Cow and Company

by Parashar Kulkarni

  ‘No, no. Andrew Young,’ he responded.

  ‘Mr Young, na? Jaanta hun unhe, purane bhakt hain, bahot purane. Unko mera pranaam dijiye. Andar baithiye. Abhi aata hoon. Bahot kaam sar par hain, aap dekh hi rahe ho (Oh, Mr Young? I know him. Old devotee, very old devotee. Give him my best wishes. Please go in and sit. I’ll join you in a moment. Much to take care of as you can see).’ The swami released Young’s arm. Young and the officer were ushered into a room adjacent to the auditorium. It took about three minutes for the swami to arrive. In spite of encountering a few Englishmen in his life, he had tried hard not to learn any English. A translator had long found a place among his faithful disciples.

  ‘Kya kar sakta hoon tumhare liye? (What can I do for you?)’

  ‘We are here because the professor referred us to you.’

  ‘Haan, woh jaante hain mujhe. Har koi mujhe jaanta hain. Hum sabhi bhaktoon ka uddhar karte hain. Bhagwan ne isiliye to itna diya hai (Yes, he knows me. Everybody knows me. I am here for the salvation of all devotees. This is why God has given me so much),’ said the swami.

  ‘We have some questions about paan.’

  ‘Paan! Tumhara matlab paaaan? (Paan! You mean paaaan?)’ the swami whispered to one of his disciples, ‘Baanke ke liye to nahin pooch rahe hain? (Is he asking for Baanke?)’ Then, turning to the officer he said, ‘Galti ho gayi, galti? Is baar kya gul khilaye hain Baanke ne? (Must be a mistake. Mistake? What did Baanke do this time?)’

  ‘He says you have the wrong person. He is not the paan vendor, his brother is; a small shop in the village. His brother’s name is Baanke,’ explained the translator.

  ‘Business, paan business,’ the swami corrected.

  ‘Yes, big business, in the village. He is very busy. He has no time for lunch. He has not come to Bombay for a long time. Not since—’ the translator stopped.

  ‘Sir, he says we have mistaken him for his brother,’ the officer told Young.

  ‘Why are you looking for him?’ the translator asked of his own volition.

  ‘Poocho, Baanke ko kaise jaante hain? Itna naam ho gaya? Gore bhi uska paan maang rahe hain, Bombay mein. Ya fir charas—? (Ask him how he knows Baanke. Has he become so popular that even the English are asking for his paan in Bombay? Or is it cannabis—?)’ the swami asked the translator.

  ‘Why do you want paan from my brother—his brother?’ asked the translator. ‘Is it code for something else? What kind of paan do you want?’

  ‘We have some questions for you. The professor said you were the right person, a famous religious preacher who had all the answers about paan,’ said the officer.

  ‘Haath dikhana chah rahe ho kya? (Do you want me to read your palm?)’ asked the swami, grasping Young’s right hand that lay innocently on the table. Young looked at the officer.

  ‘Shani ke ghane badal sir par mandra rahe hain (The dark clouds of Saturn are hovering over your head),’ the swami intoned.

  ‘Shani?’ exclaimed Young, withdrawing his hand.

  ‘Shani, aathve ghar mein hain (Saturn, it is in the eighth house).’

  ‘You don’t even know when I was born. Even if you did, don’t tell me millions of people across the world face the same fate.’

  ‘Kaun bolta hai? Agar haathon ki saari rekhaoon ka sanyojan karo, koi aisi jaa rahee hain, koi waisi, to jitne dharti par ab log hain, jo jaa chuke aur jo aanewale hain, unse jyada rekhayen hongi. Har haath alag hota hai. Main vishva-prasiddha jyotish hoon. Paise bhi nahin loonga (Says who? If you add up all the permutations and combinations of the lines on your hand, some going this way and some, that way, it adds up to more than the number of people on earth at any given moment. It will be more than the number of all who have passed and all who are yet to come. Every hand is unique. I am a renowned palmist. I will not charge you).’ He took Young’s hand again.

  ‘Agle mehne, har Shanivaar, tum ek kali gai ko roti de sakte hoo, ghee aur til ke saath. Aur maans band. Tumhe pata hai kali gai kahaan milegi? . Mera chela tumhari madat karega. Woh jaanta hai, is ilaake ki kaali gayon ko (For the next month, every Saturday, can you feed roti with butter and sesame to a black cow? Also, abstain from eating meat. Do you know where you can find a black cow? My disciple will help you. He knows many black cows in this area).’

  Turning to the disciple he asked, ‘Jaanta hai na, kali gayon ko? (You do know some black cows, don’t you?)’

