The Cauliflower (4 page)

What is the Rani thinking as she stands and watches the priests take a lighted tinder to her much-adored Rajchandra's funeral pyre? She is a modest woman, and pious, and loving, but she is fiercely intelligent. Is there a measure of social pressure? Statistics tell us that the practice of
sati
was much favored in Bengal during the early part of the Rani's lifetime. The practice was especially keenly followed in the areas surrounding Calcutta—Kali-cutta; Kali who was Sati who was Dakshayani had immolated herself voluntarily. But the Rani (not a Rani, but our Rani) does not offer herself. Imagine the eyes of the crowd upon her. What are they thinking? Do they judge her?

The writer Lata Mani (in her book
Contentious Traditions
) calls that 1829 law “a founding moment in the history of women in modern India.” And the necessary consequences of this “founding moment”? “Women became the site on which tradition was debated.”

This is a debate still raging today.

So our Rani, who is not a queen but of low caste, must now negotiate (in 1836, for heaven's sake) a complex path between conformity and independence, piety and survival, tradition and modernity, happiness and disapproval. This is a tortuous route. But the Rani will walk it. And she will walk it bravely and lightly. And as she walks it she will throw out sparks of hope to women everywhere. Women then and women now. She will become emblematic of something intangible. Of female power, a power which may only exist—and does and
will
exist—if it remains charming, superficially submissive, unerringly polite, and appropriately dressed. See the Rani's flitting eyes? Her sharp mind works feverishly behind her veil.

Only a woman such as this—inhabiting a contested space, a contested territory—may become the heroic midwife to India's newest messiah, a
guru
who will not be called a
guru
, a priest who will not follow tradition, a wise man who will not read or write or lecture or develop a philosophy or tolerate publicity. Everything here is contested. This is a liminal space, an air bubble within history.

So please,
please
, let us mentally offer flowers at the feet of the Rani, right here, right now, in the hope of keeping her safe for her difficult journey.

1857, the Kali Temple, Dakshineswar (six miles north of Calcutta)

Uncle cannot remember the exact date of his birth. He has lost the related documentation. But I believe it must have been on an extremely auspicious day. There was probably a full moon. And the stars in the blue heavens must have been specially aligned. If he had still possessed it, I wonder if Uncle's astrological chart might have foretold the great shadow cast across his happy childhood by the sudden death of his beloved father, Kshudiram, when Uncle was but eight years of age. Kshudiram was celebrating a festival at my family home in Selampur with his favorite nephew, Ramachandra, when he was struck low by a virulent attack of dysentery. He never recovered. Three days later he died with God's name upon his lips. He was sixty-eight years of age. I remember very little of that gloomy time, but I know that his body was cremated by the river. Even today I recall the warmth of that great pyre on my innocent young cheeks.

After Kshudiram's death Uncle spent increasing amounts of time at home with his mother, taking on many of the household duties—especially the worshipping of the family deities. I think it would be fair to say that Chandradevi did not react well to her husband's passing. She clung to Uncle ever more ferociously. She was always a guileless woman. I would not go so far as to call her slow-witted. No. I would definitely not go so far as to call her that. She has a special kind of innocence, which Uncle has partially inherited himself. But Uncle's innocence is of a wise kind. It is profound. It has many sides.

Certainly Uncle's contempt for education grew stronger than ever during this sad interlude. To Uncle, education was only for wage monkeys. For worldly fools. Uncle was a lofty
Brahmin
like his father. Uncle was always disgusted by money and by arithmetic. On top of this, Uncle would never take anything at face value. He would always ask why. Uncle was contrary by nature. I am told that this wrongheaded tendency of Uncle's caused his father much heartache and concern during his life, and that when his father passed his brothers felt the burden of this same willfulness fall heavily upon their own shoulders.

