The Cauliflower (6 page)

Uncle comes from a family of
brahmana
. We are
Brahmin
s—a caste of priests and teachers—and we worship the
Veda
s. There is only one God in our Vedic faith, but he may be worshipped in many different forms. The world of the
Brahmin
is full of rules and rituals, and one of the most important of these for a
Brahmin
boy is
uponayon
: the investment with a sacred thread. Uncle was invested with his thread when he was eight or nine years old, but even then, when Uncle was so young, he managed to provide his family with an additional measure of heartache and perplexity. Because, well, that is Uncle, after all.

The
upabeet
, as we like to call it in Bengal, is nothing more than a simple cord made up of three separate strands which are twisted into a single thread. It is pulled over the head and under one arm and so hangs across the chest. It must be worn at all times. The knot in the middle which ties the two ends together represents the formless
Brahman
, or God, who is the beginning and end and middle of all things.

There are many different meanings surrounding the sacred thread, not all of which I can recall, but one of them is that the first strand signifies the wearer's debt to his
guru
or teacher (the person who initiates him and teaches him how to recite the daily devotions, or
sandhyavandanam
, which are the prayers and rituals we like to perform at dawn, at noon, and at dusk). The second debt is to one's parents and ancestors. The third is to the learned
rishi
s, or scholars, who have brought us knowledge and wisdom, although some of us believe that this debt is only to God, who is wisdom itself. These are our three chief debts, and the sacred thread constantly serves to remind us of them.

Some like to think that the three strands also symbolize the three great
devi
s, or goddesses: Ma Saraswati, who is the Goddess of Knowledge, Ma Lakshmi, who is the Goddess of Riches, and Ma Parvati, who is the Goddess of Strength. And sometimes we hope to remind ourselves with those three humble strands of how purity is expected from all good
Brahmin
s, first in thought, then in word, and finally in deed.

The
uponayon
is a kind of rebirth. I am told that Christians are also born twice or even three times in their faith. And the Jews and the Mohammedans celebrate the journey from boyhood to manhood with a ritual whose name I have never learned.

Toward the end of the
uponayon
ceremony—after the boy has received his sacred word or
mantram
from his
guru
, which is known only to him and whose constant repetition in
japam
, or prayer, throughout his life will guard him from misfortune and bring him prosperity—the boy will be obliged to beg his food from a close member of his community. In fact, he will then go on to beg for three days like a humble monk seeking alms. It is a great honor to be the first individual to offer alms to the newly initiated child, and, as we know all too well, Uncle was universally adored by the womenfolk of Kamarpukur and so many were eager to be afforded this special privilege. But one woman in particular was most devoted to Uncle—the old blacksmith's daughter, Dhani, who had helped Chandradevi at his birth. She had for a very long time indeed dreamed that Uncle would approach her first, receive her food, and then address her as Ma (as is the custom during this ritual). This was her heart's greatest desire. Uncle—who loved Dhani very much—immediately agreed to Dhani's fond request, and thought little more of it until his oldest brother, Ramkumar, had been made aware of their longstanding agreement and became deeply troubled by it.

Uncle was to become a
Brahmin
, and Dhani was of the blacksmith caste. The first person to offer alms was traditionally always of a similar caste to the boy to whom it was offered. Ramkumar told Uncle firmly that Dhani could not make the first offering. Uncle was to tell her that this was impossible.

You may imagine that Uncle might have regretfully obeyed his brother—and the traditions of this ancient custom—by telling Dhani the bad news. But no. Uncle dug in his heels and refused to disappoint his dear friend. Ramkumar insisted. Uncle resisted. A terrible scene was forthcoming! But still Uncle held his ground.

In the end a village elder well versed in the scriptures was consulted. Uncle presented his arguments before him. He said, “Surely, in such a case, it is more important that the young initiate should keep his word and not indulge in untruthfulness than that the rules of caste should be upheld?”

