The Cauliflower (16 page)

All participants line up to take their bows.

The actor playing Girish performs a strangely stiff and unsettling curtsy as the actor who plays Sri Ramakrishna tugs away, menacingly, at his strings.

Curtain falls.

Applause fades. Everyone charges into the foyer and mills around aimlessly. Atmosphere of nervous confusion.
)

The End.

1858. The Rani and her son-in-law, Mathur, kindly employ two of Calcutta's top female prostitutes to try and help cure Sri Ramakrishna of his deep psychological ills.

Sri Ramakrishna returns to his room after a short stroll in the flower gardens to discover two of Calcutta's most legendarily beautiful, high-class prostitutes perched quietly upon his bed. They are happy—nay, eager—to perform his each and every bidding. Sri Ramakrishna gazes from one exquisitely attired, bejeweled, and fragranced beauty to the other, then falls to his knees, with a gasp of pure joy, and proceeds to worship them both, in tandem, as perfect embodiments of the Divine Mother.

The prostitutes run from his room in a heady profusion of jangling anklets, utter confusion, and tears.

Yogin Ma is one of Sri Ramakrishna's most faithful women devotees.

1886, Varanasi

When she meditates

Yogin Ma's trance is so deep

Flies nibble her eyes.

1882. A bemused and benighted widow who seems to be suffering from a strange kind of indigestion bemoans her total inability to draw away from the Master while clutching at her chest, traumatized:

“Sri Ramakrishna

Has tied a string to my heart

And keeps yanking it!”

Aaaargh!

Winter 1859, at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple (six miles north of Calcutta)

I cannot say with any certainty whether it was Mathur Baba's physician—with all his special dietary rules and his expensive powders and unguents—that finally cured Uncle of that terrible burning sensation in his chest. But I do know that I overheard Uncle telling someone that he had been concentrating during his most intense periods of meditation in the temple on his own sin—and also on its destruction—and that during one such meditation he suddenly had a vision in which a red-eyed, black-skinned creature came reeling out of his body and staggered around as if the worse for drink. Shortly after, a second person emerged—with clear eyes and a serene appearance—wearing the ocher cloth of a monk. This second person carried a trident and he attacked the red-eyed, drunken creature with it and killed him. From this moment onward, Uncle claimed, he was freed from all his former discomforts.

I was working hard at the Kali Temple and I was worrying greatly about ape-Uncle—so much so that it is difficult for me to recall in what order these events came about. But just as the pain in Uncle's chest disappeared, so too did ape-Uncle suddenly scamper off. When ape-Uncle left, Uncle was blessed with a great boon in the form of a vision of Sita, Rama's divine consort. Sita is truly the embodiment of all female virtues. Her name in
Sanskrit
means “furrow,” because to produce bounty a field must be carefully tended and ploughed. There are very many sources to her name and her story, but Sita is greatly loved because wherever she is worshipped she always brings benevolence and fecundity. When the beautiful Goddess appeared to Uncle she told him that she was happy with his service to Rama and then entered his body, uttering the words, “I bequeath you my smile.”

It strikes me as curious that Sita's name means “furrow”—in the way a brow may be furrowed into a frown—and yet what she gifted to Uncle was the very opposite of a scowl.

In truth, I cannot recollect ever finding Uncle's smile anything but charming (even as ape-Uncle, there was a certain magnetism to it), but after Uncle's vision of Sita the smile on his lips was a thing of such beauty that people would gasp when they saw it. And Uncle smiled constantly. When he prayed or he sang or he chanted or he slept (which was rarely) or he danced or he talked, Uncle would always be smiling. He would radiate joy and peace and great serenity. That's not to say Uncle was always happy. Not at all. Uncle still struggled in his spiritual journey. He was often upset and confused. But his smile would light up his eyes and play around his lips even then—even during our darkest hours.

One could light a room with Uncle's smile. One could melt ice with it. Uncle's smile could warm any soul and bring comfort to it. To be the recipient of one of Uncle's tender smiles is to feel like the richest man on earth. It is at once feminine and warm and comforting and holy. It is a most gracious and a most loving smile.

