Bhrigu Mahesh, Phd

by Nisha Singh

  ‘Yes, sir’ he replied beaming. ‘As I told you before, I have grown up in this village. Save for an occasional trip or two to my brother and sister’s house in the city, I have never left this village. It now runs in my veins, sir.’ he then added a trifle proudly. ‘The government is recruiting guides to conduct the tours at the temple sites but they are children as compared to the knowledge I have. They can give a superficial account of everything, not a detailed description of which I alone, am the master.’

  ‘Then why did you not volunteer as a guide? That would have surely solved the question of your livelihood.’

  ‘Because I am not cut out for it, sir.’ he replied, morosely.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes.’ he replied in a small voice. ‘At the behest of my wife, Premkala, and my pestering brother, I tried my hand as a tour guide and enjoyed it for a day or two but sir…After that I started hating the whole unrelenting, painful routine. The same thing again and again and again… The long rote lectures I gave started to haunt me in my sleep. All I could hear in my head was my own voice running like a radio, saying all kinds of obscure things to a bunch of fools. I could not sleep. Hence, after a week, I left.’

  ‘I see. There is much truth in what you say.’

  ‘I only speak the truth, sir.’ he replied. ‘You don’t know how tiresome it is to repeat the same lines to a people day in and day out. And the tourists are not as intelligent as you, sir. They are all a pack of fools. Whenever I tried to tell them something new, something that they won’t find in no history books, they would turn on their blasted cell phones and try to toogle it. (I corrected it to google) When they came up with nothing they would say- “You are talking gibberish. There’s no such thing mentioned about this place here” The colossal fools. Tell me sir, if they can already gather information from toogle, why do they hire us in the first place. Furthermore, is everything that’s written true? I think much of the history that one knows to be correct can only be gotten from the locals; People who have lived there for centuries. Anyone, however educated, can never put there finger on the pulse of the true history of a place. It’s just a brainwash, sir, that’s all.’

  ‘You mean to say that what one reads in history books is false?’ I asked.

  My question was greeted with a resolute silence that told me more than I wanted to know.

  Conversation has a way off easing burden and taking your mind off the most tiresome of routines. We did not know how far we had walked in the heat of the debate because as I looked up to observe my surroundings, I was awe-struck, to say the very least. The mean streets had vanished and we now stood on a vast, open ground; nothing but sand as far as the eyes could see. Dotting the horizon stood the mighty spires of four temples and judging by the humanity milling like ants all around it, I knew that we had finally arrived at the famous temples of Krishna Dwar.

  CHAPTER 19

  A Wise Man

  ‘Wow’ I cried. ‘This is like a religious carnival!’

  Once at the temple site, I was completely mesmerized by the sheer energy, fun and animation that this place seemed to sizzle with. The main tourist attraction comprised of four temples; two of them with their spires so high in the sky that they seemed to almost pierce an occasional cloud flitting by. Humanity of all age, shape and size was scattered about the temples; either making long queues to enter into the holy sanctums or collecting coconuts, garlands and prasad from an assortment of hawkers to offer to the priests presiding over the temples or having a holy lunch of simple delicacies at stalls and buying religious artifacts and their favorite deities in multi colors from open displays where they bargained businesslike with the hawkers. As we were passing by such a display that seemed to attract the maximum of crowd, I noticed a fat woman at the head of the crowd, quarrelling at the top of her voice. Apparently, the shopkeeper had deeply offended her in some way and she sought solace in the angry words that she threw at him.

  ‘What do you mean, 500 rupees?’ she cried, both her hands firmly resting on her hips. ‘Are you a shop-keeper or a thug?’

  ‘I am a shopkeeper, madam.’ he said in a querulous voice. ‘And the price of this idol is 500 rupees. Not a penny less.’

  The man was thin and willowy but I could see that he did not lack the proper spirit in the face of this heavy opposition.

