A Fine Family: A Novel Read online

  In the end Bauji felt that his faith in the British rule of law had been vindicated. From a private hurt, which would have scarred him forever, it had become a public affair and in his eyes the British system went on trial. And in the end the system was found to be sound. Thus a personal injustice, which might have radicalized him and pushed him into the nationalist camp, in fact reinforced his faith in the impartiality of the British Raj. In the meantime his law practice did suffer on account of this. It scared away many of his clients. They did not share his faith in the neutrality of the British judicial system. A couple of times, Bauji too had reason to doubt this faith. Once an English Magistrate was unduly sarcastic and rough with him in court. But all in all, not a single verdict went deliberately against him because of his involvement in this matter. Slowly, after about six months his practice picked up again, and the affair was soon forgotten.

  It was an unfortunate experience for one who was basically a private man. The personal humiliation that day at the Lahore station forever took away much of his earlier romance and appetite for railway travel. It also accounted for his odd behaviour today in insisting on buying a first class ticket for there was always a hope, even when he was sure that at the last minute he would not have the courage to enter a first class compartment.

  It was late afternoon when he arrived at the tiny village platform. A porter in a red turban scrambled to lift his luggage. ‘Hot tea,’ cried the tea boy as he scurried past. Bauji stared at the proud yellow sign which proclaimed to the world the existence of this sleepy village. The porter loaded his bag onto a waiting tonga and he rode towards the river. The tonga took him for two miles through wheat fields and here and there they passed flat houses of unbaked mud. They came along a line of buffaloes, moving down towards the river, flicking flies with their tails from their gleaming skins.

  ‘The guru be blessed!’ shouted a passerby. ‘The guru is mercifull’ responded the tonga driver. Bauji smiled at these old courtesies of the road. Suddenly the tonga turned and they were at the river Sutlej. The sun was coming down and the ashram was in full view. Bauji’s face filled with pleasure at the sight. The ashram was on the banks of the river. From the front, it looked like a jumble of simple brick huts surrounding an imposing building in the Muslim style with domes and minarets, where the devotees assembled twice a day to listen to the guru’s discourse. As expected, Shankar Singh’s letter opened all doors at the ashram and he was treated with respect and courtesy. Since he had been travelling the whole day, he was pleased with the chance of a bath in the river. He luxuriated in the cool stream, and allowed his mind to wander aimlessly over the memory of the burkha lady.

  Bauji was not religious by nature, but he was impressed by the tranquil atmosphere of the riverbank. Silence seemed to fill the evening. Around six he was invited to tea on the terrace of the guru’s apartment. The guru, he noted, was six feet tall. He had a flowing white beard and wore a white turban. He kept smiling at everyone. Bauji was taken up by his awesome bearing. He thanked the guru for his courtesy and briefly stated his marriage proposal. The guru smiled and gently called in the boy, Seva Ram, to meet Bauji. Although Bauji found his potential son-in-law quiet and aloof, he was impressed with the young man’s intelligence and simple manners. The only thing that bothered Bauji was his short stature because he would have liked a tall grandson.

  One of the disciples struck up a conversation with the guru. Seva Ram listened attentively, but he had a distant look and Bauji could not tell what he was thinking. He was sitting on the opposite side of the room and every now and then Bauji glanced at him. He looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had a pleasant face, thought Bauji, neither handsome nor plain, rather shy and in no way remarkable. His looks were certainly not capable of winning Tara’s heart.

  Bauji was struck by the fact that though he had not said more than half-a-dozen words since entering the room, he seemed to be perfectly at ease and in a curious way he appeared to take part in the guru’s conversation without opening his mouth. Bauji noticed his hands. They were not long, but they were nicely shaped, even though they were large for his size. He was slightly built but not delicate in appearance; on the contrary he was wiry and resistant. His face was tanned, a minor disadvantage thought Bauji, because fairness was preferred. But he was not naturally dark, Bauji realized, and he felt reassured; it was probably because he spent a lot of time in the sun. His features, though regular enough, were undistinguished. He had normal cheekbones and his temples were hollow. He had wavy black hair which he combed to the back. His eyes looked larger than they really were because they were deep set and his lashes were thick and long. His eyes had a peculiar intensity.

