The Cauliflower (31 page)

Might the mischievous
guru
have been amused by this scene?

Back at the garden house, the urn is propped on the Master's bed and the disciples sit around it meditating and chanting and exchanging fond reminiscences about the Master (Narendra does an excellent line in droll but intensely fond impressions of the Master emerging—startled and perplexed—from
samadhi
).

After only a few days, however, Ram Chandra Datta, who is renting the house, tells them that they will have to vacate the property by the end of the month and return back to their own homes. He also informs them that he will take the ashes and inter them at his garden house in Kankurgachi Yogodyan. The disciples are upset and disappointed, and after intense discussions (did the Master not specifically ask to be interred by the Ganga?) resolve only to give Ram Chandra Datta a small amount of the ashes and keep the remainder for themselves. They ask Ram Chandra Datta to provide them with an urn, then, without him knowing, they place a tiny amount of the Master's ash into his urn and seal the lid. The vast remainder is taken, for safekeeping, to Balaram Basu's house, but not before, at Narendra's instigation, the disciples all devour a small portion of the Master's remains so that they might become, in Narendra's words, “living shrines” to Sri Ramakrishna.

The
guru
's body—his human shell—has now, on two separate occasions, quite literally been consumed.

Poor Hridayram

He died, virtually destitute, in 1899, but without his encyclopedic wealth of biographical knowledge, the
Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna
could never have been written. Hridayram was the only living person to have stayed with the Master throughout his epic twelve-year-long
sadhana
, and as a consequence, after Ramakrishna's death, he had every opportunity to become a significant—even a respected—figure within the nascent Ramakrishna Order. But he continued to be a difficult and a perplexing character—a maddening combination of helpful, self-pitying, resentful, and unpredictable.

Shortly after Ramakrishna's death, the
guru
's ashes (or at least some of them) were installed, ready for worship, at Ram Chandra Datta's garden house in Kankurgachi Yogodyan (it was a poignant interment; the disciple who would eventually become Swami Ramakrishnananda became hysterical as the spade patted the ground flat over the
guru
, crying, “You are hurting him! You are hurting him!”).

Ram very kindly took pity on Hridayram and offered him the job of priest there. It was an excellent position—full rent and board and a generous salary. But after a few days, Hridayram began behaving unpredictably, devouring the butter and the sweets provided for the Master himself, and offering only the remaining scraps (his own
prasad
, in effect) to his uncle. A shocked and exasperated Ram Chandra Datta promptly—but regretfully—sacked him and sent him on his way.

In those difficult final months, an unexpected discovery …

A devotee enters the
guru
's room, but noticing that he has his eyes closed and seems to be resting (a rare thing for the
guru
), he prepares to tiptoe back out again. For some reason, however—a bedpan or spittoon that desperately needs emptying, a precariously balanced bowl of farina pudding, a buzzing fly, a fallen cloth, a dragging bedsheet—he suddenly reconsiders and makes his way quietly over toward the dozing
guru
. He reaches out a gentle hand and touches him, very lightly, then starts, with a gasp, barely managing to contain a violent yell. He staggers backward, blindly, his eyes rolling, his mouth slackening, as if slapped, as if Tasered by a jolt of pure, undiluted …

Wooah!
What the heck was
that?!

The
guru
opens one eye, and peeks over at the devotee with a mischievous grin:

“Ah,” he hoarsely whispers, “so you have found out my secret!”

Ecstasy. A protective shield of ecstasy. Powerful, constant, coursing waves of ecstasy are pervading the
guru
's entire body. Sri Ramakrishna is cannily, naughtily, mercilessly employing the handy device of spiritual bliss as pain relief.

Roll up! Roll up! Roll up!

For one day only! For this day only (January the 1st, 1886—the first day of the new year), your favorite guru and mine, Sri Ramakrishna, will be appearing, exclusively, in the guise of the kalpataru—the Wish-fulfilling Tree!

