Ashes for the Elephant God

by Vijaya Schartz

  "Namaste! Welcome to the dam, Baba." The Californian engineer bowed respectfully to the holy man. "It's a great honor to show you our work." The blond man spoke in fluent Hindi.

  "Dhanyabad! Thank you, my friend," Baba answered in his native tongue with a smile of pure delight. The wise man pointed to the dam with the stick. "You do great work here."

  "We do our best, Baba," the Californian answered humbly. "It’s this way, watch your steps..." He immediately regretted the last comment. Baba had walked barefoot all his life all over India and certainly didn't need to be reminded.

  Two trustees in white silk shirts and pants had stepped out of the black car. A few of these rich local devotees followed the guru in all his travels outside the monastery walls. An Indian foreman offered the swami a hard hat. Baba turned it in his hands with the curiosity of a young child, then laughed and made a show of placing it on his shaved head.

  "I understand more irrigation pumps have been added to the project," Baba said with open delight.

  "Thanks to the generous contribution of the ashram." The blond man almost laughed when he caught the stare of the trustees, baffled to hear an American speaking Hindi. Of course, Baba spoke perfect English, along with several of the six hundred languages still spoken in India, but the American knew the wise man particularly enjoyed Hindi, the language of northern India.

  "No one needs to know about that." Baba lowered his voice. "The ashram uses its money where it does the most good. You understand, I understand. Some people wouldn't."

  "As you wish, Baba." The blond man wondered how many of the local farmers would ever suspect they owed their crops to the holy man of Shree Gurudev Ashram. When World Bank had limited its funding, private capital had flowed in to keep the irrigation project alive.

  The tall American shortened his steps, not wanting to exhaust the old man, but Baba walked at a brisk clip, while trustees and foremen trotted in his wake looking winded and hot.

  Finally, the group stopped on a stanchion platform offering a panoramic view of the building site. Below the overhead cranes, the concrete structure teemed with a thousand half-naked coolies. In the hammering heat, they conveyed materials in woven baskets. Other workers filled the metal bins hanging from the high-tension cables suspended across the site, between the stanchion towers on each side of the river.

  Women carried heavy loads balanced on their heads, men yelled and cursed in various colorful languages. On the dry riverbank, in the rare shade of a few ashoka trees, coolies on a break crouched to smoke a bidi or chew betel leaves, spitting the reddish juice on the thirsty earth.

  "This is the concrete mixing plant." The engineer pointed to a white building and raised his voice above the construction noise. "We use raw material from the riverbed. Series of locks on each side will allow the boats to go through."

  "And what are those?" Baba indicated a network of pipes partly sunk into the structure.

  The Californian smiled. He liked talking about his work. "Chemical changes generate heat in the concrete when it dries. So we chill it with refrigerating pipes containing cold brine. An old but proven method."

  "And the canal yonder?" Baba pointed with the walking stick.

  "A temporary detour of the meager river flow during the construction. Come next monsoon, we should be ready to fill the reservoir. By the next dry season, we'll start irrigating."

  "Acha! Very good!" Baba punctuated his words with a stab of the stick on the concrete platform. "Any problems with defective materials?"

  "Yes, of course. Between ignorance and rampant corruption at every level, we have to watch each load. We've had concrete with too much sand in it, stolen supplies, stolen trucks and truckloads…nothing out of the ordinary. We deal with it on a daily basis. It slows us down, but we manage."

  "India needs people like you, my friend." As he turned and started back in the direction of the car, Baba asked, "Found a wife yet?"

  The blunt question from such a holy man brought heat to the Californian’s golden cheeks. "No, Baba, I'm busy enough here. I'm not looking for one."

  "You should," Baba said seriously. "Prolonged celibacy isn't good for a young man."

  The American laughed, partly with embarrassment. "But, Baba, you never had a woman and you fare very well."

  Dark eyes danced behind the sunglasses. "I'm a swami. You are not, so why live like one?"

  As they approached the Mercedes, Baba removed the hard hat and dropped it into a trustee's hands, while the other trustee opened the door and stood at attention.

