A Suitable Boy(377)

Because of his austerities and because of what people saw as his basic goodness, he had acquired great merit and power. People walked for miles in the sand, faith written in their eyes, to get a sight of him. They rowed out to him from July to September when the Ganga lapped at the stilts. They had done so for thirty years. Ramjap Baba always came to Brahmpur at the time of the Pul Mela, waited for the water to surround him, and left when it retreated beyond his platform about four months later. It was his own quadrimester or chatur-maas, even though it did not coincide in any strict sense with the traditional four-month sleep of the gods.

What people got from him was difficult to say. Sometimes he spoke to them, sometimes not, sometimes he blessed them, sometimes not. This thin man, as withered as a scarecrow, burned to the colour of dark tanned leather by the sun and the wind, gaunt, exhausted, squatted on his platform, his knees near his ears, his long head faintly visible over the ledge of the parapet. He had a white beard, matted black hair, and sunken eyes that stared almost sightlessly across the sea of people, as if they were so many grains of sand or drops of water.

The crowds of pilgrims – many of whom were clutching copies of the Shri Bhagvad Charit, a yellow-covered edition of which was on sale here – were held back by young volunteers, who were in turn controlled by the gestures of an older man. This man, who in some sense appeared to officiate over the proceedings, had thick spectacles, and looked like an academic. He had in fact been in government service for many years, but had left it in order to serve Ramjap Baba.

One scraggly arm of Ramjap Baba’s frail frame rested on the parapet, and with it he blessed the people who were brought forward to receive his blessing. He whispered words to them in a weak voice. Sometimes he just stared ahead. The volunteers were holding the crowds back with difficulty.

They were almost hoarse with shouting: ‘Get back – get back – please only bring one copy of the book to be touched by Babaji –’

The old holy man touched it exhaustedly with the middle finger of his right hand.

‘In order, please – in order – yes, I know you are a student of Brahmpur University with twenty-five companions – please wait your turn – sit down, sit down – get back, Mataji, please get back, don’t make things difficult for us –’

Hands outstretched, tears in their eyes, the crowd surged forward. Some wanted to be blessed, some just to have closer darshan of Ramjap Baba, some to give offerings to him: bowls, bags, books, paper, grain, sweets, fruits, money.

‘Put the prasad in this shallow basket – put the prasad in this basket,’ said the volunteers. What the people had given would be blessed, and having been made sacred would be distributed among them again.

‘Why is he so famous?’ Pran asked a man standing next to him. He hoped he had not been overheard by his companions.

‘I don’t know,’ said the man. ‘But in his place and time he has done many things. He just is.’ Then he tried to push himself forward once more.

‘They say he takes Rama’s name all day. Why does he do so?’

‘Wood burns when rubbed and rubbed till it gives you the light you desire.’

While Pran pondered this answer, the thickly bespectacled man who was in charge of things came up to Mrs Mahesh Kapoor and did a very deep namasté.

‘You have brought your presence here?’ he said in surprise and with deep respect. ‘And your husband?’ Having been in government service, he knew Mrs Mahesh Kapoor by sight.

‘He – well, he was detained by work. May we –?’ asked Mrs Mahesh Kapoor shyly.

The man went to the platform, said a few words, and returned.

‘Babaji said, it is kind of you to come.’

‘But may we go forward?’

‘I will ask.’

After a while he returned with three guavas and four bananas, which he gave Mrs Mahesh Kapoor.

‘We want to be blessed,’ she said.

‘Oh, yes, yes, I’ll see.’

Eventually they got to the front. They were introduced in turn to the holy man.

‘Thank you, thank you –’ whispered the haggard face through thin lips.

‘Mrs Tandon –’

‘Thank you, thank you –’

‘Kedarnath Tandon and his wife Veena –’

‘Aah?’

‘Kedarnath Tandon and his wife.’

‘Aah, thank you, thank you, Rama, Rama, Rama, Rama…’

‘Babaji, this is Pran Kapoor, son of the Minister for Revenue, Mahesh Kapoor. And this is the Minister’s wife.’

The Baba peered at Pran, and repeated tiredly: ‘Thank you, thank you.’

He leaned a finger out and touched Pran on the forehead.