The Cauliflower (14 page)

It's a matter of common knowledge that the western bank of the Ganga is considered more holy than the eastern side. So that's where the Rani started her search (hence instantly putting paid to the “first night of the voyage” scenario). But nobody would sell her land on the western side. We are told that the reason is petty jealousy. Perhaps with an added, extra sprinkling of good old-fashioned caste-based (and let's not forget sexist)
hauteur
.

So they turn their search to the eastern bank and discover the ancient Moslem funeral ground near Dakshineswar, with its shrine to a holy saint (not to mention a large adjacent plot which supports the bungalow of a nameless European. Although that's not actually terribly romantic or interesting). Some may think it unpropitious to build a temple over a graveyard. But this is a Kali temple. And Ma Kali is a natural
habituée
of the cremation ground, is she not?

The land was purchased and building commenced. The designs were magnificent (of course) yet still traditional and classically—
classically
—Bengali. The whole enterprise (buying the land, shoring up the embankment, raw materials, labor, and another, secondary investment in productive land elsewhere to enable the temple to be self-sustaining after the Rani's death) meant a total outlay of something approximating one and a quarter million
rupee
s.

The Rani has persistently made a habit of favoring local craftsmen in many of her numerous commercial and creative commissions over the years. She understands the real ecology of business. She is at once a financial whiz and a respecter of niches. She sees the individual's face behind each fast
rupee
. The Rani has commercial nous—more important yet, commercial
soul
.

The second dream (oh yes—that second dream…) involves the commissioning of the Kali image for her now (
quick!
Fast-forward the tape!) almost finished temple. Unlike its giant and spectacular carapace, the image that lies at its heart isn't huge. It's actually quite petite, standing only thirty-three and a half inches tall. It should also be noted that just as soon as the sculptor commenced carving the image, the Rani undertook a series of severe austerities (which are required by the scriptures). She spent much of her time in telling beads and prayer. She bathed three times every day. She ate basic vegetarian fare.

The image was soon completed, and the Rani was utterly delighted with it. But before she could finally install it, the temple complex still needed a few extra tweaks and modifications. There were several irritating delays (remember the swift, and that quick peek we had at that large pile of raw materials near the plate-washing
ghat
still waiting to be used?). In the meantime Ma Kali was stored in a box. But she wasn't happy there. She began to perspire. Eventually she contacted the Rani (finally! The second dream!) and told her that she wished to be removed from her box and installed in the temple immediately.

Gulp!

Ma Kali, the great creatress, is no respecter of contractual deadlines, it seems. So the Rani—in a panic—searched her calendar for an auspicious day on which to install the image as soon as was conceivably possible. But none suggested itself. So she installed the image anyway, with great aplomb, and under considerable personal duress, no doubt.

If the Rani's dreams are to be taken seriously, we must inevitably conclude that Ma Kali is not a goddess to be lightly trifled with. She is impatient, unpredictable, and imperious. It should also probably be borne in mind that loyal devotion to such an irascible deity may well involve a certain number of personal privacy violations, funny turns, broken arrangements, canceled holidays, prodigious financial outlays, et cetera, et cetera.

Argh. But we kinda

knew that already, didn't we?

Here follows a timeless and unifying spiritual message—via the twenty-four-hour/seven-days-a-week live broadcast channel of Sri Ramakrishna—to all religious zealots, humorless fundamentalists, and wishy-washy Western New-Agers:

The Master wants GOD-

-realization
not
SELF-

-realization!

It's a subtle distinction, but the
ego
becomes God. God does not become the
ego
.

Ah
,

“God is in all men,

But all men are not in God,”

The Master shrugs.

1861, approximately

Mathur Nath Biswas is wandering around the Dakshineswar Kali Temple grounds when a tearful, almost hysterical Sri Ramakrishna comes running up to him, stark naked.

Sri Ramakrishna (
petrified
):
“Mathur!
Please!
Please help me! Something dreadful has happened!”