  "Think about your future wife," Baba said, "and you'll find her... Soon..." The holy man searched the clear sky as if looking for a sign. "You have overgrown your American name, my friend. From now on, I name you Mukunda, the liberator. It suits you much better."

  "Thank you, Baba. I like the sound of it."

  Mukunda felt overwhelmed by the rare honor bestowed upon him.

  The old man bent and entered the Mercedes. "Come see me at the ashram sometime."

  "I will, Baba, I will." Mukunda bowed low as the car door closed.

  Then the Mercedes started, lifting a cloud of dust on the unpaved road.

  *****

  Mukunda parked the green Mahindra Jeep on the temple square, tires crunching on dusty gravel. He lingered in the seat to listen to the end of his favorite tune on the radio, a traditional raga remade into an almost western beat. A few old cars, a rickshaw, a scooter, a dozen bicycles, dirty children, and a colorful pedestrian crowd made up the Sunday traffic. Entire families walked toward the temple to attend the morning celebrations. Strands of white ginger and orange marigold suspended from the temple roof told of a festival, but so many graced the Indian calendar that Mukunda couldn't keep track of all of them.

  A tall blond girl in a turquoise sari stared at him, her skin too white for the traditional veils. Tiny bells from anklets and waist chain chimed as she approached with the fluidity of a belly dancer.

  "Morning, Mate," she said, leaning against the Jeep. A manicured hand pushed back a strand of bleached hair away from her made up face. Gold chains shone above her generous breasts. "Just arrived from Adelaide last week and haven't made many friends yet. You're kind of cute. What's your name?" The Australian accent was unmistakable.

  "They call me Mukunda." Surprised by her overture, he couldn't think of anything clever. "Now you’ve got to tell me your name."

  "Kora." She leaned seductively over the steering wheel and reached to turn down the radio. "You're not from around here with those blue eyes."

  "California, San Diego," Mukunda managed to say, eyes riveted on her generous breasts so close to his face.

  The low cut of her choli revealed too much skin. The beginning of an erection afflicted Mukunda. Baba was right. He'd been too long without a woman.

  "I board at the ashram," Kora said sweetly. "I contribute by working at the beauty shop across the street." She moved from under his nose, but the perfume lingered. "You live in the village? You don't look like an ashramite." She winked.

  Mukunda couldn't help but stare, a silly grin plastered on his face. Her daring ways filled him with lust, but he felt uncomfortable. Such sensual display on the temple square on Festival day seemed inappropriate, even sacrilege. "I rent a cottage by the river, near the dam. I work there." He ventured a hesitant laugh. "That's quite an outfit you're wearing."

  "You like it?" Kora whirled like a dervish, sending bells tinkling and veils billowing. Her pale hair flew, sending perfume through the air. "I love dancing." As she caught her breath, her ruby mouth opened slightly. Her gaze rested on him. "I have to go inside now." She motioned toward the temple with her chin. "Shall I see you later?"

  "We'll meet again soon, I'm sure. Ganeshpur's a small place." Mukunda felt relieved at her imminent departure. "Nice meeting you, Kora." He felt himself blush as he held out his hand.

  "Come see me sometime at the beauty shop." She smiled, took his hand languidly, then touched his blond curls as if to feel the t
exture. "You have nice hair. I could style it for you. After that, we could go out or something." She blew him a kiss, then turned around and started a sensuous walk toward the temple.

  Mukunda watched her ascend the steps of the monumental entrance then waited for his erection to ease. He had to set his mind on more serious matters. When he felt relaxed enough, he left the vehicle and crossed the crowded temple square. Past the sculpted fountain, he made his way to a faded pink restaurant for a breakfast meeting with the local farmers.

  "Acha! There you are coming, Sahib." Amit, the head foreman, waved excitedly at his boss from the entrance. The young man's childish ways and innocent smile never failed to surprised Mukunda, who knew he had three wives and six children at home.

  The restaurant, an old wood structure with chipped paint, did not look like much but served decent food and had a private patio in the back. Mukunda's mouth watered at the smell of ginger and turmeric.

  "Good news," Amit continued, eyes bright. "They have all been deciding to come!"