  A few notables of the ashram now entered the room. Among them were a princess of a small state in central India and a professor of philosophy. The conversation suddenly became livelier. As people were chatting and enjoying the breeze from the river, Bauji leaned over the edge of the terrace and looked out at the river. In the setting sun, the river glowed along its quarter-mile width, framed by ravines and reeds on the flat plain. He was struck by the beauty of the moment. When he turned back to the company, he heard the professor of philosophy ask, ‘Guruji, if there is a God why does he permit such suffering and pain in the world? Why isn’t the world a better place to live in? Why aren’t people happy?’

  The guru laughed as he always did, not at the questioner or the question, but to convey that it was a difficult one and hence a good question. ‘God did not intend this world to be a perfect place for human happiness or to be our permanent home,’ he replied. ‘It is a school, where you come to learn.’

  ‘Learn what?’ asked the princess.

  ‘Learn, my child, the way to your real home, which is the place for true human happiness.’

  ‘And how do I learn that?’ she asked.

  ‘You learn through meditation. By emptying your mind of all distracting thoughts and concentrating your attention between the eyes. During meditation you will forget your body and you will be guided either by an inner light or the sound of inner music. The light will sometimes appear in the form of your guru, who will guide your spiritual journey towards God with the help of the light and the music.’

  ‘Guruji, if this world is not my true home, then why do I get involved here? I mean get attached to my family?’

  ‘Child, you must teach your heart. What a waste these attachments are! One day you will die, and that too without warning. Suddenly you will leave your family and friends. You see, the world is not a permanent place. Nothing is forever.’

  ‘Look upon this world as a passenger on a train looks at a wayside stop. On the train journey the traveller makes acquaintance with fellow passengers. Some passengers get off earlier, some later; some have a short journey, some have a longer one. But no one makes deep friendships, because they all know that each one has to get off. That is how you must learn to live in the world. Do not imagine for even a moment that your parents, children, friends, are going with you. They are all passengers.’

  Bauji was alternately moved and disturbed by this analogy. Even though he felt sceptical about the possibility of a true home or a perfect world, he was drawn to the perspective of the train passenger. He wondered what the world would be like if all relationships were as casual as those of passengers. Slowly a vision of that world appeared. And it was a bleak vision. Surely this world, he thought, with all its failures and sorrows, is better for the emotion that we invest in it, especially in human relationships. He began to be repelled by the vision. In the meantime the guru had changed the analogy.

  ‘Look at how the wise bee sits on the jar of honey!’ continued the guru. ‘The bee sits on the jar and licks honey from its edge, and flies away when it is content. That is how you must live in this world. Enjoy the world, but do not get involved. Be ready to fly a way at any time. Most of us, however, live like the stupid bee who sees the honey with hungry eyes and plunges in—with the result that it gets stuck in the honey as we get s
tuck in our involvements.’

  This was more than a lesson in moderation, Bauji felt. Despite the fact that the analogy was more convincing, he still felt uneasy. He thought to himself that he liked getting involved and attached. Although he did not think of himself as the greedy bee stuck in the jar, he liked to plunge in and form attachments. His world was the richer for these entanglements. If he hadn’t felt as he did for Tara, why would he trouble himself with these arrangements for her happiness?

  As the evening wore on, the professor of philosophy kept interrupting the guru with countless questions. ‘Who created the universe? If God created the universe why did he create it? Etc., etc.’

  Finally the tired guru sighed and said, ‘Listen, professorji, I shall tell you a story. Once there was a blind man who fell into a deep well. Fortunately a shepherd happened to pass by; he heard the blind man’s cries, and took pity and offered to pull him out.