When Uncle wasn't with his mother and passing his days as the special pet of the women of the village, he was spending time with the holy men and
sadhu
s at the halfway house on the road to the great pilgrimage destination of Puri, which runs through Kamarpukur. Uncle was a precocious child and would engage in arguments with these men on obscure spiritual matters. The
sadhu
s were charmed and amazed by his cleverness on such issues. Uncle has an incredible memory. He will hear a story but once and he will never forget it. Much of what Uncle knows of the
Gita
and the
Mahabharata
and the
Purana
s he has learned through hearing them read out loud or during performances of local religious dramas. Uncle has always been a great observer of things. When he watches a drama or a
kirtan
you will see his eyes fixed inquiringly upon the crowd as much as upon the actors. Uncle will see what makes people weep or gasp or smile and he will carefully tuck this information away in a corner of his mind. Uncle does not long to please people so much as to understand them. Because there is no calculation in Uncle. Oh no. Not a whit of it. Uncle will often attract a great deal of attention to himself, but he is not a natural exhibitionist. Uncle is not a crowd-pleaser by nature. He is simply possessed of a great abundance of natural charm, and a quite extraordinary openness.

In fact, when Uncle was nine years old he was asked to play the part of Shiva in a village festival after the person who usually played this role was indisposed. Although a wonderful mimic and singer, Uncle did not at once take to this proposal because he felt that it might distract him from his own private worship of the god. But when it was explained to Uncle that to play the role of Shiva was to worship him, Uncle was mollified and finally agreed to the request. Of course, everyone in the village was excited at the prospect of their beloved Gadai appearing in a big festival performance.

Imagine their mixed emotions, then, when Uncle finally appeared on stage holding Shivaji's trident—his skin whitened by ash, his soft, curly hair pulled into dreadlocks—and then just proceeded to stand there, silently, and do nothing. Not so much as a word would he utter. Their initial delight and awe on seeing the beautiful and cherished Gadai on stage in his costume was soon overtaken by feelings of disappointment and confusion because Gadai would not speak or sing for them. Instead Uncle just stood there, in a daze, a small smile playing around the corners of his sweet lips, and such a profusion of tears pouring from his half-hooded eyes that after only a short while the ash on his chest was as striped and streaked as Shivaji's habitual tiger skin.

There was a great commotion among the villagers as they witnessed this strange spectacle. What were they to make of it? Some people became angry and jeered and shouted insults at Uncle. But he did not appear to be remotely concerned by this. Some people called desperately for calm. Others began to pray.

Eventually, after quite some time had passed, one of the village women climbed up onto the stage and silenced the crowd. She explained that the village women had seen this strange behavior from Uncle before during an outing with the child to the shrine of the Goddess Visalakshi in nearby Anur. On their walk to the shrine Uncle had suddenly—and with no prior warning—lost all external consciousness and had fallen to the ground. The women had been afraid that Uncle was suffering from some kind of fit and had shaken him and splashed him with water, but eventually the individual who was now addressing the crowd had arrived and recognized that Uncle was not ill but in an ecstatic trance. She had therefore instructed the other women to step back and chant with her the name of the Goddess Visalakshi. This they did, and after a short while Uncle returned once again to full consciousness.

Uncle is highly sensitive and even as a small boy he had learned from the example of his parents to love God deeply. Everything that happened in his life Uncle saw as an opportunity to draw closer to his chosen deity. Uncle had an amazing talent for painting and sculpture. He would dig pieces of gray clay from the banks of the village tank and form small idols with it. I remember a wonderful sculpture of Shiva which Uncle made and then worshipped.

Uncle had a very focused mind. All of Uncle's attention would be drawn to one point or idea or image and then he would become completely lost in its contemplation. Anything—even most curious things—might bring about this devotional state.

Unfortunately the play was ruined by Uncle. Try as they all might, they could not awaken him. Uncle was too far gone. It was a fiasco. And many people were full of consternation. But Uncle did not care. There was no regret in Uncle.