After some deep consideration the elder agreed with Uncle's viewpoint, and humble Dhani was permitted to be the first to feed Uncle at his special ceremony.

So Uncle had his way. He is very clever in such matters. He has an intellect as sharp as a new blade. We should only be grateful that Uncle was drawn to an honorable life. Imagine what havoc such a keen and disruptive mind as Uncle's might have wrought on the world had it not been completely God-centered!

I tell you this story of Uncle's
uponayon
—which may seem slight and insignificant to some—only because of a complete turnaround in the views of Uncle (and, indeed, the views of his brother) with regard to the rules of caste and the partaking of food cooked by a
Sudra
shortly after his arrival at the beautiful Dakshineswar Kali Temple (when Uncle was around nineteen years of age).

I would never dare to call Uncle a turncoat or a hypocrite, but my, how things may change in only a few years! Yet who am I to pretend to understand the mysterious workings of Uncle's mind? It would be foolish for one such as Hridayram to even try. I must simply regard this as another perplexing example of Uncle's mysterious
lila
—the most fascinating and beguiling and magical divine play of my strange and singular Uncle Gadadhar.

August 1884, late at night in Sri Ramakrishna's room at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple

The boy was lying on a mat on the northeastern verandah of the Master's room, struggling to fall asleep. Sri Ramakrishna himself rarely ever slept more than a couple of hours a night. The rest of the time he would pace around restlessly, or climb up onto the roof, muttering to himself, chanting God's names, singing, or clapping his hands, or talking emphatically with an invisible someone, always moving, always walking, frantically walking, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Was this devotion or madness? Joy or distraction?

The boy was exhausted after a full and inspirational day of spiritual teaching, prayer, and song. He was only young and not wise in the ways of the world, but it seemed to him that after dark, once all the crowds had finally dispersed, the Master would become mysteriously transformed, everything comforting and familiar about him—everything he thought he knew and understood—quite magically dematerializing. His mother had warned him: “What?! You went to visit that crazy
Brahmin
? Are you mad?! Don't you know what they say about him—that he has destroyed the minds of three hundred and fifty young men?!”

The boy frowned at the memory. He rolled gently onto his side—into the fetal position, his arms crossed against his chest—feeling hungry and perplexed. Minutes passed. He yawned and lowered his knees a little, then suddenly, without warning, the Master came barreling outside onto the balcony and commenced pacing—like a thing possessed—around and around the mat where he lay. He could hear the Master's bare feet slapping against the polished concrete floor, his voice whispering and wheedling, hoarse and cajoling. He could see, through his lashes, the Master's hands frantically wringing. “
Mother! Mother! Mother! Mother!
”

The boy froze and held his breath. Could this be it? Finally? Was this it? The thing he'd heard so much about? The thing that he'd been waiting for? The thing that he'd been dreaming of?

He scrunched his eyes shut, terrified.

Was this it? At long last? Was this to be the night that he was blessed?

Forty years earlier

Ah, the things the Rani has seen! The things the Rani has done! She has been attacked by thugs on stilts in the bug-infested swamps of the Sunderbans, she has resurfaced the road to Puri for faithful pilgrims to walk upon, she has donated generously to the imperial library, she has constructed bathing
ghat
s for the needy and dug ponds for the parched, she has opened a home for the dying in Nimtala, she has been a powerful patron of wrestlers and weight lifters, she has bought the fishing rights for a segment of the Ganga from the British government and then blocked it, with chains, because the big ships were—
ahem
—“frightening the little fish,” she has been hilariously and outrageously and adorably litigious. But most important of all, she has built a giant temple on the banks of the Ganga, at Dakshineswar, after the terrible Goddess Kali appeared to her in a dream and told her that she must. It's a long story. But before we get around to that …

Chained up the great and holy Ganga?!

(Although some still doggedly maintain that she actually blocked the sacred river with thousands of bamboo canes.)