  ‘Instead of taking hold of the rope lowered by the shepherd, the blind man started to argue. He questioned the shepherd about his motive in helping him. “Where was the guarantee,” he asked, “that he wouldn’t fall again in a well? Why didn’t they make safer wells for blind people? Why did they make wells at all, in fact?”

  ‘The patience of the shepherd was taxed by these questions, but he gently replied that it would be in the blind man’s interest to take advantage of the rope. After coming out he could study the situation for himself at leisure and form his conclusions.

  ‘The blind man, however, persisted and asked the shepherd why he had not also fallen into the well. The kind shepherd said that he was in a hurry to get home where he had a number of tasks awaiting him.

  ‘“All right, “ said the blind man, “but first answer only two questions: when was this well built and how deep is it?”’

  ‘“It is deep enough to be the grave of some people,” said the shepherd and left in disgust.’

  Everyone laughed heartily at this tale, including the professor.

  As the evening came to an end, the guru turned to Bauji. ‘You have been quiet all evening. I perceive disquiet in your heart. What is it?’

  ‘Guruji,’ said Bauji. ‘I have always believed that a man should lead a virtuous life, do good to others, avoid causing pain or harm to fellow human beings, and earn an honest living. I never thought anything more was necessary.’

  ‘Bauji, I applaud your beliefs. You are in fact far better prepared to undertake the spiritual journey because your mind is pure. A pure mind is like a beautifully arranged table before dinner, with clean plates and silverware. Now you must place food in them. Your hunger will not be satisfied merely with plates and spoons, just as the soul’s hunger for the Infinite cannot be satisfied purely by virtuous living.’

  Bauji thought about what the guru had said. He was struck by the logical strength of the guru’s arguments; however, his heart shied from commitment. Religious faith was too far away from his worldly temper.

  ‘Why don’t the two of you go for a walk in the morning?’ suggested the guru to Seva Ram and Bauji. ‘Shall we say at 5. 30. The day breaks early nowadays.’

  The next morning Bauji was woken up at four when a gong went off. It was the start of the day at the ashram, beginning with a bath and followed by meditation. The two men, so unlike in physique, met as planned. The boy, shorter and slimmer, wore the working dress of a Punjabi peasant—a thin long shirt and baggy pants held up by a drawstring. Bauji again noticed the boy’s large hands and curly hair. His eyes were innocent and sincere, thought Bauji, but they were also remote.

  There was an awkward shyness between the two. Bashfully Seva Ram led Bauji up the river.

  ‘I suppose you sleep late in Lyallpur.’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact, I’m usually in my office by eight.’

  The boy smiled, and with a laugh Bauji added, ‘Yes, I suppose that is late by your standards.’

  Bauji saw a hazy mist rising from the water. The air was not yet warm, and the sun was ascending behind the main dome in the east. The boy led the way and they walked on, making small talk, until they reached a clearing, from which they could see the railway bridge in the distance.

  Bauji wanted to ask Seva Ram about his job, his career prospects, and other things appropriate of a future son-in-law. Instead they talked about the guru and the spiritual life.

  ‘What does the guru teach?’ asked Bauji.

  ‘To seek the truth,’ replied the boy.

  ‘And how do you find the truth?’

  ‘Through meditation.’

  ‘How do you know when you have found it?’, asked Bauji.

  ‘When I have become free from the demands of my ego and from the control of selfish longings which bind me to my body and other daily concerns.’

  The boy had a natural grace, decided Bauji. It seemed that he had also thought about what he was saying.

  After the walk Bauji went to listen to the guru’s discourse. He sat cross-legged on the ground in the impressive hall, which had minarets at each corner. The guru was dressed in a loose and comfortable white kurta. He sat slightly higher on a platform, so that he could be seen by everyone. At his side sat another bearded old man, who chanted verses of the medieval saint, Nanak, which the guru elaborated and commented upon. Everyone’s eyes were adoringly fixed on the guru and they listened in rapt attention.