  Mukunda laid one arm on the smaller man's shoulder in greeting. "Great job, Amit." He followed the foreman inside. "I was afraid they wouldn't be interested. How did you convince them to come?"

  Amit winked and smiled with white teeth. "First I've been telling them that Baba named you Mukunda. They are being very impressed by that magnificent name. In our mythology, Mukunda is a great warrior, the liberator. Then I've been promising free breakfast from the crazy Am-ri-kan Sahib."

  Mukunda laughed. Most villagers believed him insane for building a dam. Since the village had survived without it so far, the enterprise seemed frivolous to them. Amit waved to the cook as they crossed the kitchen to reach the patio, where about thirty men sitting at long wooden tables gabbled animatedly.

  The youngest farmers had adopted western polyester wear, while the poorest and the most traditional harbored the single loincloth. A few older men smoked their pipe. Others chewed the red betel leaves that produce bloody-looking spit.

  At Mukunda’s entrance, the patio grew quiet and all stared in his direction. He smiled and bowed, then waved at familiar faces. Mukunda knew better than to broach business up front. Switching to Hindi, he turned to Amit. "Tell your cousin in the kitchen to make chai for everyone."

  "Namaste, Namaste." Mukunda greeted the farmers individually, palms pressed in front of his forehead. He inquired about each man's wives and children, whose names he'd made a point of remembering.

  Through the wide-open windows and doors, Mukunda could follow the making of the chai while conversing cheerfully with an edentulous elder. From the kitchen, milk boiling with black tea leaves, sugar, cinnamon sticks, and cardamom seeds, released a delicious aroma. While he listened and talked, Mukunda kept an eye on the cook and his aide straining the milky tea in a cloth, wringing the cloth into the pot, then airing the hot drink by pouring it "by the yard" with a flourish, from one pan into another. After rinsing the cloth, the cook hung it on his belt.

  While chai was served, the conversation turned to the weather and the festival, which celebrated Ganesha, the god with an elephant head, son of Shiva and deity after which the village was named. Only a hundred years ago, a holy man had retreated to the jungle to meditate in harmony with the wild. Near hot springs, he had built a small shrine to Ganesha, now replaced by the temple in the center of Ganeshpur.

  Mukunda could easily visualize the lush tropical jungle of old, with tigers, elephants, rhinoceroses, and crocodiles. A far cry from this barren anvil hammered by the sun. The fact that natural vegetation once covered this land confirmed the theory that irrigation could restore fertility to the soil. The hot springs still existed, now tamed into indoor plumbing for the therapeutic bathhouse.

  While the elders sipped noisily on hot chai, the portly owner brought huge slices of papaya for everyone. The youngest men fell to the treat with gusto. Just south of Mumbai, in the southern plains of Goa, the tropical fruit grew the size of watermelons.

  Wandering into the kitchen, Mukunda greeted the cook who dipped vegetables in spicy batter and threw them hissing into boiling coconut oil. After a few pleasantries, the cook wiped his hands on the wet cloth at his belt then stirred sweet-spiced beans in a simmering pot.

  Fritters and beans poured over rice were served directly on compartmented metal trays, with mango chutney, deep fried raisin bread, and chapati, a soft flat bread to spoon the food with. None of the villagers used silverware. Neither did Mukunda, long accustomed to the local ways.

  At the end of the lavish meal, he ordered more chai. Time for business. Mukunda had to win the farmers' support of the dam. If they understood its potential, the dam would prove even more helpful, and other projects would follow to improve living conditions. But it would take much convincing.

  When the tall American rose from the bench and stood at the end of the central table, all conversations ceased. "The dam will be operative in about ten months," Mukunda explained. "But by June the reservoir can be partly filled with monsoon water. This means that we can activate the pumps next fall." The silence around him told Mukunda that he could as well be speaking Navajo. None of these farmers understood what he was talking about.

  "You'll need to dig irrigation ditches to bring water to the fields." Despite Mukunda’s efforts, the farmers didn’t seem to understand.

  "And why would we be wanting to do that?" a young farmer asked mildly. "Digging is hard work."