Two stories of the Rani's legendary verve, cunning, and spunk neatly intertwine here—like a couple of temple cats, one black, one white (let's call them Yin and Yang), winding their way around the legs of the temple cook. The first involves an English gentleman neighbor of the Rani who complained to the authorities after she hired a group of musicians to process—with her family priests—early in the morning to the sacred Ganga, to perform a ritual there in anticipation of the great Durga festival (or
puja
). She was cautioned by the authorities and promptly responded by hiring twice as many musicians to process (joyously! cacophonously!) the following day. At dawn. Obviously. The furious neighbor sued and the Rani was fined. The Rani—who was intensely law-abiding—paid her fine, but was incensed that the government (the heathens!) had acted against a religious observance during one of the most important holy celebrations of the Hindu spiritual calendar.

Revenge, as we shall soon discover, is an intemperate dish generally best accompanied by a mouthwatering selection of chutneys, pickles, and a cooling
raita
. The Rani promptly put up barricades at either end of Babu Road from Janbazar to Babu Ghat. No traffic could pass through. The authorities complained, but the Rani calmly informed them, by letter, that she owned the road and could therefore do with it exactly as she pleased. And she did. The road remained shut, the people rioted (in support of the Rani; a series of ecstatic songs and limericks were penned in her honor) until she was grudgingly reimbursed the value of her fine. Then she opened Babu Road again, without a murmur.

But these high jinks were merely a small prelude—a brief warm-up—a colorful aside. The Rani's main symphony had yet to be played. Sometime later the government (this tune's composer) imposed a crippling fishing tax on the impoverished fishermen of the holy Ganga. The fishermen appealed to numerous individuals in positions of power to come to their aid (they needed a conductor), but nobody would take up their proffered baton, not, at least, until they approached the dear Rani. The Rani picked up their baton readily, but she handled it furtively and proceeded with great stealth—no officious tapping on the music stand here to draw attention to herself! Instead she quietly took up the lease of the fishing rights on the great river between Ghusuri and Metiabruz, then told all the fishermen in that area to barricade the river and fish to their hearts' content, tax free. This they did, and gladly. All commercial shipping was promptly brought to a standstill.

Just imagine the scene: the terrible honking and parping of indignant sea captains, a tangled chaos of boats and ships and tugs bobbing about, either end, unable to reach their ports or drop off their cargos.

The government summonsed the Rani, demanding that she remove her barricades
posthaste
. The Rani replied (let's imagine a swishing of
sari
s, a jangling of bangles) that the giant steamboats had been disturbing her fish, making them dash about and rendering them incapable of laying any eggs, which meant, in due course, that the poor fishermen had been struggling to net any kind of livable catch.

Once again, the government was obliged to concede (dammit!) that the Rani had the law on her side. They refunded her the money for her lease and rescinded the loathed tax.

Job done!

Ah, the Rani. Is it any wonder that they composed songs about her, renamed Babu Road after her, built an imposing statue of her, put her lovely face on a stamp?

What happens when Sri Ramakrishna quietly asks you to open your mouth, circa 1883?

You spit out your tongue—

He'll scratch a
mantram
on it

In ancient
Sanskrit

And just by the by
 …

Remember those dreadful thugs? In the swampy Sunderbans, raising merry hell on their pesky stilts? During the course of the mugging (shots were fired, a thief was wounded) the Rani discovered that this terrible, legendary, and much-feared band of brigands had only resorted to their vicious trade because of an awful paucity of legitimate local work options. The land in question (it transpires) was part of the vast property handed over to the Rani by Prince Dwarakanath Tagore (remember?) to settle his outstanding debt. So the Rani promptly sat down and brainstormed with the thieves, thrashed out a few ideas, drew up a business plan, reached deep into her coffers, and helped them to establish a series of incredibly successful fisheries which utterly transformed the local economy—and the impoverished local community—for ever and ever and ever, Amen.