Roll up! Roll up! Roll up!

Don't be late!

Don't miss out!

Come and see!

Well, by some miracle the
guru
has actually crawled out of his bed. For the first time during his stay at the Cossipore garden house he is up, he is about, he is warmly dressed, and he is planning to take a small constitutional around the gardens.

It is a public holiday. There are devotees everywhere—lying under trees digesting their lunches, sitting by the water, laughing, praying, saying
japa
, gossiping about the
guru
and about each other, telling jokes, having fun, picking flowers. It's a halcyon scene.

It should probably be observed—as we scan the local environs—that there are a few really rather important people missing. Some of the Master's closest and most trusted disciples have gone off—led by his favorite, Narendra—on a jaunt to Bodh Gaya. These core disciples—especially Narendra—are, at this stage in their
sadhana
s, very influenced by the Buddhist teachings. Several of them have avowed that they do not even think they actually believe in God. Sri Ramakrishna appears to take all this in his stride. (What else can the poor
guru
do?) He cheerfully insists that it is perfectly natural for people to spend interludes in their spiritual lives
not
believing in God.

But the
guru
is very ill. He has so much that he still longs to impart to his boys. He will not be with them forever—mere months at best. And the disciples have gone to Bodh Gaya without even telling him. Perhaps he is a little wounded? Perhaps he is secretly smarting? Who knows? And perhaps this is why he chooses today, the first of the new year, his final year, to do what he does.

So the Master is out in the fresh air. He is walking, slowly, gently supported, around the gardens. The devotees are naturally delighted to see him (perhaps he is recovering after all! Perhaps their fervent prayers have finally been answered!), and as soon as he appears among them they swarm toward him. Girish (ever the drama queen) prostrates himself at the
guru
's feet, loudly incanting his praises. The
guru
instantly falls into ecstasy. The crowd becomes still more jubilant, singing, clapping, chanting his name.

The
guru
returns to partial consciousness and looks around him, his face glowing with love and gratitude. How might he possibly repay their loyalty and faithfulness? He raises his arms and holds out his feeble hands, his eyes filling with tears, and murmurs: “May you all be illumined!”

The crowd suddenly feels itself being enveloped—surrounded, permeated—by an incredibly warm and comforting hug of ineffable bliss.

The
guru
begins to move among them, barely conscious, touching them, one after the other, with his outstretched fingers. Each person responds differently to the Master's touch because each person
is
different, and the
guru
will give them only what he thinks will send them forward on their spiritual journeys. Some begin praying; some speak imaginary languages; some start to sing; some fall to the ground, their bodies contorting; some are silent, unable to speak; some wail and weep; some sit quietly and meditate; some dance; some whirl around and scream.

Some—just a couple—the
guru
does not touch. He withdraws his hand. “Not yet,” he murmurs, coldly. Imagine the feeling—to be refused the touch of the
guru
! To be notably excluded—and in public! One of these sorry individuals is Akshay Kumar Sen. Akshay is tiny and dark skinned. He is not considered attractive. He is not young and plump and beautiful like the
guru
's favored boys. He is in his early thirties. He has lived a poor, hard life. But he is clever. He is diligently supporting himself as a tutor in Calcutta.

Akshay is desperate—needy. From his very first sighting of Sri Ramakrishna he is utterly besotted by him, but the
guru
, while unerringly polite, is always slightly cool and distant with Akshay. Many devotees are permitted to touch—even gently massage—the
guru
's feet, but the Master will not countenance Akshay's touch. When Akshay approaches, he swiftly withdraws his feet with an exclamation of disquiet. Poor Akshay. He knows that the
guru
is perfectly capable of giving him the vision of Lord Krishna which he craves more than life itself, but for some reason he refuses to. Akshay tries everything he can think of to persuade the haughty
guru
—he is helpful and humble and obliging. He brings him gifts. The
guru
loves ice—the impoverished Akshay brings him an ice cream. The
guru
turns up his nose and will not touch it. Akshay endures endless snubs and rebuttals at the
guru
's hands. But every disciple is different. And Ramakrishna—ever inscrutable—is crushing Akshay's
ego
through indifference. This is Akshay's path. He will be rejected, ignored, passed over, humiliated. And even today, on this day, when everyone is touched, Akshay is held at bay.

