The Assassin's Song (42 page)

“You did not want to be God, you said,” wrote my father.

“But who does? The call descends upon those who are chosen. It is a responsibility, it is not a status. In what manner one is God is not simple or to be ridiculed, Karsan. We are all God, parts of the One, and therefore the same as the One, as all the great mystics before us have said.
Tat tvam asi
, our ancient Upanishads have told us: you are That. The great Persian mystic Mansoor said,
An al haq:
I am the Truth. For this he was killed by the ignorant. You have been taught all this. Now for centuries the Sahebs of Pirbaag have been called upon to exercise that God within them, so they could assist the simple people to face the travails of their daily lives; and also, in order to teach the few among them how to reach beyond the mundane to the higher truth that is the One, Brahman. Not everyone wants to attain this nirvana, Karsan; for some, the daily roti or the relief of a child from disease is blessing enough. Whatever blessing they seek we cannot refuse them.

“The truth of our line is acknowledged in the bol of the Sahebs, passed from father to son, and accompanied always by the symbol of a kiss. This bol was the message whispered by Pir Bawa to his successor Ginanpal, the first Saheb, just before he breathed his last. In its syllables lay hidden the secret of his identity. You will remember that Pir Bawa had escaped from persecution and come to India. Were his identity to be revealed to all, calamity would have befallen us, his followers. The bol has remained secret ever since because the Sahebs saw that the world, and the community of Pirbaag, were not ready for its truth. Events have proved them
right. If you, my son, have lost the bol and therefore do not come to read this last testament from your father, then let the secret of Nur Fazal the sufi die with me. Let his spirit be extinguished with mine. Let this be the end of Pirbaag.”

“My dear Karsan: I too did not want to be God. (I prefer the more modest term avatar, because there are stages of God-hood; but I will indulge your mockery, my son.)

“I have a clear memory of my father on the empty ground beside the shrine where you used to play cricket, grappling and thrashing about with someone or the other in a bout of wrestling. His arms and legs and back would be covered in sand, while he himself would be in a state of half undress and grunting most unbecomingly. After a few tumbles amidst this mass of legs and arms, he would emerge on top of his opponent, a firm neckhold in place. Pehlwaan Saheb, he was called: Guru Champion. But even then, at the age of five, I knew they only let him win. The opponent, sometimes burlier, stronger than him, could easily have shaken him off.

“How could my father be the Saheb, the avatar of Pir Bawa, I would ask myself. How could this man covered in dirt and stinking sweat have special, spiritual powers?

“But the people knew better. They came in hordes to see him. Every Saturday and Thursday morning he would sit on the pavilion in his white dhoti, waiting for them; and they came, bringing all their troubles with them. Patiently and with good humour, he would hear them out and bless them, and ask them to go and pay homage to Pir Bawa in the mausoleum. They went away with promises of children; peace in their lives; sufficiency in their homes; cures for their diseases.

“Did I want this responsibility? I too wanted to play sports, and dress up as a dandy and visit the cinema, then stand outside and smoke cigarettes with my friends; to be part of the world and its thrills. You are surprised, you never thought of your Bapu in that light. Later, when I became serious about myself, in university I desired to be a scientist. And I'll tell you another secret. There was a certain girl in my college whom I liked; she was good in maths and wanted to be a teacher. I wanted to marry her. But I had been chosen, and I had to bow.

“This is how it happened. You will be surprised to learn that it had to do a little with Gandhi-ji. But the Mahatma was connected with the politics of those times, and these were beginning to affect us in Pirbaag, and so my father went to seek him. I went with him and met your mother. Everything is connected and has a purpose, there are no accidents.”

