by Ryan Lobo
‘Really.’
‘Yes. Really,’ says Bencho, cracking the reins and giving Trishala a scare.
They ride along in silence. The terrain becomes hilly and Trishala slows down, Iyer getting off on inclines to make it easier for her. Cresting a small hill, they see that the cavalcade has stopped by a brightly painted circus truck parked by the side of the road. Its hood is raised, a small man hammering away at the engine block. The truck carries a cage partially covered with a tarpaulin. And within its bars, ignoring a cloud of flies, sits a massive Bengal tiger.
Trishala freezes, braying loudly, the smell of tiger rank in her nostrils. Jumping off the tonga, Iyer walks towards Ranjana, who is standing near the cage admiring the precious cargo.
‘Aah, Mr Bhīma, come. All you men like to show your teeth when women are present, but why don’t we see what happens with there are a few more teeth in the equation,’ she says, smiling.
‘This beast is caged, humiliated and tamed. The tigers I knew were fierce, wild and free,’ Iyer says.
Iyer walks around the cage, the Bengal tiger’s eyes following his every move.
‘Do not come too close,’ warns the man who had been working on the engine. ‘He loves the taste of clowns.’
Iyer breathes in the smell of the tiger and closes his eyes. When he opens them, the tiger is not where it was; it glides towards the bars at a slight angle to Iyer, its tail twitching.
‘My old friend. How are you? You must feel alone, caged and surrounded by monkeys,’ says Iyer tenderly, a look of deep empathy on his face.
The tiger sits down, his orange eyes fixed on Iyer.
‘We are alike, you and I. Don’t you think?’ he asks, and takes a step towards the cage.
Suddenly, without warning, Iyer knocks off the latch and the cage door screeches open.
There is a quiet, desperate rush for the cars, with much shoving involved. Trishala trots away hurriedly. In moments, Iyer is the only man standing in the open except for the keeper, who dashes under the truck.
Ranjana finds herself in the front seat, sitting on Bencho’s lap, flanked by several bodyguards jammed into the car.
Oblivious to the chaos, Iyer continues.
‘You and I see eye to eye. We understand each other but this modern lady does not.’
The tiger snarls, its face twisting, falling into a crouch. Ranjana gasps.
‘You understand, don’t you pussycat?’ says Iyer unblinkingly. ‘Do you want to stay in your cage and be chattered at by these monkeys? Or do you want one last great battle before I release you into a better birth from this inglorious time? I can do that for you, my dear friend,’ offers Iyer.
The tiger yawns, its yellow canines half the length of Iyer’s face, still crouched.
‘We were free once. We were masters of our world,’ intones Iyer, his eyes meeting the tiger’s, who roars. Bencho cannot help but utter a suppressed shriek.
‘Yes. I feel the same,’ says Iyer to the tiger. ‘I do not like talking. There is bliss in the world. Let us embrace it together, my friend. The way things were.’
Iyer steps back some paces and twirls his staff, ready for battle.
‘I am ready. There are no cages where we shall go. Come, my friend, come,’ Iyer says, speaking as though to a child.
The tiger crouches, its tail twitching and every muscle tensed, staring at Iyer, who stares back at him, twirling his staff. ‘I am Bhīma, destroyer of evil, tamer of elephants and the master of the mace. I will free you.’
The keeper pops out from under the truck, whose length he has crawled beneath, and slams the cage door shut just as the tiger tenses to leap. The gates clang shut. Enclosed again, the feline circles the cage, snarling, its tail lashing from side to side.
‘You are insane!’ screams the keeper hoarsely, advancing towards Iyer with the spanner. ‘He would have torn you to bits.’
‘How dare you?’ snaps Iyer, furious at being interrupted. ‘I was teaching him how to be who he truly is!’ Then Iyer pauses, and says thoughtfully to no one, ‘Yet, his non-cooperation might also be a revolt against this modern age.’
Gasping with excitement, Ranjana tumbles out of the BMW, followed by the rest of her entourage.
‘You are insane,’ she says, running towards Iyer.
‘All you brave men with machine guns! Come out of your hiding places. My sir, Bhīma, is not afraid,’ laughs Bencho, directing his jibe at the inspector, but his laughter is replaced with a shriek as the tiger roars, swiping at the bars with his paw.
