by Roshan Ali
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I didn’t say anything. The next day I left when the sun was coming up. He was fast asleep deep in the dreams of brahmans and energy circles.’
‘Do you know where he is now?’
The sadhu paused and was silent for a few seconds. ‘Ah yes, maybe some day I will tell you more,’ he said, and no amount of pushing brought anything more out of him. He closed his eyes and we meditated.
* * *
It was said that the sadhu went back to the Himalayas from where he came. I heard this from multiple busy sources and it was strange that suddenly everyone was talking about where he was, but when he was here nobody paid much attention. It was the story that interested them, not the reality of his situation. But he was back a few weeks later and didn’t say a word about where he had been, till one day he grabbed me by the shoulder and said, ‘Come with me to the mountains’. Could I have refused? Perhaps I could have. But I didn’t and with the curse of hindsight I sometimes feel it was inevitable, a manner of fate and destiny, nothing so grand as a supernatural plan, but more akin to the structured and robotic machinations of the many parts of the universe that is also our minds. The biology in us too grinds away as we are soft machines, fleshy and programmed, with terrible software and weak hardware. And so, at the mercy of these tender and fleeting fateful winds that drive much of our lives, I followed him one dusty morning with a bag of clothes and a notebook, almost jogging to keep up. He carried nothing, only a small purse under his robes, and worn leather slippers so thin, thinner than the skin on my knuckles. We boarded a train, unreserved, and sat like cattle, every man rubbing shoulders, the women protected by their men. At every station we got out and breathed in fresh air because in the carriage there was no air, only the sweaty stink of poor men. The journey was a day and a half, and towards the end, I was numb to the pain and the hunger. And finally when we reached, I jumped out before the train had come to a stop and ran alongside. Mr Sadhu climbed down from the high step, one hand on the railing, and looked around. We felt triumphant.
Onwards and towards the mountains one can only go by bus or car and we didn’t have a car nor could we hire one. Early next morning we reached the bus stand, which smelt of garbage and where busses crowded together in large groups. The air was dangerous, with the constant shouting of bus conductors announcing their destinations. Families hurried along—fathers guiding the children, the mothers struggling to keep up, doing a strange jog made awkward by their bright saris—trying to find the one bus among the hundreds that would take them where they wanted to go. And it was dangerous because we were insects among giants, and had to watch out if one was suddenly reversing, and nobody cared where the giant went, only that it should rest in its place. We were lost in that land of giants until a belly with hands behind its back (in one local newspaper), wearing a red monkey cap and a sleeveless sweater, found us loitering and said, ‘Where do you want to go, babaji?’ Mr Sadhu mentioned a place, a name I had never heard, and the sagging belly, a half water droplet, was suddenly awed into a reverential silence for us daring and spiritual adventurers. ‘Go to the last terminal,’ he said, ‘number 23. It’s before 19, after 67. Ask, everyone knows.’
The bus was a scratched, dented, once brightly painted thing that smelt of vomit and pakodas. The driver was asleep at the wheel, his head on a bunched cloth. A few people already sat in their seats, looking up at us, on their faces that mixture of ennui and curiosity that afflicts travellers who wait. Mr Sadhu glared at them till they looked away. Some of them namasted. ‘Idiots,’ he mumbled, ‘fooled by the robe.’ I found it odd that one so aware of the irony of a religious garment wore one, but I could not make sense of him anyway, so I let it go. Nothing in his life or convictions made any sense. It was as if he was formed by some haphazard coincidental storm of winds and lightning. But aren’t we all?
We sat in the last row, next to boxes wrapped in jute that smelt like mangoes. The owner, a tired-faced man with sticks for limbs and thick veins, eyed us nervously. The sadhu raised his palm and said, ‘Don’t worry, we won’t steal any mangoes.’ The man shook his head gratefully and turned away to look out of the window. ‘How does he know we’re not lying?’ I asked. The sadhu replied, ‘He doesn’t. But now that I’ve spoken to him, he feels more familiar with me and is comforted. Besides, I’m a religious man; we never steal anything.’