  In a low and clear voice the guru explained that the purpose of human life was to merge with the Infinite. He likened Infinite to an ocean and the human soul to a drop of water, which has a natural urge to merge with the ocean. ‘Fortunately,’ he added, ‘the Infinite is within each of us, and by emptying our mind of all thought and concentrating attention at the eye centre, one can journey inwards towards the Infinite. The journey begins with meditation, when the five senses and the mind are stilled and the intellect is silent. Meditation helps the mind to become free from the awareness of subject and object and attain one-pointedness.’ To help quiet the mind, the guru offered a mantra. The mantra, he explained, was merely a set of words, whose meaning was not relevant, but it had to be repeated quietly in order to divert one’s mind from the restless chain of thoughts. The practice of meditation, he added, was helped by living simply, eating only when hungry, drinking only when thirsty, and reducing living to essentials. The guru concluded by saying, that if they didn’t believe him, why didn’t they experiment and find out for themselves.

  Bauji was impressed with this logic, and moved by the possibilities of meditation. Sceptical by nature and shy of religion, he was amused to see himself being swept by the guru and the ashram’s atmosphere.

  From the mystic calm of the ashram, the guru and the river, Bauji was brutally thrown into the mundane world. On his way home, as he was getting into the train at Jullunder, he found himself trapped in the middle of what the next day’s newspapers called ‘a minor communal disturbance’. The papers went on to praise ‘the speed and firmness with which the police put down the disorder’, but Bauji remembered only his humiliation.

  Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, two handsome Muslim boys, scarcely twenty years old, emerged. They confidently walked into his compartment, and with extreme courtesy asked Bauji his name. Bauji gave it to them. When they heard it they spat in his race and turned to run away, but their way was blocked by a gentleman with a suitcase who had entered at that precise moment. The gentleman had seen what had happened. He slapped the boy closest to him squarely across the cheek. The blow was struck with such force that the sound was heard all over the noisy platform. The boys were taken aback and managed to beat a quick retreat. Bauji smiled gratefully at his benefactor, though he felt ashamed. The ironic discovery that his benefactor was a Muslim momentarily diverted him from his own humiliation.

  A third passenger entered shortly, and informed them that there had been a communal riot that morning in the area around the railway station. The trouble had apparently started because a Hindu procession had played music outside the Muslim mosque. The Muslims had rega
rded this as a provocation and had retaliated. The next morning’s papers placed the casualties at ‘four dead, twenty wounded, two shops burned, two cases of rape’. By the time the police arrived on the platform Bauji’s train had started to move. Just as well, he thought, that he was spared the ordeal of publicly recounting his humiliation. Neither he nor the Muslim gentleman mentioned the incident again during the journey.

  As the train gathered speed, Bauji’s feelings of shock and humiliation were gradually replaced by calm reflection of what had happened. He was surprised by the clarity of his mind so soon after this unpleasantness. He did not feel hatred for the two boys: they were part of a tide which was carrying the Punjab towards an unthinkable doom. The mischief had been unleashed not by Jinnah alone (as everyone believed) but also by Gandhi.

  Bauji felt comfortable with the Congress movement so long as it was led by men like Gokhale, who spoke the familiar language of liberalism and the law. But the entry of Gandhi at the end of World War I had set it on a path of ‘direct action’ and given it a more Hindu complexion. Bauji distrusted Gandhi’s methods of civil disobedience and mass agitation. They caused division everywhere—the biggest one being between Hindus and Muslims. And Gandhi seemed oblivious of it. For Gandhi—with all his fads and fasts, his mud baths, goat’s milk, days of silence, non-violence—was fundamentally a Hindu. Although he claimed to be a ‘Muslim, Parsee, Christian, and Hindu’, who else but a Hindu could expect people to take such a quixotic idea seriously?