A Suitable Boy(368)

‘At last!’ cried the Raja of Marh. The heat was telling on him. He was sweating like a swine. ‘Tell the Baba to come out. I want to see him. And I want some sherbet.’

‘Your Highness –’

But hardly had the man run ahead with the message than from the other side a police jeep screeched to a halt before the camp, and several people got down and made their way in.

The Raja’s eyes popped.

‘We were here first. Stop them! I must see the Baba at once,’ he cried in an outburst of outrage.

But the jeep people had gone in already.





11.8


WHEN the jeep had first descended to the sands below the Fort, Dipankar Chatterji, who was one of its passengers, had been truly astonished.

The roads on the Pul Mela sands among the tents and encampments were packed with people. Many were carrying rolls of bedding and other possessions with them, including pots and pans for cooking, food supplies, and perhaps a child or two tucked under an arm or clinging onto their back. They carried cloth bags, pails and buckets, sticks, flags, pennants, and garlands of marigolds. Some were panting with heat and exhaustion, others were chatting as if they were on a picnic outing, or singing bhajans and other holy songs because their enthusiasm at finally getting a glimpse of Mother Ganga had removed in an instant the weariness of the journey. Men, women and children, old and young, dark and fair, rich and poor, brahmins and outcastes, Tamils and Kashmiris, saffron-clad sadhus and naked nagas, all jostled together on the roads along the sands. The smells of incense and marijuana and sweat and noonday cooking, the sounds of children crying and loud-speakers blaring and women chanting kirtans and policemen yelling, the sight of the sun glittering on the Ganga and the sand swirling in little eddies wherever the roads were not packed with people, all combined to give Dipankar an overwhelming sense of elation. Here, he felt, he would find something of what he was looking for, or the Something that he was looking for. This was the universe in microcosm; somewhere in its turmoil lay peace.

The jeep struggled, honking, along the sandy, metal-plated routes. At one point the driver appeared to be lost. They came to a crossroads where a young policeman was attempting with difficulty to direct the traffic. The jeep was the only vehicle as such, but great crowds swirled around the policeman, who shouted and flailed his baton in the air to little effect. Mr Maitra, Dipankar’s elderly host in Brahmpur, an ex-officer of the Indian Police who had in effect requisitioned the jeep, now took matters into his own hands.

‘Stop!’ he told the driver in Hindi.

The driver stopped the jeep.

The lone policeman, seeing the jeep, approached it.

‘Where is the tent of Sanaki Baba?’ asked Mr Maitra in a voice of command.

‘There, Sir – two furlongs in that direction – on the left-hand side.’

‘Good,’ said Mr Maitra. A sudden thought struck him. ‘Do you know who Maitra was?’

‘Maitra?’ said the young policeman.

‘R.K. Maitra.’

‘Yes,’ said the policeman, but it sounded as if he was just saying so to satisfy the whim of his strange questioner.

‘Who was he?’ demanded Mr Maitra.

‘He was our first Indian SP,’ replied the policeman.

‘I am he!’ said Mr Maitra.

The policeman saluted with tremendous smartness. Mr Maitra’s face registered delight.

‘Let’s go!’ he said, and they were off again.

Shortly they arrived at Sanaki Baba’s camp. As they were about to go in, Dipankar noticed that a flower-flinging procession of some kind was approaching from the other side. He did not pay it much attention, however, and they entered the first tent of the encampment – a large one that acted as a kind of public audience hall.

Rough red and blue rugs were spread on the floor in the tent, and everyone was seated on the ground: men on the left, women on the right. At one end was a long platform covered with white cloth. On this sat a young, thin, bearded man in a white robe; he was giving a sermon in a slow and hoarse voice. Behind him was a photograph of Sanaki Baba, a plump man, fairly bald, very cheerful, naked to the waist with a great deal of curly hair on his chest. A pair of baggy shorts was all he wore. A river – probably the Ganga, but possibly, since he was a devotee of Krishna, the Yamuna – was flowing behind him.

The young man was in mid-sermon when Dipankar and Mr Maitra entered. The policemen accompanying them stayed outside. Mr Maitra was smiling to himself in anticipation of meeting his favourite holy man. He paid no attention to the young man’s sermon.

‘Listen,’ continued the young preacher hoarsely: ‘You may have noticed that when it rains it is the useless plants, the grass and weeds and shrubs that flourish. They flourish without effort.