The Cauliflower (17 page)

In the garden, a woman suffering from acute mental illness (the disciples call her Pagli) is crying and entreating whosoever may listen to be granted access to the bedside of the dying
guru
. Pagli has chosen to worship Sri Ramakrishna (“the
guru
is God, God is the
guru
”) in the spiritual attitude of the lover, and so she torments him, at every opportunity, with her passionate, crazy, and utterly inappropriate displays of affection.

The disciples are sick of Pagli. She is prone to breaking into the house and forcing her way into Sri Ramakrishna's room to demonstrate her deranged love for him. She tortures him from her post in the garden with her hysterical screaming and her perpetual commotion. Recently, overtired and exasperated, a couple of the disciples went so far as to beat her up. But still she returns, battered and bruised. Still she chides and wheedles and yells.

The
guru
(who will not be called
Guru
) is quiet and uncomplaining. He receives visitors, even though speaking often causes his throat to hemorrhage. He has been banned from talking—he talks only of God—but he whispers hoarsely, nonetheless. When he is no longer able to talk he signs with an emaciated arm and fingers.

The Master(who will not be called Master)'s doctor (a spiritual skeptic) has forbidden him from entering into spiritual trances. During Sri Ramakrishna's trances, blood and energy automatically mass at his throat (might this be the reason for his cancer? Or perhaps his lifelong attachment to the hubble-bubble, or to chewing betel nut, a known carcinogen?). Of course, Sri Ramakrishna has no control over his spiritual moods. If he is inspired by thoughts of God, if he hears religious singing, if he talks of the Mother, if he smells a particular flower used in worship or a whiff of incense or of camphor, he will enter a state of ecstasy. He cannot help it.

His faith is killing him.

The disciples know that the Master has great supernatural powers (although he rarely uses them—he
disapproves
of them. God should be sought through love and devotion, he holds, not magic—magic confuses and inflates the
ego
.… Although remember the woman who was instantly cured—by just a brief touch—of her insurmountable grief over the death of her daughter? Remember how a mere word or a smile has inspired states of terrifying spiritual ecstasy in numerous individuals that can last hours, days, even weeks?) and so they entreat him to cure himself,
please
.

Sri Ramakrishna is plainly horrified by these requests. His illness is part of the Mother's
lila
, he says. It is her sport. It is her divine play. It is her will. He recently had a vision in which the Divine Mother showed him his own emaciated corpse, and his bare back was covered in weeping burns and blisters. Horrified, he asked her why it was so. She then showed him how spiritual seekers touched him for good luck, and how their sins singed and sapped his physical self.

Poor Pagli. She has fixated on the
guru
in much the same way that the
guru
fixated on the Divine Mother at the onset of his own strange spiritual journey. She too can find no rest or peace without palpable demonstrations of love from her chosen ideal.

In the past she has angrily accused the bemused Master of “pushing her away, mentally.” She is implacable. She is frustrated. She is demented. She is a pest. Sri Ramakrishna has patiently explained to her that he sees all women as manifestations of the Divine Mother, that he is incapable of engaging with any woman except in that attitude. But Pagli refuses—or is unable—to understand.

Sri Ramakrishna is slowly dying, in incredible pain and scalding heat, but he cannot find a moment's peace from this, his most ardent and passionate disciple.

On that long, hot night of 16th April 1886, Girish—with his artist's soul—pleads Pagli's case before her many detractors. Did he not pester and insult the
guru
himself, for years, he demands, before he finally relented and saw the light? And now that he has finally seen it, how is it possible for him to resent the warped emotional whirlwind of Pagli for enthusiastically embracing that exact same impulse?

The other disciples aren't receptive to Girish's kindly analysis (they could happily kill her for the trouble she's caused), but Girish still persists. He walks over to the window and peers out. There Pagli stands, in the garden, bathed in silver moonlight, her dark hair awry, her arms covered in bruises. She is calling the
guru
's name as if her heart would break. “Pagli is truly blessed,” he murmurs, turning toward the emaciated
guru
, his soulful eyes filling with tears, “to love you this much. If she calls your name with such faith and devotion, surely no real harm may befall her?”

