The Cauliflower (25 page)

Another of her bizarre fantasies centers around food. She will never permit herself to consume her lunch before she hears the blowing of the conchs in Vaikuntha. Vaikuntha is the God Vishnu's heavenly abode, a realm (not unlike Sri Ramakrishna's Kali Temple) of fun and love and feasting.

Of course, Chandradevi is not yet a full-time resident of Vaikuntha, and the sound that she thinks is the blowing of conchs is in fact the loud whistle informing the workers at the local Alambazar Jute Mill of their half-hour lunch break.

By and large it's perfectly fine that Chandradevi should wait to eat until the “conchs” have been blown. The only problem with this charming scenario arises on Sundays and holidays, when the mill is closed and the whistle is not sounded. Chandradevi will then go hungry. If pestered to eat she will indignantly demand how she might possibly be expected to take food herself before it has been offered to Lakshmi and Narayana (Narayan is a form of Vishnu and Lakshmi is his consort). Hriday is phlegmatic about this and tells Sri Ramakrishna that if the old woman is hungry she will simply disregard this eccentric and utterly self-imposed sacred injunction of hers. But Ramakrishna can't bear the idea of his mother's health weakening due to a lack of food, so he will spend hours trying to tempt her with succulent portions of Krishna's
prasad
from the temple.

On one occasion Hriday comes up with a scheme to deceive the old woman by hiding outside her room and whistling on a pipe at the appropriate time. But Chandradevi—innocent as she is, simple as she is—will not be taken in by Hriday's cunning ruse. In fact it probably only intensifies her paranoid fantasy that Hriday is a dangerous and manipulative charlatan.

But it can't be all bad, can it? On weekends and during holidays Sri Ramakrishna's time is generally taken up by scores of visitors to the Kali Temple, so his doting mother may be expected to see considerably less of her son on these occasions. Unless she suddenly refuses to eat, that is.

Ah, the conchs! The conchs! Whither the heavenly conchs of Vaikuntha?!

Whither, indeed.

1875. The guru's sadhana is now complete. He has been told by Ma Kali that he has been placed here on earth for the benefit of mankind. But while local notoriety and the loyalty of a clutch of passionate devotees is all well and good, a serious guru (even one who will not call himself a guru) needs proper disciples. So Ramakrishna waits and he waits. And he waits. Oh when, oh when will they come?!

He stands on the roof

Wailing into the darkness

For his disciples!

Perhaps something—or … or some
one
—might be putting them off?

1869, at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple (six miles north of Calcutta)

I could never be angry with Uncle. No. Not ever. But my heart has been broken twice over, and I am not sure who will be able to mend it aside from God. Last year, after our return from Kamarpukur, Mathur Baba and his wife, Jagadamba, invited Uncle and myself on a grand pilgrimage to all of the holiest places in northwestern India—to Deoghar and Allahabad and Kasi and Varanasi and Vrindaban. There were 125 people in our party. Oh, the adventures that we had! Mathur Baba booked four entire railway carriages for our private use which could be unhooked from the main engine if we decided to tarry. We traveled in such elegance and style (although Uncle and I climbed off the train a few stops before Varanasi and accidentally got left behind—but were then promptly rescued by a kind official of the railway company!).

Over one hundred thousand
rupee
s were spent on the trip. Mathur Baba was shaded, at all times, by a servant holding a silver umbrella and accompanied—to the fore and to the rear—by liveried servants with silver maces. He was like a great prince. Everywhere he went people stared after him in amazement.
He hosted special feasts for local Brahmins
. He rented two magnificent houses and we lived there for several months in the lap of luxury. He even hired Uncle a palanquin so that if he fell into ecstasy on his way to visit the many temples he would not harm himself unduly. And of course wherever Uncle traveled in his palanquin, loyal Hridayram was always in attendance, like a shadow, walking several paces behind him.