  ‘Why do you think that it qualifies for a 500, huh?’ The woman spat back. She seized a beautiful idol of Lord Krishna and scrutinized it like a connoisseur of craftsmanship. ‘Look at this nose here. It’s rather blunt. Look at the face. It should have been serene, peaceful but instead it carries an irritated appearance. Which devotee would like to have their God carry an irritated appearance, huh? It is such bad luck.’ She rambled on. ‘And…and look at the crown. You have made it so simple that one can easily confuse it with some odd head gear. This idol would at the max. cost 50 rupees. You are asking 10 times what its worth. Do fear god. Looting devotees in such a holy business. Where has your faith died?’

  ‘My faith is unshakeable.’ The man snarled. ‘It’s yours that needs some fixing.’

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘What you heard, madam’ he replied, confidently. ‘This is one of the finest idols that you could find here. It’s a work of art and you want to have it for cowries? You cannot shell out a mere 500 for your devotion and it’s your nerve to question mine.’

  ‘God is watching you.’ she said in a sinister whisper. ‘He is watching you.’

  ‘And everyone here is watching you.’ The shopkeeper returned. ‘You have stopped the traffic. Move along. There are many who can buy the idol for 5000 even. True devotees, I mean.’

  ‘You are a Godless…’ She began loudly but someone emerged from the crowd. She was a young, beautiful girl of sixteen. She addressed the woman sternly. ‘Mother, what are you doing here? I searched the whole area for you. I have managed to procure two idols for 100 rupees. The shopkeepers were very nice to me and said that whenever I needed idols I should come to them directly. Now we can sell them for 1000 to those rich, city customers who say they have a taste…’ And from her bag she produced two idols exactly like the one for which her mother was quarrelling. ‘Okay, okay…’ She said in a hushed voice. ‘Don’t shout.’ The next minute the women retreated from the scene, followed by the angry glares of the shopkeeper and a few other customers.

  A new customer moved in to take the place of the woman. ‘How much is this idol?’ he said, picking the one, the woman had bargained over.

  ‘Its only 500 rupees, sir’ said the shopkeeper happily.

  ‘500, huh?’ cried the man and was supported this time by a number of voices around the stall. ‘The daughter of the woman could get two such idols for a mere 100 rupees. You indeed are a thug.’

  Seeing the combined ire of the accumulated crowd, the man finally gave in and had to sell the idol for 50 rupees. ‘There is no God in this world.’ He whispered to himself, as other devotees flocked around him to place an order for the discounted deity.

  ‘Bad luck.’ I said involuntarily for the poor fellow.

  ‘This is a normal practice here.’ said Chiranjeev. Police always patrols the area looking to settle such squabbles. They make their own pot of money in the process.’

  ‘Religion is free.’ said my friend. ‘But its practice is either very costly or very lucrative.’

  ‘Sir, do you care for a visit?’

  ‘Some other time’ said Bhrigu. ‘Do you come here often?’

  ‘No sir. Not very often. Once or twice a day that’s all.’

  ‘Right.’ I said. ‘You must have a very tight schedule.’

  He looked at me, confused and then said to my friend. ‘Sir, a very good friend of mine is a senior priest at one of the temples. Will you meet him?’

  ‘No, I have…’

  ‘Please, sir, please.’ he said, pleading. ‘He is a no
ble man. We studied together in the primary. He then left school and went to the city for further education. There he received some divine intervention and came back to this village as a priest. He used to sit at the old temple in the interior of the village, practicing and learning with his father. When these temples where renovated and opened to public as a tourist site, he relocated to one of them. He is a wise man, sir. Saraswati resides on his tongue. Do meet him. He gives the most amazing sermons.’

  ‘I am sure he does but…’

  ‘Please sir.’ The man implored. ‘Just five minutes. A man is known by the company he keeps. You have met Manjunath, Raj Bhaiya’s friend. He alone can tell you a lot about the qualities of my dear brother. I would be very glad sir, if you allowed me the opportunity to introduce you to noblemen like your self; dignified, wise and gracious.’