Oh, how I hunger and thirst for that smile of Uncle's! But presently I am most cruelly deprived of it, because Uncle has returned to Kamarpukur to stay for some months with his beloved mother.

Chandradevi, after many years of very little contact with her youngest son, had lately been receiving mixed reports about Uncle's progress at the temple, and had become, as a consequence, sick with worry about him. Uncle's mother is most adored by Uncle—as any good mother surely must be by all but the most ungrateful and disloyal of her offspring. Uncle's mother was Uncle's first great love, after all. And her example has stood as the foundation stone of what has become his most natural and most powerful spiritual mood of childlike love and devotion to the Goddess Kali.

Uncle's great loves are his two mothers. Uncle venerates them both, and seems perfectly oblivious to Chandradevi's faults—her simplicity and her naivety. Perhaps this is because Uncle has chosen to adopt some of those qualities for himself (Uncle can be very simple and naive on occasion), although in Uncle these faults find a strange kind of perfection.

Because Uncle cannot be expected to do anything on his own, I journeyed home with Uncle and helped him to find his bearings for a while. But then I returned with a heavy heart to my duties at Dakshineswar. I cannot pretend that I did not think it was good for Uncle to get away from the stressful atmosphere of the Kali Temple. Uncle had been in a state of heightened spiritual emotion for far too long. He was very thin and exhausted and confused. Uncle was a small boat being tossed around in a great spiritual storm. It was most necessary for him to pull into a safe port for a while. And where better or safer a port than Kamarpukur?

Uncle has now been gone for almost a year, and I miss him every moment. Life is flat without Uncle. There is no color in the divine worship. Sometimes, I must shamefully confess, I have felt as if Uncle has stood in the way of my progress in life—how may I hope to find my own path if I am always helping Uncle to find his (especially when that path is fraught with chaos and danger—a briary thicket which I must be constantly hacking through with a blunted knife)?

But now that Uncle is gone I pine for him terribly. In the way that Uncle pines for Ma Kali, I pine for Uncle. There is something so special about Uncle, and a little part of whatever is so special about Uncle rubs itself off on me, too, just because I am always close to him. When Uncle is here, I become the precious setting in which the jewel of Uncle may be shown off to its very best advantage. I hold Uncle firmly so that the light may hit his many sharp, fine-cut surfaces and sparkle. When Uncle is not here, all I seem to do is talk about Uncle. People do not forget him, and I will not let them forget him, either. How can I? So much of my conversation starts and finishes with “Uncle says … Uncle thinks … Uncle … Uncle … Uncle…”

Uncle is my compass now. I cannot negotiate the world without him. He is my still center. Without Uncle everything just spins pointlessly around.

I know I should feel happy and calm without the chaos of Uncle complicating my life, but instead I am like a drowning man being dragged into an endless whirlpool. Where is my anchor? Where is my help? Where is my hope, if not in Uncle?

I have returned to the village to visit Uncle on two occasions and am very comforted to see that he is much more at his ease now. Uncle lives a quiet life in Kamarpukur. His spiritual moods appear less extreme. Although Chandradevi informs me that she does not see as much of Uncle as she would like—he spends most of his time alone at the cremation ground, lost deep in contemplation.

Even so, Chandradevi is most happy and grateful to have Uncle back home with her once more. But still she fusses and worries over Uncle, as a mother will. She even set upon a scheme to get Uncle a wife! When I first heard of this plan I must admit that I was rather disconcerted. A marriage? A wife? Are there not already a sufficiency of problems for us to worry over with Uncle? And Uncle has made it very plain that he has no interest in living a householder's life. Uncle cares only for spiritual matters. Uncle cares not a jot for women or for gold. Was not the worm of lust expelled from his penis?

I spoke to Uncle about Chandradevi's plans, but Uncle just smiled and shrugged. He would not oppose his beloved mother. So a search was begun to find Uncle a wife. But there was nobody suitable in the nearby villages—no girl who could reach Chandradevi's high standards for Uncle. And of course Uncle's reputation generally preceded him. People love Uncle dearly, but he is hardly to be considered good husband material!

