The Cauliflower (30 page)

Six months later

One of the devotees, Prankrishna, fondly known as the Fat Brahmin, tries to reason with Sri Ramakrishna (who is currently in the rather unfortunate habit of endlessly holding forth on the infinite virtues of Narendra Nath Datta)
:

The Fat
Brahmin
(
nervously but respectfully
):
“Father, if I might just … If I could possibly interrupt you for a moment … [
clears throat anxiously as Sri Ramakrishna—not much accustomed to being interrupted—gazes at him, hawkishly
] … Narendra is of course a lovely boy, but he has very scant education. Do you think it might be a little rash to be so—so infatuated with him?”

Silence
.

Sri Ramakrishna continues to inspect Prankrishna, blankly.

The Master gazes at Narendra and sighs:

“When I hear you sing,

A snake hisses, spreads its hood,

Holds still, and listens.”

Several months earlier, the Master's room, at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple (six miles north of Calcutta)

Sri Ramakrishna is surrounded by visitors and devotees, but he refuses to acknowledge any of them, only Narendra:

Narendra Nath Datta (
embarrassed
):
“There are many people here to see you, sir. Do you think you might take the trouble to talk to some of them?”

Sri Ramakrishna (
glancing around him, perfectly astonished, as if they had all previously been quite invisible to him
):
“Oh! [
dazedly scratches head
]…”

Two months later, the Master's room, at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple (six miles north of Calcutta)

An exasperated Narendra Nath Datta sharply chastises the mooning and love-struck
guru
, warning him that if he doesn't gain some control over his adolescent ardor he will be in serious danger of damaging his reputation.

The startled and deeply hurt
guru
goes scuttling to the temple and prays to the Mother, then returns, a short while later, in high dudgeon:

Sri Ramakrishna (
hotly
):
“You rascal! For a moment you almost had me doubting myself, but then the Mother told me that what I truly love is only the God in you. Without the God in you I could not love you
at all
!”

Narendra Nath Datta laughs, bemused.

“Shame, hatred, and fear

Must be removed from your heart

Before you'll see God.”

“I have taken off my robe;

How can I put it on again?

I have washed my feet;

How can I defile them?

My beloved put his hand

By the latch of the door,

And my heart yearned for him.

I arose to open for my beloved,

And my hands dripped with

    myrrh,

My fingers with liquid myrrh,

On the handles of the lock.…”

                     
—Song of Solomon 5:3–5

The guru openly and happily confesses:

“Really and truly

I have no pride—not any—

Not the slightest bit!”

1886. A nameless street. A nameless town. Bengal.

When I consider it, I cannot fully comprehend it. I cannot comprehend that Uncle is no longer here by my side, that Uncle is no longer with me. Because Uncle is my every word. Uncle is my every breath. Where is Hridayram without Ramakrishna? Where is Hridayram without Uncle? I am torn apart. I am empty. I am a pair of hands with nobody to serve.

And what was my crime? I had offered sandalwood paste and flowers at the feet of Trailokya's daughter. Trailokya is the temple owner. His daughter was a sweet child, only eight years of age. I had seen her in the temple during
arati
and was suddenly inspired. I took her and I worshipped her following the ancient
Tantric
rites. No harm was done. But later the owner's wife saw signs of sandalwood paste upon her daughter's pretty feet and became enraged. She is a small-minded woman. She is wealthy but ignorant. She thinks that for a
Brahmin
priest to worship a girl child of a lower caste in this manner is an ill omen—that the child's future husband will now die after her marriage.

But I meant no harm by it. Uncle is my example. Uncle is always my example. Did not Uncle say that social and caste rules were only to be maintained until we are able—with God's help—to move beyond them?

It was the act of a mere moment, but the punishment was swift and harsh. Hridayram was told to leave the temple grounds and never to return. He quickly ran to his Uncle. He told his Uncle what had happened. His Uncle said nothing. His Uncle did nothing. His Uncle was a stone, a clod of earth. What could his Uncle do? What could his Uncle say? Hridayram turned and left. A short while later a temple administrator asked Uncle to leave as well. Uncle did not object. He just quietly picked up his towel, placed it over his shoulder, and commenced slowly walking toward the temple gate. Uncle did not argue. Uncle did not fuss. Uncle did not look back. And that was all. Uncle took Trailokya only his towel. Surely Uncle is the pinnacle of detachment and renunciation! But Hridayram is not like Uncle. Hridayram had grabbed what he could. No. I am not like Uncle. But surely this is because I care for Uncle! I must worry and think and plan ahead; I must plan ahead for Uncle.

