The Assassin's Song (22 page)

“Think of that,” Major Narang concludes.

“Do you think it was really a ghost? Lady Curzon's ghost?”

“The world is full of mysteries that are beyond us,” he replies genially, and strides off to his white government Ambassador with its blue curtains and official licence plates. The chauffeur opens the door for him and he goes away, back to Delhi.

It is all a lie—or is it? My investiture.

In an ancient ceremonial white and gold robe, I walked in a procession led by my father, the Saheb of the shrine, as the women in white on either side of the red carpet showered jasmines upon us, singing ginans.
Jirewala dhana re ghadi
…, Blessed is that moment when the saint arrives. A special criblike chair, a gaadi with a deep seat, had been brought out from storage and placed with cushions on which I was made to sit. This was my throne. It was the same seat on which my father had once been invested, and perhaps his father, just as the robe—a little moth-eaten now—was the same one they had worn. Behind me came and stood the elders, men whose links with Pirbaag went back for generations; on my left sat my father erectly on the edge of his own chair, his own white turban on his head, his face beaming in a rare display of pure joy; on the other side sat Premji, a devotee and trustee from America, also smiling. The photographer came, knelt in front of us, the flashlight exploded.

The pavilion was hot and stuffy and noisy. Before me were faces joyful, emotional, worshipful, receptive of this blessed moment in their lives. He is here, the future avatar has come. They were my people. There were about a hundred of them, a good number having arrived from outside Haripir. The barber had earlier nicked me in the nape and the lime he had stroked forcefully on the wound was now a burning sensation, a sharp little itch so real and mundane compared to the ceremony of which I was the centre. My mother caught my eye from the edge of the pavilion, distinct in her chubbiness, smiling broadly. Mansoor was out somewhere with his
cohorts. Even such a momentousness at Pirbaag could not keep him away from them.

The noise—the singing and murmuring—stopped abruptly as my father raised a hand. He stood up and came to me, then turned to face the crowd.

“I proclaim this boy, my older son Nur Karsan, according to the tradition of centuries, as my gaadi-varas, the successor when I am gone.” Saying which, he took the ceremonial ancient green turban from the hands of an assistant and put it on my head.

There was a moment of restrained clapping, which my father joined, then the hall exploded into a cheerful, festive buzz as the people resumed their chatter.

A woman came forward and put a garland round my neck; it was Shilpa, tall and lithe. Another woman put a gold chain on me. More gifts were presented in succession. Premji, who wore a white kurta with a red rose at the breast, presented me with a silver pen from the United States, in a case of its own, and a hundred-dollar bill. I received from others a shawl, a shirt, a beautifully illustrated
Alice in Wonderland.

And then I made my speech, still seated on my throne.

“People,” I said, as Premji raised a hand for silence. “Brothers and Sisters, this I vow, that I will serve you and our Pir Bawa faithfully. Even though—even though—though I am young, my soul is exalted, and I am ready to serve you when required. May Pir Bawa bless you.”

This is what Bapu-ji had instructed me; what his own father had scripted for him.

“Give us a brief word or two more,” said Premji. “Give us your views about the world.”

I turned to him in surprise. He was smiling, and I had a distinct feeling that he was testing me. This had not been part of my preparation.

After some hesitation and false starts, I looked up and spoke about science and technology and progress, as Pandit Nehru had so often spoken. I said how with hard work and ingenuity India with its spiritual strength and ancient traditions could reach farther and become a leader in the world.

Perhaps Bapu-ji looked a trifle disappointed, I thought when I was finished, at my regard for material progress. He could hardly have expected me to speak about spiritual matters. My speech would have pleased Raja
Singh, had he been there. But he was on the road. It did impress the people who were present.

They came and shook my hand, the women cracked knuckles against my forehead to ward off evil, some men and women kissed my hand. “He is truly the one,” they said, embarrassing me intensely, “he is the successor, the gaadi-varas, can't you see, he is to guide his generation, and how lucky they will be to have him.”

Later, my presents and clothes put away, out I went to the playground to resume my normal life. The village garden had long been abandoned there, but the result of that communal venture was now a plot overlaid with ridges and depressions and therefore a menace to the game of cricket. My friends were playing football, which they stopped to surround me and ask me about my investiture, and what I had received as gifts, and if I would talk to them now that I was the actual gaadi-varas. I am here, aren't I, I replied irritably. But could I tell the future now? Could I see through the earth into the regions of hell? Could I cure this bruise? All this partly in jest—but only partly. Rowdily we started going up the road, on the way passing Shilpa, who was waiting for her bus. “See you again, Karsan-ji,” she said, in the formal manner she had recently assumed towards me, though still unable to suppress that teasing twinkle in her eyes. The legless Pran was at her feet, pestering her, and was duly teased by some of the boys. He threw a stone at us and we ran, halting at the fork for bhajias. Here Shastri's home had been turned into an extension of the local school, which had consisted of a single classroom before. Now there was also a yard in front. As I was returning to Pirbaag, Pran caught up with me, panting from his exertions. “Karsan-ji, I am going to get married,” he said with a grin. “With whom?” I asked, just barely restraining my tone. He dragged himself away on his strong hands, without answering.

My father was sitting on the pavilion with Master-ji, the teacher. Bapuji called me over, and when I went to him, he raised a hand to place on my shoulder. Master-ji did likewise. I stooped to let the elders bless me. Bapuji kept his hand on me a long time; when he released me, he said, “From now on you must pray every day to Pir Bawa to enlighten you.”

“Yes, Bapu-ji,” I said, and left.