  ‘Haan, haan, kali kya, gori gayon ko bhi to jaante hain (Yes, yes. Not only black cows, I also know the white ones),’ the disciple responded.

  ‘All this on Saturdays?’ asked Young.

  ‘Ya fir, mehne ke pehle, sau gayon ko khana khila do, bas. Shanivaar nahin hua to bhi theek hai, koi bhi din le lo. Ginti mat bhoolna, sau gaay, kisi bhi rang ki, na ek jyada, na ek kam (Or, feed a hundred cows before the month is up, that is all. It doesn’t have to be a Saturday. Any day will do. Don’t forget to count, exactly one hundred cows, of any colour, not one more, not one less).’

  ‘I am not here to show you my palm, why don’t we—’

  ‘Phir mat boolna, chetavni nahin di (Later don’t say I didn’t warn you).’

  ‘Sir, look at mine,’ the officer presented his hand.

  ‘Bayaan nahin, dayaan (Not the left, the right).’

  ‘My left hand dominates my right.’

  ‘Tum jahaan ho wahin theek ho (You’re fine where you are),’ he said with a single glance. The officer was disappointed. His family astrologer was a lot more encouraging.

  ‘You tell him exactly what I tell you. Not one word more, not one less. Am I clear?’ Young ordered the officer.

  ‘Sir says he has two rupees for you for which you have to answer five questions . about paan,’ the officer said.

  ‘Ask, ask,’ said the swami in English. ‘Translate,’ he commanded the translator.

  ‘Ask, ask,’ the translator repeated.

  ‘Question one: Why are there more clove-eaters in Mahim than in Colaba or Fort?’

  ‘Mahim mein log laung kyon khate hain? Kar lo baat . Kitaboon mein dekhna padega. Meri yahaan manyata hai, yun hi nahin. Tumhe gumraah nahin karna chahta. Vedon mein to aisa kuch nahin likha ki Mahim mein laung nahin khani chahiye (Why do people eat cloves in Mahim? What a question! . I have to look through my texts. I have a reputation to keep so I don’t say anything that could be misleading. There’s nothing in the Vedas that forbids the consumption of cloves in Mahim),’ said the swami.

  ‘Bachke rahiye (Beware),’ whispered a disciple in the swami’s ear.

  ~

  The swami remembered a report in a Hindi newspaper about Englishmen striking odd conversations with unsuspecting Hindus and then writing anecdotes to amuse magazine readers in London. News travelled fast in this town. Reporters were no longer brought to Bombay. It was a saturated market. Instead, they were taken north, even beyond Delhi, to the foothills of the Himalayas. The true devotees, those who treated their body as a site of worship, those who had truly pushed themselves to the edge and beyond, those who began the day with deep absorption, followed by surya namaskar, pranayama, tridosha asanas, bandhas and then meditation, visualization and finally, at night, laughed alongside others, loved and levitated, these practitioners had long vanished, made themselves invisible, transformed themselves into air, water, and the mountain. What remained was industriousness. These new entrepreneurs would get their hands on the juiciest performer. In the good old days, it was generally someone’s uncle. The uncle would be placed on an elaborately decorated pedestal. A sandalwood incense stick would be placed next to him. He would be given some opium. Finally, he would recite some obtuse statements.

  In the past few years, the business had become competitive. The physical demands of the profession were rising by the week. Recently, someone had set up a training school. Then there was the Kumbh Mela. Here, new trends were discovered. Regional flavours were uncovered. Kumbh was also a centre for invention; what better place than the banks of the Ganga. Until last year, three gurus could balance themselves on their penises�
��now nine in one village alone. The swami remembered the time when a reporter had turned up with a large camera and the babas, who earlier wore a loin cloth, took to walking in the nude. The performative requirements were high; head-shaking, body-shaking, some pierced themselves in public. One baba had begun vibrating like he was having an epileptic stroke. He claimed that the Goddess Kali had entered his body. He continued writhing for a full twenty minutes, complete with froth and the works. His eyeballs seemed swollen and a red fluid dripped from his mouth. It wasn’t paan.

  ‘Outstanding, such an authentic performance,’ said his disciples in awe from behind the curtain. In the next five minutes, however, a massive cardiac arrest wrenched life out of him. His eyes were bloodshot. He had bitten off his tongue and had choked on it. Some of the experienced members of the group got together. They agreed that things had been taken too far. The newcomers in the profession were not even from the neighbouring regions—a drought occurred somewhere and new ascetics materialized here. Week after week, the police were being brought in because some tourist would have their wallets stolen, or worse, their camera transformed into a mouse by the powers of Bholenath. The mouse was returned to the owner. No one knew how to transform it back into a camera.