Oh, when my fugitive eyes saw Uncle walking toward the gate, my heart was lifted. Suddenly there was hope! Yet before Uncle had reached the gate, Trailokya—apprehending Uncle's stately movements—hurriedly came to remonstrate with him. “Sri Ramakrishna!” he exclaimed. “This is a terrible misunderstanding.”

“Have you not ordered me to leave?” Uncle asked. There was no anger in Uncle's voice, only calm, only flatness.

“No, sir, no. It is only your nephew I have asked to leave,” Trailokya insisted. “I have not asked you to leave, Father. You can stay; you must stay. Please, Father, please, promptly return to your room.”

At this, Uncle smiled, then he turned, still smiling, his towel still over his shoulder—the very image of detachment—and began walking, slowly walking, back to his room again.

So it was only Hridayram. It was only Hridayram who was obliged to leave. And Uncle would not go with him. But Hridayram tried. Hridayram tried to persuade Uncle to go with him. Had not the Goddess shown him that they were created from the same luminous material, after all? If Uncle was God, was Hriday not God also? Had the Goddess not clearly demonstrated to him that it was so?

Hridayram stayed at Jadu Mallick's garden house for some days, trying to persuade Uncle that they should leave Dakshineswar together. Uncle sent Hridayram meals. Uncle visited. But Uncle would not leave the Dakshineswar Kali Temple. Hridayram told Uncle of his hopes to set up a Kali temple somewhere new. But Uncle was not ambitious to run his own temple. Uncle is not ambitious. Uncle is happy to stay exactly as he is, and Uncle has his other nephew—his other, younger, fresher, more handsome and helpful nephew, Ramlal—to wait upon him now. So when Hridayram persisted, when he nagged at Uncle and wheedled and cajoled him, Uncle became incensed and finally, his eyes burning, he exclaimed, “What am I, Hridayram? Will you treat me like some cheap trinket to be hawked from door to door?!”

It was finished. It was done. Twenty-five years of loyal service had all come to this—to nothing. And so Hridayram left with a heavy heart, a broken heart. He returned to his home village, to Sihar, and his family farm. But as he stood there and he quietly looked around him, he plainly saw that there was something wrong. There was something missing. Uncle. Uncle was not there. There was sky but no sun. There were stars but no moon. There were clouds, but no rain.

With Uncle gone, who is Hridayram, after all? Without Uncle, how might Hridayram find his true path to God? Or even his path to worldly wealth? Because Uncle is surely the feast. Uncle is the heavenly carcass that the maggot of Hridayram must feed himself upon. Where has that carcass gone? How will Hridayram feed? How will Hridayram breathe? How can Hridayram even bear to look at himself, knowing that his hopeful face is no longer reflected in the heavenly eyes of Uncle?

Hridayram's health has broken down. Hridayram is a collapsing roof. He tries to save himself by remembering Uncle and doing just as Uncle does. Hridayram is no longer Uncle's shadow—he may not be permitted to stand close enough for that—but he is still his echo. He is practicing the left-handed
Tantric
disciplines. These are dangerous disciplines. Uncle practiced them under the
Brahmini
, but he sternly warns others against them. Perhaps this is because Uncle fears that they will make Hridayram as powerful as he is? Did the Goddess not reveal in her sacred vision that Hridayram is also made of light? Why did Uncle stop Hridayram's bliss on that fateful day? Was it love or jealousy that guided his hand?

Uncle has asked his Supplier of Provisions to send his sick nephew money. But this money has no life to it. It cannot grow. Uncle was the Wish-fulfilling Tree, the
kalpataru
. All of Uncle's leaves and branches tinkled like
rupee
s. Uncle was the orchard and Hridayram the bird who pecked upon his fruit. Now Hridayram is just a beggar, crouching by the roadside. The fence of Uncle's orchard is too high for him to scale. Now Hridayram's only hope is for Uncle to persuade mere strangers, out of pity, to toss his estranged nephew rotting windfalls.