From this time, indeed from the death of his father onwards, Uncle's character changed. He began to wonder at the way in which people in the village longed only for fun and for gossip and for songs. Life was fleeting! Why crave only pleasure when pleasure obscured the path to the Infinite? Uncle now became much more serious. He could not see the point in any active human pursuit if it did not lead directly to the goal of God. So Uncle withdrew more into himself. He would pass hours in worship at the family shrine or spend time alone, often at night—with only the rats and the jackals for company—at the local cremation ground.

I remember one occasion in which a group of we boys were playing together in the paddy fields. Uncle had walked a short way ahead of us, deep in thought, perhaps tiring of our childish noise and games. He was strolling along the sharp ridge of a green field, eating a handful of puffed rice from the knot in the corner of his wearing cloth, when he suddenly beheld the sky overtaken by a dark cloud. Uncle gazed up at this gray cloud with his habitual focus, and then a flock of white cranes flew in formation across the darkening heavens. It was a sight of such beauty that Uncle instantly lost all consciousness. And this is how we soon found him, utterly lifeless, his handful of rice scattered on the ground around him. I will never forget that terrible moment, that dreadful sight, so long as I shall live. I was only a child myself, younger than Uncle—perhaps six or eight years of age—but when I saw him thus my heart swelled in my chest and I felt such an intense love for Uncle. Uncle was so beautiful and so defenseless! I knew in that instant—even so young and so ignorant as I was—that my mission henceforth on this cruel earth was only to care for Uncle, to love Uncle, to guard him and to preserve him from all possible harm.

A passing observation
 …

Sri Ramakrishna had unusually long arms. His hands reached almost as far down as his knees.

Eight haiku

The boy looks skyward:

An infinite, gray vista—

A flapping of wings …

Newly formed black clouds—

Flock of white cranes in full flight—

The child gasps then swoons

Narcoleptic minds

Cannot distinguish between

Waking and dreaming

Sri Ramakrishna—

Who gave you this moniker?

What is your true name?

Stormy, dark heavens

Illumed by giant white wings:

God is everywhere!

Might there be some way

To engage with the Divine

Without mania?

God inflames his heart

Everything that happens

Reflects that strange glow

Joy will sometimes lead

Sensitive dispositions

To oblivion

Sri Ramakrishna, on the spiritual perils of domestic pet ownership

Truth Seeker (
somewhat disheartened
):
“Master, how
hard
it is to raise the mind and spirit above worldly concerns!”

Sri Ramakrishna (
shrugging, resigned
):
“Ah, yes. Even he who has no one to call his own will connive to raise a cat and thereby create attachment.”

An inquiry into the essential nature of farina pudding

The word “farina” means “meal” or “flour” in Latin. Farina pudding can sometimes also be called Cream of Wheat. It is generally served as a breakfast cereal in the West, and is composed from the germ or endosperm of the grain (which may be either wheat or, more often, semolina). It is carbohydrate-rich and is cooked by placing half a cup of the dry powder into a small saucepan, then adding a full cup of milk, or milk and water combined, and an optional pinch of
salt
and knob of
ghee
(or clarified butter). This mixture should be brought to a boil and then gently simmered for approximately ten minutes. It should be frequently stirred. It may be served with cold milk, brown sugar, honey, butter, or cinnamon. It is incredibly rich in natural iron and so is highly nutritious for vegetarians and invalids.

An additional haiku

He has such long arms!

Fingers almost to his knees—

Might this mean something?

1836

A few short weeks after her husband's sudden death, and the Rani (who is not actually royalty) is being visited by Prince Dwarakanath Tagore (who is almost royalty). The Rani is too modest to speak with the Prince directly, so she is seated behind a curtain while her favorite son-in-law, Mathur Nath Biswas, acts as go-between. Mathur was married to the Rani's third daughter, Karuna, who died in 1833, whereupon the Rani—who had always found Mathur to be an excellent and obliging aide both socially and in business—asked if he would consider marrying her fourth daughter, Jagadamba, so that he might continue to remain a member of their close-knit family. Mathur promptly and politely obliged her.