In several written accounts of this landmark occasion, it is made clear that Akshay is rejected. In some, he is seen presenting a flower to the
guru
, even described as standing some distance away and then being genially called over by the
guru
and blessed. But the accounts of him being turned away have a greater ring of legitimacy to them. Sri Ramakrishna is not Jesus Christ. He is not democratic. He will not accept just
any
body. He is complex and discriminating. So let us imagine Akshay being turned away on that special day. And let's ponder his sense of rejection, his feelings of inadequacy, of injustice; let's dwell on his humility, his need, his poverty. Where, we wonder, may this whirlpool of emotions ultimately lead him?

A sour note has certainly been sounded on an otherwise magical day. But does it destroy Akshay's faith in the
guru
? Does it undermine his confidence in Sri Ramakrishna's status as an incarnation? Nope. Not one bit. When the
guru
dies, Akshay remains one of his most ardent devotees, and after a while an urge rises within him to pick up a pen and to write about the
guru
. Akshay has no confidence—he is not well educated, he has not attended the university, he was never a favorite of Ramakrishna's, not comfortably of the inner circle—but he picks up his pen and he begins writing down all his feelings of great love (underpinned, as they are, by this desperate sense of unworthiness, of unfulfilled desire), and creates an extraordinary landmark in the history of Bengali verse—a giant, crazy, stirring, magical, hysterical four-volume love song, a love
rant
to the
guru
: Sri Sri Ramakrishna Punthi.

And perhaps this is how the Master encourages Akshay's
sadhana
—and in so doing, quite coincidentally, inspires his own great literary monument. Ramakrishna's cruel rejection of this needy devotee only spurs on his ardor—nay, his idealism. Consummation can sometimes—just sometimes—be overrated. Which of us remembers the happy endings? Surely the poems of an unrequited lover are always the most passionate, the most moving, the most fierce, the most agonizing, the most heartfelt, the most indelible?

“When yearning for God,

Be just like the mother cow

Pursuing her calf.”

“Oh, that you were like my

    brother,

Who nursed at my mother's breasts!

If I should find you outside,

I would kiss you;

I would not be despised.

I would lead you and bring you

Into the house of my mother,

She who used to instruct me.

I would cause you to drink of

    spiced wine,

Of the juice of my

    pomegranate.…”

                     
—Song of Solomon 8:1

The Rani. Ah, the glorious Rani—she started off this story, did she not? And now, at this late hour, she must be cordially deputized to end it (before it's even truly begun).…

This is the Rani's final scene. But it is two scenes. The Rani can never do anything by halves. She is a creature of many cuts, of many edits, of many versions. All that we can be sure of is that she is perfect, that she is noble, that she is a creature exquisitely of her time and out of it.

The Rani (the indignity!) has been struck down by chronic dysentery. Her doctors, fearing the worst, ask for her to be moved to more hospitable climes. Hospitable or no, the Rani opts for her garden house in Kalighat (adjacent to the famous temple), which stands on the banks of a small tributary of the holy Ganga.

Shortly before her death, as is traditional, the Rani is carried down to the banks of the river and partially immersed there. It is late at night and very dark, so many lamps have been lit. In one version of her death scene, a violent gust of wind blows them all out.

But the version we are following, the scene we are watching, sees the Rani blinking, owlishly, into the shining lights around her and then suddenly, furiously, impetuously, exclaiming: “Turn off the lights! Turn them off! I have no need of them! I have no need of artificial illumination now! Turn off the lights!”