The bus started with a jolt that sent one box thudding to the ground. The thin man wasn’t bothered. He was probably asleep. Dusk was shading the sky in a dull orange glow and a cold reached in through the window at my face. ‘Better get warm,’ said the sadhu, ‘it’s going to be a long night.’ He closed his eyes and slipped away into another world.
When I woke up, my eyes were dry and a sharp cold wind rushed into the window making a low howl. All were asleep except the driver and a young man who played music on his phone. Outside there was only a thick blackness and a few lights glistened like stars in the distance. Nothing existed but for the road and the bus and the howl of the cold wind. I drifted off to sleep, and in my dreams there was an arctic cold from the north and an army that never slept.
The first sunlight was a hint of gold to our right that spread like watery paint. From this gold ceiling fell shafts of light like pillars that held apart the sky and the earth, like we were in some vast, majestic hall of old kings. Golden and thick, these pillars cast the long shadow of our bus on to village huts and dry rivers, long sharp ravines crowded with globular rocks, and as soon as the shadow grew shorter and we climbed the mountains, tossing and turning with the tide of the road, the trees, earlier so thick and full-leafed and rounded, turned suddenly to pins and needles and became tall and thin. Far away, beyond the deep valley carved by a great river, rose hunkering and jagged mountains, green and brown, silent and powerful, crouched and waiting. And suddenly beyond these green and silent goliaths, appearing without any warning, was the snow of the Himalayas, gathered in streaks, and embellishing the top of sharp and faraway peaks, even more silent, even more powerful, but inaccessible, priceless, decorated like special cakes, like powerful and famous people one saw from far away and looked at in silent awe. There, standing still beyond the moving green mountains, were the celebrities of the mountain world—the wealthy, the powerful, the cruel, the savage—protected and partly obscured by their green silent guards, so powerful and special that they didn’t speak, one could not hear them, unless one went so close as to risk death.
The first sight of these misty, icy creatures made me gasp and shiver. I pushed my head out, braving the biting winds, because I wanted to get closer to them, to be one of the lucky few who are seen by the mountain, and not merely the other way around. But soon the road turned and the bus roared upwards through a valley of pine and fir. ‘Are we going to the snowy mountains?’ I asked the sadhu, trying to mask the excitement in my voice. He smiled and didn’t say anything.
We got off in a small town and were greeted immediately by porters with donkeys offering to take us up to the mountains, but the sadhu ignored them and we walked quickly up a narrow street, leaving them mumbling and complaining about tourists. But my guide was no tourist and seemed to know this place well. I followed closely, noticing the ease with which he navigated the small rocks on the street that looked as if they were left behind by an avalanche. Soon we reached a mud hut with a thatched roof and a blue wooden door that was so small I had to crouch to get through. The air inside was thick with the smell of fresh tea. The sadhu said, ‘Let’s wait here for the night. We’ll start in the morning.’ I agreed even though I didn’t know where we would start for or even where we were, but exhaustion had crushed any spirit of curiosity that may have stirred in me and I fell asleep on a blanket that was laid out in the corner.
I was awakened in the darkness by sounds outside, of shouting and running, and what sounded like a gunshot. ‘Bandits,’ Mr Sadhu said quietly. A small man was rummaging in a sack. The sadhu gestured at him to be quiet. He sat w
here he was and looked nervously at the door. Soon the sounds faded away into the night and we relaxed. The small man smiled nervously. ‘Thanks to babaji,’ he said and curled up in his blanket. The sadhu shook his head and laughed silently.
We set off early the next morning after a cup of tea and biscuits. The street turned into a rocky path as we climbed a slope and soon we could see the village behind us some way down. There were no more roads after that village. The sadhu, again displaying great agility, drew ahead of me. Ever so often he stopped and looked behind him, but wasn’t bothered by the growing distance between us. The path passed over a small hillock and he passed over it and disappeared and for a few minutes I was alone with the rocks and the distant mountains that had appeared soon after we left the village, this time wearing special gold garments that they borrowed from the sun. I hurried on, not wanting to lose my way because I knew that would mean sure death. I found him waiting by a stream where he had washed his face and hands. ‘Hurry up,’ he said, and began to walk before I could wash.