A strange feeling comes over Ranjana suddenly, a sense she hasn’t had in a long time. Placing her hand over her ribcage, she hears her heart beat. She notices the risen hair on her arms and the clean, metallic taste of adrenaline. The air is cleaner, the scenery more pronounced now, and even single leaves are more defined and shine with colour. A spontaneous giggle leaps out of her mouth.
So this is being alive!
‘Are you satisfied, my queen?’
‘Not yet, Mr Iyer, not yet.’
‘I am a little disappointed with that tiger. His spirit seems to have been caged for too long. I have known him in other avatars, when he would not have hesitated.’
‘He still has his animal instincts, no?’ says Ranjana, her lips parted.
‘Animal instincts? A tiger in a cage only knows the cage. When we get used to our cages it becomes a habit. Keep that habit and it becomes your character. Maintain your character and in another life it turns up as instinct.’
They resume their journey. Ranjana’s convoy speeds ahead, leaving the tonga straggling far behind. In the midst of endless fields dotted with stunted trees and bent-over farmers, the cavalcade reaches a large house with big gates, standing on acres of land and surrounded by rose gardens.
Ranjana’s car enters the gates, stopping for her to instruct a gardener not to overwater a bed of sunset roses, shockingly orange against the black Gangetic soil. They drive past gleaming, velvety lawns, a pond, a crowd of waiting supplicants, and the security men leaning against their Maruti Gypsies, standing to attention but ignored, as Ranjana is driven into the car park at the rear end of the bungalow.
Preoccupied with tigers and fools, Ranjana enters the house, ignoring the barefooted farmers who crowd the entrance hall with repaired sandals attached to weathered feet and eyes that follow her across the room.
There is laughter coming from the office at the end of the corridor, and Ranjana bursts in, the guard stepping aside to let her pass.
Jayachandra sits at his desk, chatting with the commissioner. He’s trim for his fifty-five years, dressed in a brilliant white shirt over grey slacks, looking happy and relaxed. A bottle of Laphroaig lies open on the sideboard; a sweating glass leaves condensation marks on the rosewood.
‘I heard you found your fool?’ Jayachandra asks, smiling. ‘A genuine fool is very hard to find these days. What say, commissioner?’
‘Well, as the fool would say, a fool thinks he’s wise, but a wise man knows that he’s a fool,’ Ranjana replies.
‘She has brought home snake charmers, travelling musicians, gypsies, and now this,’ Jayachandra says indulgently to the commissioner. ‘Our dear commissioner has reported to me that there is fear of a terrorist attack on the Kumbh Mela, different factions of Naga babas have been threatening each other over bathing timings, our local candidate has too many cases against him – the usual caste-violence nonsense – and the elections are just around the corner.’
‘I can ask for help from Delhi. We can also try for a CRPF battalion,’ the commissioner says, ‘but I am not too sure about the Naga babas. They rush down to the water in thousands, so managing them could be difficult.’
‘Yes, we also need to find a candidate from a lower caste – you know exactly which one, commissioner – to put up against our own candidate: not popular enough to appeal to our voters but good enough to eat into his opponent’s vote bank. A proper man of the people, you know,’ Jayachandra says, leaving his desk
and exiting the room. ‘We need to entertain them. Entertainment! An entertaining candidate for the elections! The Kumbh will look after itself like it always has.’
‘Darling,’ says Ranjana, ‘I know just the man! Now, don’t write him off just because … well, you’ll see.’
Jayachandra nods at his capricious wife, intrigued as to what she is going to come up with this time. Hearing the tonga coming up the driveway, she stares out of the window and says, ‘They’ve arrived!’
Ranjana had instructed the guards to show every courtesy to their new guests, and Bencho is most impressed when the massive wrought-iron gates are thrown open and a guard runs out into the road, blowing his whistle unnecessarily. They pass under unnecessary arches and into the rose garden, which is glistening from having just been watered.