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘He was about five feet five, ash-covered face, a long bronze trident in his hand, seated on a tiger skin, hundreds of prayer beads around his neck, piercings in both his ears, long brown or black dreadlocks gathered into a topknot, he was periodically suspended one foot above the ground, stark naked,’ said the Scotsman, pleased with his attention to detail. Three days later, eighteen men stood inside the dark grey cell of the police station.

  ‘Identify him, sir. We’ll give him a good thrashing.’ The tourists declined. As a last resort, the babas met and decided it was time to form a union. First, they would get rid of the outsiders. Then they would set up a system of monitoring known only to those at the top of the hierarchy. The popular areas and the festivals would be ticketed, and the revenues would be shared in an appropriate manner. Newspaper reporters would require prior permission. The union disbanded before it could hold its first quarterly meeting. Haridwar wasn’t the only Mecca. New places were springing up alongside the Ganga. A trans-Ganga union required building a number of bridges, across temple lines, across gotras, across castes, across sampradayas, across sangathans, across pilgrimage sites, across even religions and the only bridge that seemed feasible was a ropeway for the solitary traveller who would otherwise have to wade through the river on foot.

  ~

  ‘Please ask again,’ said the translator.

  ‘Let me repeat. Question one: why are there more clove-eaters in Mahim than in Colaba or Fort?’

  The swami shook his head from left to right a few times, a gesture that conveyed little information.

  ‘Question two: why don’t people add mint in their paan?’ the officer asked.

  The swami remained unmoved.

  ‘Why not mint-flavoured paan?’

  ‘The Vedas do not permit the simultaneous consumption of mint and paan,’ replied the disciple, exercising his free will.

  The swami glared at him. The disciple was not reduced to a pile of ash.

  ‘Question three: why do the old consume paan with areca nut shavings and the young with areca nut pieces?’

  ‘Ah, that’s easy. They have no teeth.’ This time the disciple did not look at the swami.

  ‘Oh!’ the officer slapped his palm on his forehead. How could I have missed this?

  ‘Chewing paan is a health and sanitation hazard. If there was a product that was hygienic, did not leave red stains, did not compel you to spit often, would you buy it?’

  ‘What product?’

  ‘We’re working on it. Will you buy it?’

  ‘Why not paan? I see, you haven’t tried it.’

  ‘Do unko (Offer it to them),’ the swami said to the translator, thrusting a whole paan into his own mouth. Young refused. The officer refused as well. For the next five minutes, only the translator appeared to understand the swami’s garbled words.

  ‘What if there is no paan. Instead—’ the officer tried again.

  ‘Are you trying to make paan illegal?’

  ‘Oh no,’ the officer assured him.

  ‘Hindoo sanskriti ke jad ko nasht kar doge. Paan to Lakshmi ka aasan hota hai. “Hey devta, aapka aashirvad sada hamare paas rahe. Hamare paan, elaichi, aur laung ka svekaar karen.” Vedon mein likha hain, “Paan ke bina to koi vidhi ho hi nahin sakti.” Jab hum Shri Ganeshaya namah kehte hain, pata hai kya dete hain? (You will destroy the essence of Hindu culture. Paan is the seat of Lakshmi. “Dear God, bless us. Accept our betel nut, cardamom and clove.” It’s in the Vedas. “There’s no ritual without the betel.” Do you know what we give when we say Shri Ganeshaya namah?)’

  ‘Why do you say it?’ Young asked.

  ‘Salutations to Ganesha. It’s auspicious to say it before we begin anything new,’ the officer explained. ‘He was not asking us about what we say, but what we give?’

  ‘What do you give?’ Young asked impatiently.

  ‘Paan ke patte, aur supari. Jab bhagwaan samudra manthan kar rahe the, amrit ke liye, pata hai, pehli pavan vastu kya nikli? (Betel leaves and a betel nut. Do you know which sacred object first emerged when the gods were churning the oceans for nectar?)’ asked the swami.

  ‘No,’ replied Young.

  ‘Paan ke patte (Betel leaves).’

  ‘From the ocean?’ asked Young, incredulous.

  ‘Arey, Skanda puran mein hai. “Agar muh ke andar vedon ke shabd na ho, panditya na ho, paan ka laal rang na ho, to woh kuch bhi nahin, bas ek khali ched hai.” Agar yeh ek paan ka patta hai, Indraji upar rehte hain, Saraswatiji—pata hai Vidya ki Devi—theek beechme rehti hain, Lakshmiji neeche baithti hain, Vishnuji andar virajmaan hain, Shivji bahar, aur Parvati, bayein (It is written in the Skanda Purana: “A mouth, without a word from the Vedas, without wit and without the red juice of betel leaves, is nothing but an empty hole.” If this is a betel leaf,’ the swami continued, moving a large, red ledger book containing details of donations received to the centre of the table, ‘Indra resides on the top, Saraswati—you know, the goddess of knowledge—sits in the middle, and Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, sits below. Vishnu resides within, Shiva outside and Parvati on the left).’