  I knew what the sly man was trying to imply. In not so many words he was boasting about how fine a specimen of humanity he was and this priest friend of his, was now going to provide us with the much needed testimonial.

  We had to wade our way through the inundating sea of devotees that threatened to sweep us off our feet and carry us in one gigantic wave any second. God bless the solid force of gravity that helped us stick firmly onto terra firma. I stepped upon feet of all shapes and sizes and had the courtesy returned with much generosity. Finally, when I thought I had lost sensation in my toe and a couple of other fingers, I observed that the sea of humanity had now branched into a number of other shallow tributaries. I did not know how the crowd had suddenly dispersed and was about to put this question before our enthusiastic host when he said in a low, conspiratorial whisper-

  ‘Sir, you have now reached the innermost section of the temple’s compound. Not many people have access here. Did you not notice the security at the post? I can come and go as I please but for the general public it’s a pretty tough call. They have to make long queues and sometimes one darshan can take several hours with no guarantee of success.’

  He now bade us to sit on a bench under the branches of an old tree and went inside the temple to call on his friend. We had waited for about fifteen minutes when he reappeared at the gate and beckoned us to come in.

  The inner sanctum of the temple was spotless clean and the pure marble floor that I walked on felt soft and cold under my aching feet. I looked up and found the impressive dome staring at me and questioning my right as a modern man to invade the sacred ground that it watched over like an aged sentry. The towering pillars were gentle to the touch but their strength was apparent in the way they held this magnificent piece of art together. I took deep lungful of air that was circulating within this ancient shrine; dispersing the materials used in the construction of the temple, saturating the captive atmosphere with a smell that went straight to your head and made it swoon with peace and delight.

  ‘This way’ said Chiranjeev leading the way. His voice echoed through the walls and died in some remote corner of the maze.

  I could see that we were heading towards the prayer room where there was a beautiful shrine of Lord Krishna. All around the walls were drawn beautiful frescoes and relief panels depicting his life and leelas. The vibrant color of these pictures, the exquisite beauty of the glorious statue of Lord Krishna and the half comatose priests that sat on a platform below, chanting hymns and singing praises to the Lord uplifted your soul to heaven and gave you a sneak peak into Utopia, if there is such a thing.

  There was a small crowd of people assembled before the platform and one of the priests occasionally opened his eyes to receive a coconut, some dakshina or a random shawl from the devotees while the other priest just behind him got busy offering it to the benevolent God. He would then return a share of the prasad and also bless the devotees by putting a red tilak on his or her forehead.

  I stood in the line with my friend before me and stared at the life-like statue as if in a trance. Was I dreaming or the statue smiled just a trifle more as our eyes met? The light from the windows was playing all sorts of tricks on the brain and sometimes I thought I saw the statue blink as it held my gaze. Bhrigu too, was silent and I knew he was meditating with the Lord and asking him a thousand questions about his most splendid creation thus far-Humanity.

  ‘Why are you standing in the line, sir?’ shouted Chiranjeev, who had vanished behind the shrine as soon as we had come to this inner sanctum. ‘Please come here and meet my friend, Parichay Mishra.’

  We broke off from the queue that was now gathering length and followed his voice. In a matter of minutes I had located him, sitting comfortably on a plastic chair. Before him sat an unwelcoming man who stared at us with tired eyes and an almost impetuous manner. He had a lean built and the only cloth he was wearing was in the form of a silken yellow robe, very much like the people we had seen wearing at the railway station; only theirs was much coarser. Were they emulating him? Possibly, yes. His forehead was smeared with the holy marks of a Pundit and a holy thread wound its way round his slender torso. He had on his fingers many rings and a thick rosary was wrapped around his right wrist.

  ‘This is my friend, Parichay Mishra.’ said Chiranjeev happily.

  ‘Hello Panditji.’ I said and received a sharp look from our host and the Pundit alike. I figure I had in some way fouled the code of conduct towards a man of faith.

