I asked: “How do you do that?”
“With our songs,” said Kanai. “For us Bauls, our songs are a source of both love and knowledge. We tease the rich and the arrogant, and make digs at the hypocrisy of the Brahmins. We sing against caste, and against injustice. We tell the people that God is not in the temple, or in the Himalayas, nor in the skies or the earth or in the air. We teach that Krishna was just a man. What is special about him in essence is in me now. Whatever is in the cosmos is in our bodies; what is not in the body is not in the cosmos. It is all inside—truth lies within. If this is so, then why bother going to the mosque or the temple? So to the Bauls a temple or a shrine has little value: it is just a way for the priests to make money and to mislead people. The body is the true temple, the true mosque, the true church.”
“But in what way?”
“We believe that the way to God lies not in rituals but in living a simple life, walking the country on foot and doing what your guru says. The joy of walking on foot along unknown roads brings you closer to God. You learn to recognise that the divine is everywhere—even in the rocks. You learn also that music and dance is a way of discovering the Unknown Bird. You come to understand that God is the purest form of joy—complete joy.”
Kanai shook his long grey locks. “There is no jealousy in this life,” he said. “No Brahmin or Dalit, no Hindu or Muslim. Wherever I am, that is my home.
“For many years now I have wandered the roads of Bengal, spending the rains with my guru, and after he died, in the cremation ground at Tarapith. Sometimes when I have tired of walking, I would work the trains between Calcutta and Shantiniketan. That was how I first met Debdas.”
“In a train?”
“He was only sixteen,” said Kanai, “and had just run away from home. He was from the family of a pundit, and had a childhood in which he needed to ask for nothing. But then he was thrown out for mixing with Muslims and Bauls, and he was innocent of the ways of the world. He had an ektara, but at that stage he knew hardly any songs. Though I was blind, and he could see, it was I who taught him how to survive, and the words of the songs of the Bauls. Although we are from very different worlds, the road brought us together, and we have become inseparable friends.”
Kanai smiled. “But I shouldn’t be telling you his story,” he said. “You must ask him yourself.”
So saying, without moving, Kanai went back to humming his songs to himself, remembering and repeating the words:
You and I are bound together,
In the six-petalled lotus of the heart.
There is honey in this flower, the nectar of the moon,
As sweet as Kama’s dart.
Through the garden of emotion,
A raging river flows.
On its banks we’re bound together,
In the six-petalled lotus of the heart.
It was nearly midnight when Debdas rejoined us.
He and Paban came back from their concert in high spirits, and as glasses of Old Monk rum and chillums of ganja were passed around the room, the music began again, and it was some time before I was able to get Debdas on his own and ask him about how he came to join up with Kanai. Eventually, when Paban left for another late-night concert at the akhara of a friend of his, Debdas settled back and told the story of how he and Kanai had first met. As he talked, Kanai occasionally interrupted, or corrected Debdas’s version of events.
“For many years, I have been Kanai’s eyes, and he my voice,” said Debdas, puffing at a chillum and exhaling a great cloud of strongly scented ganja smoke. “He taught me everything: how to reject the outer garb of religion and to dive deep into the ocean of the heart. He is a friend, a teacher, a brother, a guru. He is my memory. He is everything to me.”
“And Debdas is my eyes, my helper, my student, my co-traveller and my friend,” said Kanai, tapping his heart.
“We have travelled the road together for many years now,” said Debdas.
“Pushkar, Varanasi, Pondicherry …”
“Allahabad, Hardwar, Gangotri …”
“Always holding each other’s hands. Over the years we have become very close”—he held up two fingers—“like this. Chelo, Kanai!”
“We are connected at the navel,” said Kanai, gesturing towards his belly button. “When Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, the Madman of Madmen, went to Keshava Bharati, who had initiated him as a sanyasi, he said to his friend, ‘Give me the world.’ Keshava Bharati asked, ‘What worlds can I give you?’ Chaitanya replied, ‘The very same that I gave to you.’ We are like that, Debdas and I …”
“At times, I am Kanai’s guru,” said Debdas. “And at times, Kanai is my guru. He reminds me even of my own songs.”