  ‘When paan is no more, where will the gods live—another leaf?’ retorted Young.

  Swamiji cleared his throat, rose and walked out of the door.

  ‘Forgive me, sir, but can I make a humble request?’ the officer asked Young.

  ‘Make it short.’

  ‘I humbly request you to not be impudent to Swamiji. He has a large following,’ said the officer.

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ snapped Young.

  ‘I am very sorry, very, very sorry. Sir, I asked your permission before I made the request, it was also humbly humble.’

  ‘I have specific questions regarding my survey and this man is telling me who’s sitting where in his fantasy world. His dining table is one betel leaf!’

  The swami returned. ‘Yeh, daan suchi dekh rahe hain? (Do you see this donation register?)’

  ‘Yes, it has Saraswati in the middle and Lakshmi at the bottom and—’ Young responded.

  ‘Yes. Lakshmi at the bottom,’ the translator said.

  ‘Yes, and—’

  ‘But there is no Lakshmi at the bottom.’

  ‘Oh, oh! Young sir, donation for the temple,’ the officer intervened.

  Young extracted two one-rupee notes from his wallet and placed them on the table. ‘Where is the Saraswati for this Lakshmi?’ he asked. The officer looked at Young in surprise.

  13

  ‘I have to let Nelson Natwarlal go,’ Thompson said.

  ‘Why? What did he do?’ the pastor asked.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Long story.’

  ‘Surprised?’

  ‘No. His grand
parents asked me to keep him out of trouble. There’s only so much that I can do.’

  ‘He has a knack for impudence. Given his caste he should know better.’

  ‘He has not lived it—’

  ‘He disappears periodically, without warning.’

  ‘You have to do what you have to do.’

  ‘I was expecting more from you?’

  ‘Want to join me for a cup of tea?’ the pastor asked.

  ‘. . . the other day my accountant wanted to go home because his grandfather’s soul was lingering around. Some pesky crow had not touched the rice cake. What a country I tell you! Fat crows and starving people.’

  ‘You should be a little more sympathetic, Archie. A million gods, a million rituals,’ the pastor responded.

  ‘That they suffer in their religion is no reason for sympathy. Toss it out of the window, I say!’

  ‘Along with everything else then—property, politics, morality?’

  ‘All the more reason to have faith in our Lord and Saviour. The Hindus have no discipline; it’s all fate.’

  ‘Too much discipline and we are at war. Leave it be.’

  14

  Dibu Banerjee’s family had long organized their lives around passive rental income. Their physical, mental and metaphysical construction had come together for decades in the rationalization of their economic spirit. The family took great pride in the fact that they had never lifted a finger in their lives. Receiving money from tenants too was categorized as an activity that required inordinate effort. It could not be possibly done without the help of heavily sugared milk tea ordered at intervals of approximately two hours, during which friends and neighbours would visit. The more enterprising among them would organize chess competitions in the neighbourhood. At times, chess would be substituted by another game; the only unwritten rule was that the game had to be sedentary. There was a year when Chinese checkers received furious enthusiasm. Another year it was the tiger and the goat from Nepal. The neighbourhood had become a hotbed of table games although it would be a stretch to say travellers from all over the world would bring their discoveries here and reap rich rewards. This phenomenon wasn’t lucrative enough to create that kind of a gold rush. The underlying ethic was entertainment not enterprise, no well-to-do family would be caught dead mixing these two goals in public. Nevertheless, betting on players was permitted and covertly encouraged. Exorbitant bets would never be settled. It was understood that they were merely symbols of conviction. The emotional shock from the loss was seen as a good substitute for the amount forgone. Diabetes had settled in the family. It was a lifestyle disease, transmitted by nurture, not nature. The house retained three daily suppliers of Bengali sweets, one for roshogula, another for mishti doi (sweetened curd) and the third for everything else. The presence of visible muscle on the body was considered lack of both class and caste, and pronounced muscles were strictly abhorred for they indicated physical labour. If the younger members of the family spent too much time outside or ran about for more than ten minutes a day, it was customary to increase their dosage of butter. The ability to see one’s own feet, for male and female members of the family alike, was not seen in good light. Here gender equality was generally maintained.