The search for a suitable match went on for many weeks, until Chandradevi was quite despairing, and then one morning Uncle announced that he had found his future bride all by himself. We were very confused because Uncle had done nothing but sit in the cremation ground and pray and meditate and appear completely indifferent to the ongoing search. Even so, Uncle provided his mother with the name of a girl in the village of Jayrambati. This name was Saradamani. We had no reason to think that Uncle had ever met or even heard of this girl before. But when we went to the address a girl was there, just five years old, and her father was very happy with the prospect of a betrothal. And so Uncle was married, and then the young girl—a sweet and obliging child—was sent back to live in the bosom of her family until she came of age. Uncle, for his part, after all these excitements, was now ready to turn his mind, once again, to Dakshineswar and the Kali Temple. What a relief it was to prepare for Uncle's return! And yet why did my heart sink a little at the mere thought of it?

I swear I do not know whether I am coming or going with Uncle. But I have certainly missed his lovely smile and his constant scolding. Uncle is funny. While he is completely detached from all worldly concerns, he can still be very particular and fussy and sarcastic about the finer details of things. He is certainly a most demanding master. My heart always sings and jumps like a cricket when he is around.

1868, approximately

Sri Ramakrishna offers three humble starting-points for meditation:

“Imagine the sky—

Vast—gray—covered in dense cloud:

Stand and gaze, in awe.”

“Imagine a lake—

This huge expanse of water,

But utterly still.”

“Imagine a lamp

With an unflickering flame—

Everything quiet.”

Shhhhhh
back there! We're
meditating
, you dullards!

1863, approximately. Mathur Nath Biswas offers Sri Ramakrishna something to eat:

Mathur
(
proffering a fruit
):
“Will you have some mango?”

Sri Ramakrishna (
shaking his head
):
“No, thank you. This … [
indicates self]
has eaten.”

Mathur (
frowning, suspicious
):
“What do you mean? Why are you talking that way?”

Sri Ramakrishna (
surprised
):
“Does not the stump of
ego
block the path to God's kingdom? To enter the kingdom one must first leapfrog over that stump.”

Mathur (
smirking
):
“So now you refuse to use the word ‘I' because it is an expression of
ego
?”

Sri Ramakrishna (
nodding
):
“The great pandit, Gaudi, speaks in this style. I have been told that this is how all true renunciants express themselves.”

Mathur (
with a dismissive swipe of his hand
):
“
Argh
, let Gaudi speak however he chooses! It's simply an affectation—an
expression
of his
ego
tism. But you have no
ego
. There is no need for you talk as these people do.”

Sri Ramakrishna thinks for a moment, frowning slightly, then his gentle but perplexed brown eyes turn and settle, thoughtfully, upon the lovely, ripe fruit. Ah, but how the sweet-toothed Master adores a mango!

For the main meal:

“Eat a little rice,

Perhaps a little spinach—

Chant God's name all day.”

And as a quick digestif:

“Bite on a chili—

By accident or design,

Your tongue will still burn.”

16th April 1886, the Cossipore garden house, Calcutta

or

The perplexing tale of Pagli
*

(
*
in Bengali, pagli means “madwoman”)

“Please remember God,

But if you cannot do that—

Then just think of me.”

                     
—Sri Ramakrishna

Ravaged by the final stages of throat cancer, barely able to eat, walk, or speak, Sri Ramakrishna is staying in a large upstairs room at a beautiful garden house rented by devotee Surendra Nath Mitra in the leafy suburb of Cossipore. The Master's small band of exhausted and heartbroken disciples are nursing him around the clock and are eager to ease his evident—but unspoken—discomfort in any way possible. It is mid-April and very hot. Surendra has purchased some blinds for the windows to keep out the worst of the scalding light. But now it is nighttime (if still airless) and the full moon shines with an almost supernatural brightness.