me here? Wait a minute – how did you know I was in Mumbai, let alone here?”

  The magician tilted his head back and stroked his Adam’s apple. He was relishing the moment.

  “You underestimate me,” he said.

  “I could never do that,” I answered. “But this was the last place I expected to see you …”

  “Why haven’t you posted any reports in the last two weeks?”

  “I’d given up. I called the house … Gokul said you were away. He said you’d been gone for a long time.”

  Feroze gazed up at the rafters.

  “Yes … I’ve been on a journey myself,” he said absently.

  “Really? What kind of journey?”

  Clicking his heels together like a sergeant on the parade ground, the Master faced me in profile.

  “I’ve been on a journey of observation,” he said.

  It was a familiar phrase.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You tell me what I mean … With one eye examine the detail, with the other look at the entire picture.”

  I thought hard and, as I thought, a second frozen chill shot down my spine.

  “Your journey,” I said. “Did it by any chance have anything to do with my own journey?”

  Feroze licked his lips with furtive anticipation.

  “Had your eyeballs read recently?” he asked, bending over to tie a shoelace.

  “Eyeballs? Yes, as a matter of …

  I looked across at the Master, who was looming over me with folded arms like an executioner. His brilliantined hair had been miraculously concealed beneath a giant off-white turban. A moth-eaten patch was covering his right eye. He fished a dessert spoon from the welt pocket of his vest, and licked it.

  “The eyeball-reader at Ongole … that was you!”

  Rising up on tiptoe, the Master smiled wryly. Without a word, he waited for me to ferret out the truth myself. Feroze always disliked doing someone else’s thinking for them.

  As I sat there in the draft of the church hall, I began to understand.

  “The journey, my journey, was really your journey of observation, wasn’t it? It was designed for you to observe me.”

  Hakim Feroze tugged off the eyeball-reader’s disguise and stuffed away the spoon.

  “Had a very lucky trip, meeting so many interesting people, haven’t you?” he said, without answering my question.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You tell me …”

  I contemplated his words. He had a point. Even for India, with its constant stream of improbable characters, I had crossed paths with an excess of sages, swamis and eccentrics.

  I thought back to the many unlikely episodes of the expedition.

  “Sri Gobind in Madras … is that why he welcomed me so hospitably? And the duel at Sholapur?”

  Feroze narrowed his eyes and smiled.

  I scrolled back, remembering the other outlandish characters.

  “Mr. Jafar and his lousy over-priced herbal gasolin
e … did you have anything to do with him? And what about the godman at Nandul … and the witch and, for that matter, what about Goadbaba?”

  Climbing up on to the church’s altar, the Master rubbed his hands together and burst into laughter.

  “We all need a little help from time to time,” he said.

  “Help?”

  Feroze smacked his hands together five times in a slow clap, until the nave echoed like a belfry at midnight. Outside, the rain was still pelting down. The church door seemed to open and slam. I assumed it was the wind.

  “What’s all this about help?”

  As usual, the Master wasn’t listening to my question. He was staring at something behind me. I turned round to face the aisle. Then came the morning’s second moment of perplexity.

  Behind me, standing to attention in the church’s nave, was Bhalu.

  In silence he went over to Feroze and greeted him. Then he turned to me and scratched his ear.

  “What would you have done without me?” he laughed.

  Like a Grand-Master who has checkmated the opponent in four moves, Feroze bathed in the satisfaction of it all.

  “I don’t believe this,” I stammered. “It’s impossible!”

  “Impossible as your chance meeting with Guptaji at Jamshedpur?”

  “What are you talking about? That was Venky’s idea,” I said, biting my lip at revealing my own secret weapon.

  “Ah, yes, Venkatraman the rickshawalla,” spat Feroze. “Nice chap, isn’t he?”

  “You know him? You know Venky?”

  The magician raised an eyebrow.

  “Next thing,” I said, “you’ll be telling me you were responsible for Vatson and the Aghori sadhu in Varanasi.”

  Feroze looked at the floor bashfully. He descended from the altar and sat down on the chair beside mine.

  “So you knew all along I was coming to Calcutta? That chance meeting at the Albert Hall … it wasn’t chance at all, was it?”

  The sorcerer remained tight-lipped. Instead of replying, he took a deep breath, timing the inhalation with his trusty pocket-watch.

  “I suppose,” I said astringently, “you arranged for me to be robbed on the Farakka Express as well.”