That evening, when the house had become quiet, I strolled out into the shrine, my domain of the future. It lay in shadows, still as a graveyard, which it was. There was the faintest moonlike glow upon the white walls of the mausoleum, as though charged by the energy enclosed within; further along, the pavilion was lit by its single dim lamp, perhaps the source of that glow. Listlessly I wandered around among the tombs and memorials, numb in the mind from the day's many sensations, unable to hold on to a single one of the numerous thoughts that assailed me.

What had happened to me that day? Who and what was I? What would my life be in the future? Would it include any fun or joy?

Who lay buried in the monument behind me? He had so many names and descriptions. I knew his story well, how he wandered into Patan from war-ravaged Afghanistan or Persia; the miracles he had performed to outwit the king's pandits and magicians and win the king's friendship. But who was he, really? What kind of man? Not an ordinary man but a great soul, I was told, who had come to us bearing the gift of the true, liberating knowledge.

And I was to be his representative.

I stood up on the steps where I had come to sit and turned to face the lit doorway of the mausoleum. Slowly I climbed up and went inside to the inner chamber, where the tomb lay in the centre. Shadows all around me trembled in the light from the eternal lamp that stood in the back left-hand corner, and the air was heady with the perfume of flowers and incense and chaddars, the latter piled up high on the grave. The room seemed occupied by a presence.

Pir Bawa, I said in my mind, looking down at the silver crown at the head of the grave. Please let me be a worthy successor, a good Saheb to your followers. Let your eternal light guide me in my life; let me not disappoint my Bapu.

I stepped out backwards, my hands joined together in a prayer; at the threshold I knelt and touched the floor with my right hand and kissed it before turning around. Back into the night air, with a sense of relief and joy I started heading back to the house. I had walked only a few steps when I saw my mother emerge from our gate. She had something in one arm, held close to her chest; in the other hand she held a torch. She was hurrying
in the dark towards the back of the mausoleum. I followed at a distance, attempted to call out to her, but my jaws seemed stuck.

I saw Ma pouring ghee from the urn in her hands into a larger vessel that stood solid behind the mausoleum. She had placed the torch on the ground, its light forming a cone that took in her wide feet. I had seen it, never spared a thought for that vessel, a long, red clay urn of the sort the local potters made. Realization hit me, and I stared, the image clear in my mind, the oil travelling from the urn through an underground channel to feed the eternal lamp of Nur Fazal. The lamp which stood in his stead, its flame supposedly burning and spreading its light through its own mysterious power.

Ma saw me, smiled. She saw the look on my face and lost her smile. She went back inside the house without a word.

The certainty of my realization sat on my heart like stone.

I got into my bed and covered my head with the sheet; and inside my dark tent I silently cried. I did not know what to think. All I heard in my head over and over again were the words: “It is a lie.”

I was woken up by the tinkling of a bell, the odour of incense; the singing of ginans. It was dawn.

What is a lie? The meaning of those beautiful songs? Pir Bawa, Nur Fazal? Did he not exist? Is the Saheb—Bapu-ji—a lie? I don't know, I don't know. A flame cannot burn by itself, without fuel, even Pir Bawa's flame, and now this has been proved. Then what about all the miracles of the past … and those that occur daily, when people come to the shrine to pray for their difficulties, and their prayers are answered?

In the morning I would not get out of bed. I did not want to face the world.

I was drowning. I was drowning in black space, a thick darkness, and all around me floated clouds, and as I made a grab for them I realized they were only scraps of paper and useless, they couldn't help me; and Bapu-ji was preaching at me in his calm voice, “But all is a lie, Karsan, all is Maya, an illusion. Only the Eternal is real—”

And Ma said, “What are you shivering there for? And don't cover your head in the sheet—some bhut-paret will possess you … Kanya!”

Startled, I looked up at her from my bed—she had removed the sheet.

“Arré—you are crying! Why are you crying, beta—what is happening to you?”

“Ma—it is all a lie,” I cried out desperately to her.

“Nothing is a lie, we are all here around you. Rest, and I'll bring you breakfast. And don't cover your head!”

I could not touch the food. How could I, my world had fallen off. The puri could not be the puri of old, the potatoes would taste different.

That afternoon Bapu-ji came and sat beside me. He felt my head for fever, ran his hand over my hair. I knew that he truly loved me; and yet why did he not set me free from that burden of the past?
Isaac did not matter …

“What is it, son?”

“It is a lie, isn't it, Bapu-ji? Joothoo chhé.”

“What is a lie?”

“Everything.”

We both fell silent. In that closeness I could hear him breathing; and I caught a faint whiff of a man's odour from him. I watched his large hands, his long fingers joined lightly together at the tips. At length he said.

“We cannot escape the murkiness of life; if we accept this body, we must accept its dirt. We have to shit and pee, after all. We have to live in our bodies, but we can use them to serve a higher purpose.”

“But it's a lie! Bapu-ji, why don't you tell me the truth? The lamp burns because we pour ghee into it—”

“Perhaps …” He turned to look at me. “But do we know how the ghee enters the lamp? Have you seen anyone dig up the earth to clean the lamp?”

I could only shake my head, but this sounded like sophistry. He saw the look of doubt on my face and gave a thin smile.

“People need miracles, Karsan. Without miracles they lose their way. The lamp has always been there, it's tradition. Perhaps it needs a little help. That's also tradition. Our message is more subtle—it's about the meaning of existence—but people have a need of miracles. Do you understand now?”

“Yes, Bapu-ji.” But I wasn't sure. “Are there no miracles then, Bapu?”

“There are, for those who need them, Karsan.”