Uncle's body has become very soft and tender and womanly since he completed the discipline of the
madhura bhava
. Uncle is so sensitive now, so open. He sees God in everything. Sometimes if Uncle is staring at an expanse of grass and someone strolls across it Uncle will shudder, as if they are carelessly walking across his own tender torso, and his body will exhibit severe bruising after. Or if a driver whips a horse Uncle will cry out, in misery, “Why are they hitting me?!” I once found Uncle writhing with pain by the main
ghat
at the temple and believed that he had been soundly beaten, but then Uncle explained to me that he had merely witnessed an argument between two fishermen, and when it came to blows he felt the sudden exchange of punches raining down—one after the other—upon him. Uncle is so very sensitive. The lightest touch of a sinful person will leave marks and bruises on his skin.

Ah, there was so much grandeur and yet so much terrible poverty on our pilgrimage! Uncle's heart was greatly moved with compassion on many occasions. At a village near Deoghar he obliged Mathur Baba to give a piece of wearing cloth and a good meal to an entire village. When Mathur Baba resisted Uncle's desperate request, he threatened to stay with these humble people forever and to live among them as one of their wretched number. Mathur Baba loves Uncle very dearly and cannot bear the idea of being without him. So he had no option but to grudgingly comply. The good-quality cloth was ordered in huge quantities from a warehouse in Calcutta.

At Kasi, Uncle discovered the
Brahmini
and went to visit her several times. Then at Vrindaban Uncle made the acquaintance of yet another holy woman whose name was Ganga Mata. As soon as this old woman set her eyes upon Uncle she became convinced that he was the incarnation of Radha. She called him her
dulali
(her darling) and immediately invited Uncle to stay with her and set up a permanent bed in her small room for him. Of course, Uncle promptly complied with her request. Uncle is like a child! He is so unconstrained! He acts suddenly and impetuously as a child might. He felt an instant attraction to Ganga Mata—was perfectly besotted by her, forgot to eat or to sleep, just followed the old lady around like a lost puppy—and resolved to stay and live with her in Vrindaban from that moment onwards.

I cannot begin to describe the distress Uncle's crazy decision generated amongst our party. Had I not spent many long years nursing Uncle through his
sadhana
, six of these enduring the constant interference of the headstrong
Brahmini
, only for Uncle to now abandon all that we had worked for to live with an old holy woman who would sing with him and dance with him and seemed to take a vindictive sort of pleasure in clambering up onto Hridayram's shoulders like an ancient monkey whenever she entered one of her many maddening trances?

Mathur Baba was in a dreadful state, unable to leave without securing the return of Uncle. My patience was greatly tried by Uncle. I tried to impress on Uncle's mind that he had responsibilities back at the temple, and that he had a weak stomach and needed to be constantly tended, but Uncle just laughed and paid me no heed. Only following days of endless negotiations was Uncle finally persuaded to come back with us after he suddenly remembered his ailing mother and how her heart might easily break if we returned to Dakshineswar without him.

When I arrived back at the temple, tired from my lengthy trip and perhaps even a little exasperated with Uncle, I discovered that my wife was very ill. She died shortly after. I was inconsolable. I had loved her so dearly, but sometimes she would accuse me of not loving her nearly so dearly as I loved my Uncle. Is that why she died and left me? Out of jealousy?

My wife is now gone, and what have I in return? I have Uncle. But had my beloved Uncle not been perfectly happy to abandon us all in Vrindaban for some insignificant holy woman he had known for a mere day or two?

During this time of my great suffering, Uncle continued on with his
sadhana
. He met a Moslem man by the name of Govinda Ray and was persuaded by him to practice the worship of Islam. He learned all of the many rules of this faith, uttered the name of Allah with great devotion, and prayed three times daily, and Mathur Baba even went to the special trouble of hiring a special chef to cook Uncle Moslem food.

Uncle embraced his new Islamic faith wholeheartedly. He lost all interest in the deities at the temple. Then, following three days of intensive trances—and the complete abandonment of all his previous behaviors and prejudices—Uncle was finally blessed with a vision of the Prophet Mohammed, who walked slowly toward him and entered his body.