“Why would the avatar of Pir Bawa, to whom multitudes came for advice and blessing, go to see Gandhi-ji? It was not an ordinary time. The independence of the country was near, and its fate was debated with passion everywhere. There were calls for partition and the formation of Pakistan. Rioting had begun in some regions. A certain Professor Ivanow and the collector of Ahmedabad, Mr. Ross, had come to see your Dada and advised him to throw in his lot with Mr. Jinnah of the Muslim League. ‘Your Pir Bawa was a Muslim,’ they told him; ‘hidden in your ginans is the message of Islam.’ Your Dada had no intention of throwing in his lot with anybody, Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, or Christian. But he had to reassure those devotees who were confused and doubtful and feared for the future. Agitators from outside would not spare even a small village such as Haripir, their aim only to divide the people and extinguish the flame of tolerance which had burned here for centuries.

“It happened that a certain devotee of Pirbaag was on a visit from Wardha district, where Gandhi-ji had his ashram. He told my father that the great man would be at the ashram in a few days and it would be possible to see him. Right then your Dada decided he would pay a visit to that area, and while there meet the Mahatma. Your uncle Rajpal refused to accompany him, he was very much in Jinnah's thrall, and so it fell upon me to go with my father. Two others came with us from Haripir, one of them Master-ji. The man from Wardha had gone ahead of us to advise his people of the Saheb's visit.

“Your Dada hardly travelled. When he did, it was a big event, the whole town came to see him off. Our journey began with the bus to Ahmedabad. It was crowded as usual, but ample space was made for us to sit in comfort at the back. Bhajans and ginans were sung on the way, while my father sat upright, smiled, occasionally closed his eyes. At every stop the new passengers would first come to touch his feet and receive his blessings. Before we knew it this bliss-filled bus had arrived in the great city.

From Ahmedabad we had to take a train to Poona. This was a long journey during which I had the chance to observe and learn much from my father; it was one of those rare moments when he spoke about his own youth, and about his own father and grandfather. What I learned I will impart to you at a later time. At Poona station we were greeted by a jubilant group of some fifty disciples, with garlands and all; we stayed a few days at the house of a merchant and the atmosphere was festive. From here we then departed by train for Wardha. We were to stay at the house of one Hirji Bhai, but as soon as we arrived we had to leave on a cart for Gandhi-ji's ashram in Sevagram, four miles away, for we were told that the Mahatma saw people briefly after one o'clock in the afternoon, and it was already close to that time.

“When we arrived at the ashram gate, there were two young men sitting outside who pointed casually to a clay pot and invited us to help ourselves to water. We were thirsty and were grateful for the water; when we had had our fill, our host told the two gatekeepers that the Saheb here had come to see Gandhi-ji.

“ ‘What business do you have with Gandhi-ji?’ one of them said sternly. ‘He is a busy man. He is still weak from his fasts. He has a cough and a cold. You should not bother him.’ They took us for some local poor folk, perhaps, hence their tone. The other one spoke even more severely, ‘The whole world wants to see Gandhi-ji; kings and queens come to see him. He has to go to America, to Delhi, to Madras. He has to meet Einstein and the viceroy. He is not well. He blesses you, now go, please.’

“My father was taken aback a little. He glared at these officious youngsters. Then he said, ‘I am the Saheb of Pirbaag. I have come to discuss with the Mahatma my people's future.’

“They whispered to each other and to a young woman who had arrived. She hurried away to take this message to Gandhi-ji. She returned after a few minutes and said to us, ‘Come.’ On the way she added, ‘Please don't take long. He will soon rest; and he starts on a journey tomorrow morning.’ ‘To where?’ I asked. ‘To Delhi,’ she said, ‘to see Nehru, Jinnah, and the viceroy. This is not a happy time for him.’ Her desperate voice, I recall, rather surprised me. The memory of it doesn't, any more.

“We arrived at one of several cottages; the door was open; inside, where it was refreshingly cool, a small, wrinkled old man was sitting on the floor beside a small writing desk, on which were a bottle of ink and a pile
of small sheets of paper. In his fingers, delicate like feathers, he held a pen. I could see that he had been writing letters. Two women were taking their leave of him, a European and a desi. Both wore white saris.