The tormented
guru
will not speak. He just closes his eyes and smiles.

And now—oh dear—it's the bill!

“If you have money

Then give it in charity—

If not, simply chant.”

“Hiss at the wicked,

Frighten them just a little,

Lest they do you harm.”

“I don't accept gifts—

We take no collection here;

That's why people come!”

Winter 1864, at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple (six miles North of Calcutta)

The very instant Uncle set his foot back inside the Kali Temple compound, the spiritual madness overwhelmed him once again. But this time, if possible, it was magnified by a thousand. The terrible burning sensation in his chest returned, the sleeplessness, the restlessness, the delirium, the sudden explosions of uncontrollable grief. And these were now joined by constant visions, and sweats, and violent shaking.

That serene, ocher-robed
sannyasi
—the monk—which came from within Uncle and killed his sin with a trident suddenly returned, but now its great ire was directed toward Uncle himself. It threatened Uncle. I would hear him talking with it and pleading with it not to harm him. This
sannyasi
would give Uncle no peace. It taunted and reprimanded him. It felt that Uncle wasn't trying hard enough to find God. But who,
who
might try harder than poor Uncle did?

I would sit on the verandah at night, not able to sleep, listening to Uncle's side of their countless arguments. I wanted to protect Uncle, to defend him against this trident-bearing creature who so cruelly cajoled and humiliated him, yet how might I possibly go about it? It lived inside Uncle's head! It
was
Uncle!

“But I
am
concentrating!” Uncle would wheedle. “Please, I
am
trying. Why won't you believe me? I
love
God, I promise, I
promise
, with the whole of my being.…”

Sometimes the ocher-robed
sannyasi
would travel to distant places. He would walk on a golden path and Uncle would call after him, anxiously: “Where are you going? Hello? Hello? What do you see down there?” Often the
sannyasi
would return and tell Uncle what he had found. But Uncle would not share the finer details of these conversations with me, because, he said, I would not be able to understand.

Uncle spent all of his time in meditation. His hair was very long and matted. He would sit still for such lengthy durations that birds would perch on him and peck at his head. Mice would clamber around in his long locks hunting for food. I once saw a snake slither across his lap. But Uncle did not move. Uncle was a lifeless stone—a rock. He was oblivious to everything.

When Uncle wasn't meditating and sparring with the ocher-clad
sannyasi
, he was engaging in austerities. Uncle wanted to destroy any final residue of his
Brahmin
's pride. At night he would creep out of his room and head for the temple latrines. He would use his long hair to clean them. There was no dank corner or stinking hole that Uncle would not investigate and scour. To defeat his natural sense of aversion still further, Uncle would even go so far as to touch the feces of strangers with the tip of his tongue. There was no degradation that Uncle would not submit himself to.

I was in despair. Because while Uncle was suffering, I was suffering
for
Uncle. Who can understand the pain—the nagging torment—of bearing witness to the one you love above all others punishing himself daily (and not even for vice or worldly advancement, but for otherworldly love)?

I had begun to lose all hope for Uncle. Once again, as before, I was exhausted and full of a terrible foreboding, but then suddenly, without any warning, two things happened to transform our fortunes, one hard upon the next. The first was the sad death of the Rani in 1861, and the passing of her estate into Mathur Baba's hands. In the past when I had complained to Uncle about our lack of money he would always pooh-pooh me. He said I was not to worry and that we would never go hungry because the Mother had told him in a vision that he would have four “suppliers of stores” throughout his life. Uncle was very confident of this fact. He had complete faith in the Mother. And (as much as I had doubted him at first) Uncle's faith was rewarded, because it transpired that Mathur Baba was to be the first of these four.