Mathur Baba (
visibly alarmed
):
“Just calm down, Gadai. Catch your breath.”

Sri Ramakrishna (
shaking like a leaf, starting to hiccup
):
“It's awful, so awful. I'm so—hic!—scared!”

(
He points to his genitals, mutely
.)

Mathur Baba (
staring down at Sri Ramakrishna's genitals, somewhat perturbed
):
“Gadai, what's the matter? Tell me!”

Sri Ramakrishna:
“I was—hic!—I was urinating in the—hic! —pine grove when I suddenly saw a—hic! —a tiny worm [
shudders, uncontrollably
] crawling out from the end of my
nunu
!”

Mathur Baba continues to gaze at Sri Ramakrishna's penis as he quietly digests this momentous piece of news, then he gazes up into Ramakrishna's eyes (only just suppressing a smile).

Mathur:
“Gadai, I can sincerely promise you that this is honestly nothing to be too concerned about.”

Sri Ramakrishna (
with childlike credulity, still hiccupping
):
“Are you—hic! —sure, Mathur?”

Mathur:
“Yes. Absolutely [
thinks for a moment
]. In fact it's—well, it's actually very
good
news.”

Sri Ramakrishna (
brightening
):
“Really?”

Mathur:
“Oh yes. Because all human beings have a worm in their body exactly like this one of yours.”

Sri Ramakrishna (
astonished
)
:
“They do?”

Mathur:
“Yes indeed. It is the worm of lust, and it is responsible for generating lustful ideas and feelings and urges within us. But the Mother has just seen fit to rid you of yours! Gadai, you are indeed truly blessed!”

Sri Ramakrisha clasps his hands together, delighted. His previously crestfallen face is now wreathed in beatific smiles.

Oh, which of us can truly comprehend the divine play of Sri Ramakrishna? Is he man or child? Leader or follower? Masculine or feminine? Radical or conservative? Idiot or genius? A god, a god-man, or just too, too human?

Is this book a farce, a comedy, a tragedy, or a melodrama?

What
is
this?

Who
was
he?

Who the heck
was
Sri Ramakrishna?

Eh?

Eh?

?

!

Twenty or so years later, during a festival being attended by the immensely famous and popular philosophers and social reformers Keshab Chandra Sen and Pratap Majumdar, a craven admirer approaches them and starts to gush.…

Craven Admirer:
“I see seated here before me Gauranga and Nityananda [
two legendary fifteenth-century incarnations of Krishna and Balarama
]!”

As it transpires, Sri Ramakrishna also happens to be sitting nearby. Keshab turns to him and (possibly a little embarrassed, perhaps a tad vainglorious) murmurs …

Keshab:
“Gauranga and Nityananda, indeed?! What, then, are you?!”

Without so much as a moment's pause, a beaming Ramakrishna responds …

Sri Ramakrishna:
“I am the dust off your feet!”

Ah
 …

“Sri Ramakrishna—

He'll never be caught napping!”

Keshab Sen chuckles.

1858, at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple (six miles north of Calcutta)

Uncle very often talks about how the image of Ma Kali was left inside a box while the temple was being completed and how the closely confined Goddess started to sweat. This idea seems to preoccupy Uncle a great deal. I think this is because when he looks at the world—when he gazes all around him—Uncle often sees God being packed away in a box and ignored. Uncle thinks that the modern world and the big city of Calcutta want to wrap God up in soft muslin cloths and just place him aside. Uncle thinks that God is simply another distraction in this busy life of ours. Of course, we can bring the box down from the attic during religious festivals. We can gently unwrap God then. But once the flower garlands have wilted, the candles are blown out, and the incense has burned down, God is shoved back away again until the next time that he is required. Perhaps for a wedding. Perhaps for a birth. Perhaps for a death.