“It was hard to believe that this fragile little frame belonged to the man we had been reading about every day for these many years, for whom we worried and prayed whenever he fasted for some noble cause. Mohandas Gandhi of Porbandar, a bania lawyer and the soul of India. Our nation's fate rested on those frail shoulders. I could see every rib in his body, and perhaps even the beating of his heart. We had heard many stories about him on the way from Wardha; he woke up at four every morning and prayed from the Gita, he walked two miles every day, he worked in the kitchen and cleaned the toilets, and so on.

“ ‘Ao, béso,’ Mahatma-ji said, his voice like the rustle of thin paper, and he paused to catch his breath. When we had sat down, my father across from the old man, and I near the open door so as not to seem intrusive, Gandhi-ji said to my father, mischievously, ‘Saheb,
you
come to ask me the future?’

“He had heard of Pirbaag, you see, and the prestige of the Sahebs. Gandhi-ji is supposed to have known everything about every part of India.

“My father replied in equal measure: ‘Even the Saheb needs blessings, Mahatma-ji.’ And he added, chidingly, ‘You big people are now in the process of carving up our land.’

“Gandhi-ji said, ‘Saheb, I have said I would give my life to keep this motherland together. But if we do give up a part of it, I can assure you that what will remain will be God's country—but not the God of only the Hindu or only the Musalman or the Sikh or the Issai. For as you well know in your life and practices at Pirbaag, there is only the God. Bhagwan and Allah are the same; Rama and Rehman are the same.’

“Why do I tell you all this in detail, Karsan? Because it made such an impression on your young father. (Even though, when Gandhi-ji asked, ‘How is the baba doing?’ referring to me by the term for a small boy, I had been a little annoyed.) But Gandhi-ji the great Mahatma had affirmed what your Dada believed and taught. This impressed me considerably and brought me comfort even late in my life. Even now it brings me some hope.

“During this visit I met your mother.

“At Hirji Bhai's house a girl and her mother were visiting from Jamnagar. We had been told that the girl was disturbed, but we had caught only a glimpse of her—out in the yard sorting grains. It seemed that she suffered from fits. Now as we prepared to leave after two days in Wardha, Hirji Bhai begged my father to bless the girl. The family were all standing at the railway platform bidding us goodbye. The girl was brought forward from the back of the crowd, and gently nudged on, and my father—the train bogey was behind him, I recall, and it was time to board—reached out and caressed her face, saying, ‘What a beautiful child. She should be well.’

“At that moment I saw a cloud of sadness lift off the girl's face. Her full cheeks lighted up, her eyes shone, and she smiled. It was a wonderful smile. I think everybody who was there saw this small miracle. Your Dada turned around and we boarded. ‘Did you see that she was cured, Tejpal?’ he asked me casually when we were seated. I replied, ‘Yes, Bapu-ji, a cloud lifted from her face.’ ‘Taro mojijo,’ he said. That was your presence.

“A few days after we returned, on the night of the full moon, standing before the mausoleum of Pir Bawa, my father recited the syllables of the bol to me; putting his hands against my head he kissed me on the mouth. ‘You are my successor, Tejpal,’ he said. ‘Fulfill your responsibilities.’”

“My brother was slighted by my father's choice of me as his successor; and he continued to agitate for Pakistan, even though he knew now that our father would not take that side. When the Partition of India was announced, he left with his family for his new country.

“Soon after Rajpal, now calling himself Iqbal, left, I myself departed for Bombay to study at St. Xavier's College. This was the carefree period in my life, and I forgot all about my succession. It was too far away, I told myself, I would worry about it when the time came. I have memories of Bombay's Flora Fountain and Chowpati Beach, drinking cups and cups of tea at an Irani restaurant called Hafiz, and the learning that excited me. And that girl I dreamt of marrying. But one day the inevitable happened. A young man came from Haripir straight to my hostel late at night. The Saheb calls you, he said.

“Imagine my surprise when I stepped down from the bus outside Pirbaag.
A welcome party was waiting for me. I was taken to the house to dress up, and then led to the pavilion where many people sat waiting. A girl sat with her face partly covered, and I was taken to sit beside her. It was the girl I had seen in Wardha, whom my father—and, according to him, I— had cured of her illness at the town's railway station. We were married by your Dada, and she became your mother.”