That afternoon he finally slowed down and began to search the hill to the right, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Suddenly he quickened his pace and turned off the path on to the steep slope. We began to climb, using clumps of grass and rocks as support. And quite suddenly a plateau appeared on which he stopped. ‘Aha, finally,’ he said and his voice flew around the mountains. He pointed straight ahead and I saw to my surprise a large opening in the mountain, large enough for a grown man to walk straight into without bending. I was surprised because it should have been visible from below. Sensing my confusion, the sadhu told me to look down. The plateau that we stood on was actually a lip of rock that stuck out from the mountain face masking the entrance of the cave and making it invisible from the path and from curious travellers. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘now you know where we need to go.’ I followed him and we stepped into the cave. It wasn’t very large inside because our footsteps didn’t echo, but it was large enough that I could not see the far end by the light of the sun that fell through the opening. Mr Sadhu dug around by the wall of the cave and in his hand were a matchbox and a torch made of a stick and some old cloth. Light from the fire exploded into the cave and I saw that it was quite deep, and turned towards the right so the end wasn’t visible. Once again I followed him through the moist passage and somewhere I heard the drip-drip of water. The narrow passage opened out soon into a wide and flat area. On one side was a pool of water fed by what I assumed was a spring, and a tiny stream led away down into the rocks and out. I was right. ‘Spring,’ said the sadhu, ‘clean and fresh water.’ He filled my bottle and drank deeply.
After some time of sitting silently, I spoke and my voice sounded thick and muffled in the quiet of the cave. ‘Sadhuji, what are we doing here?’
‘Isn’t this what you wanted?’
‘What?’
‘To learn the ways of the sadhu.’
‘Yes, but couldn’t you have just told me?’
The sadhu rose and walked to the far end of the cave. ‘Yes, perhaps, but this place is important if you want to learn,’ he said. He leaned against the moist wall and poked around with his toes.
‘So tell me then,’ I said, trying to keep irritation from my voice. Even though I had learnt to temper my expectations when it came to this strange man, I felt the first pangs of frustration and anger. Had we come all this way across the country to see a cave?
‘Make yourself ready,’ he said, ‘for this great spiritual truth.’ He came back and sat down cross-legged. ‘But first I must ask you, what do you think are the ways of the sadhu?’
‘First, they have to be spiritual, meaning they have to attach in some way to the Supreme Brahman, the godhead, that which cannot be described. Then they have to meditate for at least four hours a day. All of us have that Supreme Energy inside us, like little flames, and the sadhu has found some way to tap into it and make it come out. You are realized souls, which means you know the spark inside every human, and thus can see right through people, either at their badness or their goodness. When you close your eyes you see the universe, when you open them you see the world. Moreover it is all an illusion to you, so you learn not to be attached to anything as everything dies and then you feel sorrow. At least this is what I have read.’ I stopped and he was silent for a few seconds.
Then he began to laugh, a deep and full laugh that rose from the depths of his belly, a rich and contagious laugh that would have spread through a crowd like a wave, a soaring and delightful laugh that grew more and more intense till he was shaking and falling to the floor, writhing as if in pain. I began to laugh too, and when we were finished he sat back up and his eyes were teary. ‘Oh god, oh god,’ he gasped, ‘my cheeks hurt.’ He massaged his face and his stomach. Finally he quietened down. ‘It’s all a lie boy,’ he said, ‘I’m a fraud in orange.’
* * *
A fraud? An intentional conman?
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not a real conman. Listen to what I do. I pull people in, till they’re drowning in my holiness, intoxicated by my special powers, totally and completely dependent on my supernatural tricks. Then, when they’re my puppets, I release them, snap the strings that attach to their lives. How? I tell them I’m a fraud. Just like I’m doing to you now! You see? Do you see?’
‘But why?’ I asked, barely whispering.