  ‘Charan Sparsh, Punditji.’ said Bhrigu and in a moment Parichay Mishra had his lips parted into a slow smile that disappeared as soon as it had come. His eyes remained as dull as we had seen the moment we first beheld him.

  ‘Please sit down’ he said in a heavy voice and I had a feeling that he had deliberately toned down the pitch of his voice.

  ‘Thank you, Pundit ji.’ my friend and I curtsied in unison and took the chairs beside Chiranjeev.

  There was an awkward silence of five minutes and Parichay Mishra was so still in his chair that for a moment I was afraid he had dozed off. Thankfully, he cleared his throat in an affected manner and said slowly and clearly- ‘Chiranjeev has a lot of good things to say about you, sir.’ he said, addressing my friend. ‘And he never appreciates a man without reason.’

  ‘That’s very kind of him’ returned my friend, humbly.

  ‘Punditji has always been such a good friend.’ said Chiranjeev happily. ‘But above everything, he is a great saint. People flock here just to see him and receive some words of wisdom in return.’

  ‘I say what people expect me to say.’ said Parichay Mishra in his slow, thoughtful manner. ‘And that’s why they return happy.’

  ‘Don’t listen to what he says.’ said Chiranjeev. ‘He is always very modest. He is indeed a great man; a wise man. I am blessed indeed to have him as my friend.’

  Parichay Mishra shook his head in a gesture of gratitude and defeat.

  ‘Sir’ went on Chiranjeev. ‘I am sure he will be able to solve any of your problems. Just ask away.

  CHAPTER 20

  An Angry Host

  ‘Punditji’ I began, eager to start a conversation with this much publicized man. ‘I have always lived in cities and I have had rarely an opportunity to explore my faith. My parents, too, were not much religious. My father, at any rate, was not. I don’t know much about my mother. She had depths to her character that I think I would never know. Even if she was religious, she never displayed it outwardly.’ I cleared my throat. ‘I have always wondered how I would have been as a person if only I had the backing of my religion; of my faith. This is a question that seldom haunts me. I think you are the one person who could come as close to an answer as it is possible.’

  Parichay Mishra was listening to my question with the same tired expression that I had now come to associate him with. His eyes superficially looked into mine and lugubriously registered what I was endeavoring to say. I, though, saw no spark of understanding in them or a hint of pleasure to help a lost soul. He just listened, well, and that’s about it.

  ‘What’s y
our name?’ he asked in his slow, affected manner.

  ‘Sutte.’

  ‘Well, Sutteji, your question is as old as time itself.’ he said in his tired, monotonous voice. ‘I don’t know anything about you and so I cannot answer your question correctly but one thing I do know.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ I asked, intrigued.

  ‘That faith never hurts.’

  There was a silence for about two minutes whence I glanced at my friend and saw him looking at the Pundit with rapt interest. I was about to pose a question to break this awkward silence when Parichay Mishra spoke again-

  ‘When the world was in its inchoate stage and the early man had several questions about his creation that needed immediate answers, he looked towards his surroundings. What did he find then? Rocks, earth, fruits, wind, and the very sky glowing serenely with its thousand stars. He tried to make sense of all that he was seeing and one day he got convinced that all his answers lay hidden in nature itself; his surroundings. He then started to make sense of them as best his primitive knowledge would allow. In the throes of such a quest, he made several discoveries too. Like for example, the fire, agriculture, tools etc. Then he started to evolve. With every piece of discovery, he became more sophisticated and in better possession of tools that would help him to solve his questions at an even rapid pace. Thus with the passage of time, the surroundings that he looked for inspiration and answers, started to transform until it looks the way it does today. But, in all that advancement, he one day realized that he still had no answers to his original question; about the mysteries of his creation. It depressed him to know that he was as in the dark about it as he was a thousand years ago. I ask you now, sir, that what you think impeded that knowledge if he was intelligent enough to accomplish so much?’

  ‘What?’ I asked, involuntarily.

  ‘The fact that he had looked in the wrong direction for the ever elusive answer.’