After the Rani's death, Mathur Baba's devotion to Uncle—which was always strong—increased still further. Uncle had only to mention an idle whim or a passing need and Mathur Baba would instantly satisfy it. Thank God for Mathur Baba! I thank our lucky stars for his patience and his forbearance! Of course, Mathur Baba is not an especially spiritual man—he is rich and he lives high and he enjoys his luxuries—but he loves Uncle dearly. One could almost go so far as to say that Uncle is Mathur Baba's greatest indulgence! How fortunate Uncle is that Mathur Baba is so firmly on his side now! Uncle has utterly beguiled him, and without any particular effort. Uncle is simply himself—a clever but guileless child of the universe.

All the temple officials and administrators—even Mathur Baba's own private priest—have nothing good to say about Uncle. Not a word! They are deeply jealous of the attraction he holds for Mathur Baba. They whisper and accuse him of devilry, of casting spells to bewitch Mathur Baba. Of course, Uncle doesn't care a jot about such things. Uncle's mind is fixed on a higher plane. But I must sit and listen, clenching my teeth, to their constant gossip and their endless jibes.

On one occasion when Uncle was visiting Mathur Baba's residence he was left temporarily alone and fell into a sudden trance—something Uncle has become increasingly prone to—and as he lay on the floor, lost in ecstasy, Mathur Baba's private priest, Haldar, happened across Uncle, and finding him alone and defenseless, this scoundrel set about kicking Uncle and beating Uncle with all of his might. Uncle's mind was falling in and out of consciousness. He could tell what was happening but he could not move to defend himself. When I found Uncle a short while later he was balled up in pain and panting like a wounded animal. His ribs were cracked. He was horribly bruised. But he made me swear on my mother's life not to tell a soul. “If Mathur Babu finds out what Haldar has done he will sack him!” Uncle said. “And what will become of his wife and his family then?” Uncle forced me to hold my tongue. And angry as I am, I must quietly endure it. Uncle insists that he wants no fuss or retribution. Uncle is surely a great soul. He is possessed by the spirit of true resignation. “Dear Hriday, this is simply the
lila
of the Divine Mother,” Uncle laughs (then he winces, then he clutches at his chest, then he laughs once again).

I have always been very protective of Uncle, but from that time forward I was even more determined never to leave Uncle unsupervised for so much as a moment. Uncle is far too precious. And who would look after Uncle if I did not? Uncle could not be expected to take care of himself—especially now that he has so many jealous enemies and rivals. Although, in truth, I have often thought that Uncle's greatest and most dangerous adversary will always and forever be Uncle himself.

At around this time—just after the Rani's death, and during Mathur Baba's increasing devotion to Uncle—another very important person entered Uncle's life who—thank God—was to quietly take the place of Uncle's mean and sharp-tongued
sannyasi
as his spiritual guide. Uncle was standing in the flower garden one morning, gazing over toward the main bathing
ghat
, when he saw a beautiful orange-robed
Brahmini
alight from a boat. It is already well established that Uncle has no interest in either women or gold, but just as soon as Uncle set his two eyes upon her he became very excitable. He called me over and demanded that I go and introduce myself to her and then tell her all about him. Well, I was naturally perplexed and uncomfortable about approaching a strange
Brahmini
in such a forthright manner, but this is just life with Uncle, I fear. Normal rules and conventions do not apply here.

The
Brahmini
—although not in her first flush of youth—was a very handsome woman. I told her about Uncle as she sat, cross-legged, in the welcome shade of the
chandni
. She listened very patiently, and then, instead of coolly dismissing me—as I imagined she would—she asked me to take her to Uncle immediately. I guided her to Uncle's room, where Uncle was now anxiously waiting, and I was very astonished—once the formal introductions were over—to see that the
Brahmini
and Uncle behaved toward one another as if they had known each other their whole lives! Uncle told the
Brahmini
—who, as a true
sannyasi
, owned nothing in the world but two wearing cloths and a handful of spiritual books—his entire life story, about all his spiritual aspirations and experiences, of how people thought he was insane, and how even he himself doubted his own sanity at times.