Uncle now believes that there is only one God, and that this God is formless but also with form. This God is beyond our humble understanding. To illustrate his theory, Uncle often tells a story about a group of blind men being led toward an elephant. The person who leads the blind men to the elephant tells them its name and asks them to describe what they find there. Each of the blind men approaches the elephant and places his hands upon it and carefully touches it. One man feels the tusk and reports back that the elephant is smooth and sharp, another feels the ear and reports back that the elephant is like a winnowing fan, another feels the leg, another the tail, another the vast flank. All of the blind men have felt the elephant, and all of them have described it with perfect sincerity and accuracy, and none of the men is wrong about what they have encountered. But none will have experienced the entire elephant; their minds can only engage with just a small part of it, and their ideas will soon become fixed and unbending about what an elephant is. And so it is with faith. Each of us feels only one part of the elephant and refuses to understand that there are many parts and many ways to feel him, and that whatever our own experience, it should never be considered complete because God is, after all, like the elephant, a great and an incomprehensible beast.

Uncle recounts this story all the time—and another about
maya
being like the green layer of pondweed on a lake which you can push aside with your hand, and another about the worldly man being like a snake swallowing a mole, and yet another about the world being like a hog plum (only stone and skin).…

In fact, Uncle is very patient when people ask him about God. He tells them that there is only one Truth and that we are all seeking this same Truth, but that because of differences in languages and climate and temperament we like to call the Truth by a variety of names. But Uncle insists that everyone may find God if they are sincere and they long for him.

Uncle does not mind repeating all of his best stories time and time again. Sometimes I think Uncle should save his best tales and not exhaust himself with constantly talking. He should book a lecture hall and send out invitations and tell them only to a special few, then take a collection afterward, the way a proper pandit does. What is to be gained by Uncle telling them to anyone and everyone who turns up at his room and has the inclination to listen? But Uncle is a child. He is open. He has his own special way of seeing things and of doing things. Uncle will never be told how to think or to feel.

When Uncle's beloved nephew, Akshay, became ill after being forced into a marriage against his natural inclinations, Uncle hardly seemed to feel anything at all. He simply blamed it on the inauspicious timing of his journey (in the month of Chaitra). And when Akshay's condition worsened, Uncle calmly warned that the signs were not good for his recovery. We brought Akshay back to the temple and I arranged the best possible treatment for him, but his mysterious fever grew still more intense. Sick with worry, I turned to Uncle and asked for his help, but Uncle simply shrugged and said that the Goddess had already told him the poor boy would die. Uncle is a child who will always speak his mind, but I soundly reprimanded him for these cruel words just the same. Uncle was indignant at this stern treatment and threw up his hands, exasperatedly. “Do I want Akshay to die?” he demanded. “I speak only under divine influence. It is the Mother who decrees this, not I!”

And the Mother is never wrong. Akshay died in his twenty-first year. He had been most kind to me after the recent passing of my wife, and now he, too, was gone. I wept many bitter tears for Akshay, but for as many tears as I wept, Uncle equaled my great quantity, and indeed he surpassed them, with many tears of his own—tears of laughing ecstasy.

I wonder if Uncle would laugh so heartily if his loyal Hridayram passed away? Who can tell? I try my hardest to push these dark thoughts from my mind—because who have I left now but Uncle? And it should be remembered that Uncle is a model of detachment. It was ever thus. Uncle cares only for God and nothing else. Perhaps I should try and follow Uncle's good example and seek God instead of earthly pleasures? Perhaps Uncle has cleverly trodden the wisest and the safest path all along? Worldly attachments are fleeting and painful! Who better than Uncle to teach me—by his words and his example—how best I may protect myself?

Uncle sees God in everything: in the pretty smile of a young girl and in the wide grin of a rotting corpse. They are all the same to Uncle.

Although after poor Akshay died in the
kuthi
, Uncle wasted no time in moving out of his room there and into another on the edge of the main courtyard with two verandahs and a view of the Ganga. He insists that this new room of his is much better than his former one. It is a good room, there is no doubt. And perhaps it is only wishful thinking on my part, but I can't help suspecting that the
kuthi
reminds Uncle of his beloved Akshay, and the thought of still being there without him pains him more than he cares to admit.