And Uncle also sees many different kinds of God being worshipped today. There is the God of words (or the God of the many scriptures), there is the God of strict rules (of caste and of our different and conflicting worship traditions), there is God with form and God without form, of course. But none of these Gods does Uncle worship exclusively. And we must never forget that there are also the Gods of lust and the Gods of money—the Gods that Uncle most truly fears and despises.

Uncle thinks of nothing but God, and so he is constantly searching for other people—fellow travelers on the path of faith—who may worship the same kind of God that he does. This God who dwells like a flickering flame within his own wildly beating heart. Uncle longs for intelligent talk about God. He thirsts for it. He feels starved of it. He longs to meet people who might teach him something he doesn't yet know. If he hears of such a person through the temple grapevine he will track them down and present himself before them. He will take the dust off their feet. “I have heard that you have seen God,” he will say, and his yellow moon face will be alive with joy and hope.

But Uncle is often disappointed. And he is often humiliated. Indeed, we are both often humiliated, because I am always with Uncle, accompanying him to these different addresses and offering an introduction for Uncle. Such lofty individuals can be very cruel. They don't understand Uncle. They can't see that Uncle is unlike other people—that Uncle is special. And Uncle will not put on any airs and graces. Uncle is incapable of such things. Uncle is uncalculating. Uncle has an open heart. But these individuals expect more than this. They look at Uncle and see a poor and uneducated village boy who stammers when he talks and smiles and smiles and can barely keep his wearing cloth on.

Sometimes I wish Uncle would try and be just a little bit less like—well, like himself. But Uncle never listens to me.

And Uncle takes his disappointments very hard. Although the humiliations do not bother him. Not one bit. Uncle has no
ego
. When people laugh at Uncle he just laughs along with them. Uncle shares in the joke. He laughs at himself the loudest of all. But I know that Uncle hates to feel alone. He wants others to love God as much as he does and to share in this love with him. But then who may love God as much as Uncle? How, I wonder, might that be humanly possible?

Uncle will not see that his approach to religion is slightly unbalanced. But who would dare tell Uncle this? Not I. Uncle understands God. Uncle
knows
God. But I understand everything that surrounds God—an understanding which in Uncle's mind is insignificant and amounts to nothing. Uncle has no interest in balance. Uncle cannot see past God. Beyond God is
maya
—simply lies and illusion—Uncle says.

But how would the world be if everyone in it was like Uncle? How might we all manage? I tell Uncle that as good
Brahmin
s we are taught that there are four main goals in our human life, and that for our ultimate happiness we require a small portion of them all. The first of these is
dharma
.
Dharma
refers to the maintenance of our moral codes and rules. We want to live a good and virtuous existence in a world where these values are understood and cherished. Then there is
artha
, which is something I myself am very concerned with (but Uncle not one bit).
Artha
is our material prosperity and security. Next is
kama
, which refers to our emotional happiness and fulfillment; the pleasure of good friends and family, for example. Finally there is
moksha
, which is liberation, the realization of the self and spiritual freedom. And this goal—
moksha
—is Uncle's main preoccupation. This is all that Uncle thinks of. So I, foolish Hridayam, must quietly fret over everything else.

There is plenty to worry about. Especially since Uncle has begun to increase his devotions to the God Rama by taking on the attributes of his most perfect and loyal servant and companion, Hanuman. Hanuman is a God in monkey form, so Uncle has lately transformed himself into a gibbering ape. This ape-Uncle is very difficult to engage with on any level. This ape-Uncle travels everywhere on all fours, at incredible speed, his hands often curled into fists as he moves.

Not long ago Uncle and I planted a
panchavati
—a circle of five holy trees—and this is Uncle's favorite spot now. The ape-Uncle feels at ease here. And also in the big old
banyan
, where the ape-Uncle likes to perch and scratch himself and squeal at the crows and at passersby. The ape-Uncle makes no eye contact. In fact, the ape-Uncle's eyes are small and dark red. They move restlessly about.