‘It’s a scam!’ he said, his voice growing in pitch and excitement. ‘The problem is, you cannot explain to these people what is wrong with treating a man like a god—they don’t receive explanations well. No logic or reason will help. These are people of experience. So I promise them an experience of the Supreme Brahman and instead give them the truth.’
‘Why can’t you just write a book or something?’
He laughed.
‘They’ll just go from one to the other, Ib. See, if I had just told you in the beginning would you have given up searching for Bliss? No. You would have searched elsewhere. In this way you have learnt a lesson.’
There was nothing I could do but sit and stare. It had seemed to me at various points in the time that I knew him that he was perhaps crazy, a narcissist, a liar, delusional, schizophrenic, disillusioned, ill or maybe just bored, but to be faced with the fact that he was an intentional fraud was almost too much for my brain to comprehend.
‘You see now,’ he said, ‘why you shouldn’t follow someone across the country just because they’re wearing a religious garment?’ He began to laugh again but this time cruelly.
I was too stunned to even be angry, so I only sat and stared at his cruel face disfigured by cruel laughter. When he had finished, I told him softly that I suspected he was wrong and misguided but not an intentional fraud.
‘What do you mean you knew?’ he shouted. ‘What was all that about the Supreme Brahman?’
‘I never believed any of that.’
‘Then why? Why did you come here?’ he said, now surprised and angry.
‘I wanted to change you I guess. I thought you were a good guy. But honestly I don’t know which is worse, an ignorant fool or an intentional fraud.’
‘So you were trying to change me and I was trying to change you. How interesting,’ he said, smiling. I didn’t think it was funny and I told him that.
He sprang up with that same vitality that had so often surprised me before. ‘How else will you learn, Ib?’ he shouted. ‘You are a pansy, a sissy, a credulous cow. The world is going to toss you about like a leaf, rape you and throw you in a gutter. You need to learn before it’s too late that most people are frauds.’ And he softened his voice suddenly and patted my head. ‘You are a good boy,’ he said, ‘and there is a softness in you that will heal whatever it touches, but you need to be strong outside, so you may move about and spread that softness. Do you see?’
I cried. It was at once the nicest and cruellest moment in my life, and this strange dagger had gone right through any shame or defence I had. The tears were continuous and thick. ‘OK, come on,’ he said, ‘
enough crying.’
‘It’s easy for you to say,’ I said. ‘You’ve probably never cried in your life.’
‘You have no idea,’ he said angrily.
* * *
And so there was a lesson to be learnt, not in everything, but in some things and one must be careful in choosing what lessons one learns. Everything sometimes has the appearance of specialness but look carefully and you may see it’s just a stupid coincidence, a chance happening that has no significance for you or the universe. The credulous see meaning in everything and I tried to avoid people like that, because if you have lived enough, you see that the world is full of bumping into things, falling and walking where you can walk, paths forged millennia ago by some unlikely force of history, of nature, of man, who looks out from the top of hills and decides on a whim to make a city here, a dam there. And years later you wander the earth at the mercy of those old forces here and there, at the mercy of new and old forces, and feel so special and chosen. I had learnt I was not special, not unique. Yet I walked freer and felt I had things to do, rather than wait for things to happen, because the special are convinced the universe will sort this or that out. I was an ordinary and miserable man, and was doing things as I had learnt, and what I had learnt is that I was a small creature in a large world, and yet could change it a little here and there.
* * *
When I came back from the mountains, things had changed inside me. I wasn’t sure what had changed, but a definite change had taken place, like icebergs had moved around, some melted, some risen, in that cold sea that was my broken experience. And even though there was a change, it was difficult to spot and nobody could tell from the outside. But I felt hotter, and my ears turned red at small injustices. I tried being more forceful, to push my will into the spaces between groups of people so they would notice me. Mostly it didn’t work but what counted was that I was trying. The sadhu was back in his temple—we had separated after our meeting in the cave—but he wasn’t seeing anyone again. I left him fruits and chips occasionally when I passed the red walls of the temple. The peepul tree seemed older now, as if some great war had been fought beneath it and it was tired now and longed to rest. But I never went inside.