Trishala, confronted with fields of moist petals after a long and tiring journey, decides to go her own way and walks into the rose beds, chomping at the blossoms. Bencho sees Ranjana on the balcony and waves, dropping a rein. His wave is unreturned and, feeling the slackness of her reins, Trishala walks deeper into the rose patch, chomping down on Ranjana’s prized blooms, using her lips to delicately separate the blooms from their thorny stems. Bencho leans forward to retrieve the rein, slips off the cart and falls into a rose bush.
A hundred metres away, livid at seeing her prized blooms being masticated, Ranjana starts cursing vividly and Jayachandra bursts out laughing.
‘My dear beautiful Ranjana, now I know why I love you more and more very day.’
‘Damn them,’ she says, her pupils pinpricks of annoyance, but Jayachandra places his hands on her shoulders and caresses them, making her close her eyes. She moans, ignoring the commissioner, who watches the scene with a lascivious smile.
‘Sir, I knew with your influence I could get my corporator nomination,’ says an emotional Bencho, pulling Trishala and the cart away from the roses, the wheels crushing several plants on their way out. ‘What a big house! See, sir!’ exclaims Bencho, adjusting his pants and pointing at a huge marble sculpture of Venus flanked by a statue of the goddess Kali amongst the roses. ‘Look at how much we spend on the residence of just one politician.’
They reach the shaded front entrance and Iyer jumps off the donkey cart while Bencho unhitches Trishala. A wide series of steep steps lead to the oversized door. Bencho tethers Trishala and follows Iyer to the door. Behind them, a security man sits on a tin chair in the shadow of a bougainvillea. Bencho freezes when he sees him.
It is The Lover who glares at them from his folding chair, a sten gun on his lap.
‘You, sir,’ Iyer says, inclining his head in The Lover’s direction graciously as Bencho gasps with fright.
The Lover stares at Iyer, unslings his weapon and rises to his feet.
24
He walks towards and past them, Bencho flinching as he passes. He pushes open the door and stands there, looking bored.
The Lover’s face is blank except for his scar, which pulses like a living creature.
The door opens into a massive hall. The Lover announces their arrival.
‘Brahmachari Bhīma and …’
‘Bencho,’ hisses Bencho, looking into the dimly lit hall and not seeing anything except for a few underweight labourers crouched over tables.
‘Bencho,’ intones The Lover, staring into the middle distance, his voice echoing back at them from the shadows. The hall extends fifty metres into the shadows, and the eastern portion of the room opens into a wide verandah that overlooks a secluded bathing ghat where the river roars by at great speed. Further downstream, visible through the windows, is Prayag, the confluence of the Ganges, Yamuna and Saraswati. Flocks of gulls are whirling above the meeting point, their distant screeching audible through the barred windows of the room.
Steel racks fill the halls in rows that recede into the darkness. Rows of outdated computer terminals stretch along the far end, covered in dust and plastic sheets, the remnants of botched and forgotten government schemes. The ground is littered with rat droppings, and they can hear bats in the asbestos roof forty feet above. Some of the racks contain old files and various government records, while others have been cleared and are filled with antiquities, mainly bits and pieces of temple carvings, heads, hands and torsos that are lying about on shelves and in piles on the floor.
A large, dreaming Vishnu occupies a table, covered in bubble wrap, its face destroyed. Gandhara Buddhas are being wrapped in gunnysack cloth and plastic packing on another table, blissful heads sticking out of the bubble wrap. A damaged Durga seated on a legless stone lion is swaddled in cloth and plastic, its sword emerging like a flagstaff. Further to their right is a table with a pot of tea and a bowl of fried cashew nuts, laid out like an offering at the foot of a massive six-foot-high Nataraja – an avatar of Lord Shiva, the Lord of the cosmic Dance – one of his four arms pointed delicately towards his left foot, poised over the little demon Apasmara Purusha, the embodiment of ignorance, whom the Nataraja crushes with his right foot, matted locks whirling about him as he dances endlessly within a circular arch of flames, the endless cycle of birth and death, creation and destruction. It is the only undamaged sculpture in the room.
Iyer is transfixed.
Om Namah Shivaya.
He is overwhelmed with the beauty of the unmarked sculpture.
‘Hello!’ says Bencho, feeling apprehensive, his voice echoing in the hall. ‘Where are these things going?’ he whispers to Iyer.