Uncle is free at last, is he not? Uncle is free of Hridayram. And now that Hridayram is banished, the bees are arriving in large numbers to pollinate Uncle's flowers. Uncle is blooming. But Hridayram watered Uncle and tended him before there ever were flowers. Hridayram waded through manure. Hridayram shielded Uncle from the violent blasts of his
sadhana
. But who will shield Hridayram?

Hridayram has become a hawker, selling clothes from door to door. He has been told that his Uncle is unwell, that his Uncle is dying, but he has not troubled to visit him. He keeps himself away. He is an abandoned dog. He wanders the streets searching everywhere for something, but finding nothing. He is hungry. His soul is aching. His heart is hollow. He is tossed between the storms of rage and the droughts of remorse. He knocks on doors and offers his wares. He is old and tired and worn.

Uncle sees God in everything. Is there God in Hridayram? He desperately yearns to find him. He is hungry for God. He is parched for God. He is panting. But when he thinks of God a strange thing happens: he can see only Uncle. His Uncle's back is turned. He tries to serve him, but his service is rejected. Uncle kicks out his foot and the dog screams and cowers. The dog sits in dark corners, crying and gnawing at its own tail. Hridayram tries to serve Uncle, but Uncle rejects his service. So he snaps at Uncle's hems. He nips furiously at his ankles. He smashes his loving fists against the wall of Uncle, but Uncle is a stronghold he can no longer assail.

They say Uncle is an
avatar
. They say Uncle will be reborn and reborn, and that the members of Uncle's divine play—his
lila
—will be reborn along with him. So there is to be no rest for poor Hridayram. No peace. And no path, except a jagged one. There is no truth, only confusion. There is no help. Who may he call upon? And who may call upon him? There is no hope. Because there is no Uncle. He was my master, my love, my
guru
, my ape, my wife, my corpse, my pain, my child, my disappointment, my every joy, my world.

But there is no Uncle.

I am a rent cloth. I am a spoiled meal. I am a shallow breath. I am a broken drum which can no longer be beaten.

Because there is no Uncle.

“I opened for my beloved,

But my beloved had turned

    away and was gone.

My heart leaped up when he

    spoke.

I sought him but I could not

    find him;

I called him, but he gave me no

    answer.

The watchmen who went about

    the city found me.

They struck me, they wounded

    me;

The keepers of the walls

Took my veil away from me.…”

                     
—Song of Solomon 5:6–7

A dastardly plot

16th August 1886, the Cossipore garden house. In dark corners, there's a whispering.…

Outside in the hazy sunlight, a series of photographs are taken of the
guru
's frail body as it lies in its coffin swamped in garlands of fragrant flowers and surrounded by a legion of devotees. A crowd has been gathering all morning. As one force, one voice, one colossal energy, they lift the
guru
onto their shoulders and march, singing rousingly, to the Cossipore cremation ground. A special banner has been made, covered in symbols of all the world religions. Firewood has been collected by those attending. The devotee who will become Swami Ramakrishnananda sits some way off from the giant pyre, clutching a fan, sobbing inconsolably.

The
guru
's frail body is washed in Ganga water, dressed in a new cloth, covered in fresh garlands, and placed on the pyre, which is doused in sandalwood and rich yellow
ghee
. The pyre is then lit. The flames lick and grow. The cremation ground shakes with cacophonous chanting, the violent beating of drums, and the sounding of cymbals. Devotees pelt the burning body with flowers.

When the fire has burned itself out, three of the devotees collect the
guru
's remains and tip them into a copper urn. On the march back to the garden house (the urn carefully balanced on a devotee's head—Sri Ramakrishna has specifically asked that his earthly remains always be transported in this manner), one of the party is violently bitten by a snake (ah … perhaps it is the Master's legendary
kundalini
out on the rampage, having fled from his burning body). All hell breaks loose. An atmosphere of farce—of panic and chaos—is engendered. The bite—potentially lethal—must be quickly and painfully cauterized by a hot iron.