  "Yes, but you would get four crops of rice a year instead of one," Mukunda explained. "Think about it! You can feed the whole city of Mumbai and get a lot richer in the doing."

  An old man in a lungi waved a leathery hand, indicating he had a pressing question. "Are you saying that the monsoon will not be coming anymore, Sahib?"

  "Of course the monsoon will keep coming every year," Mukunda answered with a reassuring smile.

  “Acha!" The man exhaled a sigh of relief. "Then why work hard all year round when we can work three months and spend the rest of the time enjoying our wives and children?"

  Mukunda didn't have an immediate answer to this absolute logic, but everyone waited for him to speak. "By quadrupling your income, you could afford a better house with several rooms, a kitchen, a stove, indoor plumbing, electricity, even a refrigerator, a washing machine, silk saris and perfume for your wives, maybe even a car. You could have breakfast here every Sunday." Mukunda ran out of argument.

  Discreet laughter and smiles told him he had erred. Either they didn't believe him or they didn't take him seriously. Mukunda looked at Amit who shrugged in surrender.

  A venerable man with a beard and a white turban stood up and took a puff of his pipe. "And what would we be doing with all that junk? You talk only of material things. Consider what we would lose, the freedom to do as we please all day, our precious sleep, our fun time with wives and children, our carefree life, our laughter, our happiness."

  "But you could afford medical care for your children when they get sick," Mukunda pleaded.

  "God is taking care of our children, Sahib. If we did what you suggest, we would become like you: sad, tired, and buried in work. We would struggle to pay bills for things we don’t need. I don't want to become like the factory workers in Mumbai. Offer me no part of it. Thank you for the meal, though." The venerable man bowed politely, stuck the pipe back in his mouth and walked out.

  As if answering a signal, other farmers followed suit, smiling mildly with rotten gums and missing teeth, bowing, and thanking Mukunda for breakfast. He didn't try to stop them. It was no use. Soon, only Amit and Mukunda remained on the patio, among empty trays and tables.

  "Are Bapre!" Amit exclaimed, in the Indian equivalent of Oh my God. "What shall we do, Sahib?"

  With a discouraged sigh, Mukunda sat down. "I don't know." Considering the last deep fried okra left on his tray, he popped it in his mouth and chewed slowly but failed to savor its sharp taste.

  "I'm so soddie, Sahib," Amit apologized in earnest.

  "I really can't blam
e them." Mukunda took a sip of tea. "Despite their poverty, they may have the very things westerners lack the most: a serene mind, and the power to be content with what they have."

  "Enjoying family life is being important," Amit emphasized, "but I am liking money and comfort also. I am knowing the others don't have a lot of respect for me," he said with sadness. "Behind my back they are calling me Coconut, brown on the outside, white on the inside."

  Mukunda laughed and patted Amit on the shoulder. "We're both torn between two cultures, Amit. That's why we understand each other." Mukunda rose, taking out his billfold, and counted a bunch of colorful rupees. As if on cue, the owner showed up.

  "Will this cover it?" Mukunda knew the amount was too generous but couldn't help himself.

  "It will do just fine," the fat owner said, wagging his head with a smile of gratitude while he took the money. "You will always be welcome in my humble establishment."

  As he crossed the temple square in direction of his Jeep, Mukunda turned to wave goodbye to Amit. His mind then returned to Kora. Although he had reservations, Mukunda would pay her a visit soon. His hair needed trimming anyway.

  Chapter Four

  Mumbai, India, formerly Bombay

  On approach to Bombay at last! The city's name had changed to Mumbai, as the flight attendant had mentioned, for the Hindu goddess Mumba, but Bombay evoked for me more ancient mysteries.

  "Fabienne, Where are you?" my history teacher asked me one day, as I daydreamed during class.

  "In India during the Raj," I answered seriously, while my classmates giggled.

  "I will expect a ten-page report about the Raj on my desk in the morning, then."

  I wrote a fifteen-page report, which the teacher qualified as pure fantasy with no supportive historical facts, documentation, or dates.

  "This is how I saw it," I protested.

  "Only hard facts and logical explanations have a place in a report, or in life in general, if you do not want to fool yourself," the teacher had stated.