‘It is an honor to have the great brahmachari Bhīma in my humble abode. And his faithful friend as well.’
Before Iyer can answer, Jayachandra himself is seen walking down an aisle from the other end of the room towards them, accompanied by Ranjana and a group of people: the commissioner, The Lover, the inspector and Jayachandra’s secretary, a flamboyant-looking man with a thin moustache in a Charagh Din shirt. Jayachandra’s face breaks into a smile as he sees Iyer and Bencho.
‘Take a deep breath. You can smell history in this room.’
‘Good day, dear queen and king,’ says Iyer, bowing theatrically as they approach.
‘And a good day to you too, sirs.’ Bencho moves behind Iyer, feeling unbearably nervous at being addressed by the MLA.
‘Is something bothering you, Bencho? Is there anything I can do for you?’ Ranjana asks.
‘If you don’t mind, madam, there is,’ Bencho says, looking out from behind Iyer. ‘My donkey has not eaten today. She needs some grass and a shady spot, please.’
‘Go and feed the donkey,’ Ranjana says to the inspector.
‘And do not approach her from the backside or she will kick you. Like this,’ Bencho says, bending over and kicking backwards. ‘Approach her from the front and grab her like this,’ he says, turning to the man next to him and demonstrating, realising too late that it’s The Lover.
‘Bencho!’ Iyer says under his breath, and Bencho quickly releases him.
‘If she tries to kick you, kick her back! Or she will lose respect for you and kick you the next chance she gets. Understand?’ says Bencho earnestly.
Jayachandra laughs out loud, delighted with Bencho’s intricate request, noting the amusement on the faces of those present. The Lover’s scar is now so red, it looks like a fresh wound.
‘Fighting demons must be tiring work, brahmachari. Why do you do what you do?’ Jayachandra asks, walking up to the dreaming Vishnu and motioning for Iyer to approach.
‘One feels happiness when on the true path. And with the gods as company too.’
Jayachandra laughs at his double-entendre.
‘These gods are the ones I’ve saved, not the types that save us,’ Jayachandra says, touching the Vishnu.
Iyer moves to the Durga statue – a deity he has often invoked as protection against the night – now covered in packing material, her eyes fierce even when cast in stone, staring out from the midst of straw and Thermocol.
‘What is so fascinating about Hindu goddesses is how they can be so many fo
rms,’ Jayachandra says, looking at Ranjana. ‘She can be Durga, Parvati or Kali. She can be dark or fair, violent or peaceful, angry or blissful. She can be a loving mother, a terrifying killer or a transcendent lover. She can be married or single, a man-eater or a lover. She can cradle you in her arms or tear your heart from your chest.’
The confidence with which he holds forth, Bencho notes, is like Iyer’s confidence, only that Jayachandra’s is based on his power here on earth.
‘To answer the question you’re undoubtedly asking, the gods are paying for the living. I try to ensure progress, Bhīmaji. See these lands, on which farmers are toiling under the sun. I want to make them like Bangalore or Delhi one day. What do you think of that?’
‘I have visited both Delhi and Bangalore a few times: concentrations of sweatshops and malls, apartments without water supply and false promises from billboards. These cities reveal a great civilisation in decline.’
‘That’s better than slaving away in a field, no? Beset by snakes and insects? I am working very hard on a book now about the pursuit of progress. I believe that we live in an intelligent time and we are fortunate to be born in this modern age.’
‘Many believe that all a man needs for the acquisition of truth is to use his brains, and to work hard. The ascetic life is frowned upon, but the brahmachari knows the connection between the knowledge of truth and his own purity. The intellectual life is but an expression of the moral life. Only he who keeps the vessel clean will receive the truth, and kripa is necessary for this.’
‘Kripa?’
‘The Christians call it grace.’
‘Ah yes, grace. Yes,’ Jayachandra nods.
‘We experience the world with our senses and speak of it with words. But our souls are structured differently, which is why we feel that something is always missing, that some aspect of us lives outside words, beyond what can be thought.’
‘Well, one’s truth is as we make it. It is separate from what we do. Many of our modern thinkers had lives filled with sinister dealings and illicit relationships, but their conclusions were profound, both in terms of effect and logic. Would you agree?’ Jayachandra asks.