The Temple-goers (10 page)

9

Aakash’s father, as a testament to its importance, knew every stage of the fifty-kilometre journey from town to temple. He knew the last of the city’s satellite towns with their single-storey constructions gathered close to the road and their multitude of chemists, automechanics and call booths. He knew when the land would become fields dotted for as far as anyone could see with the clay minarets of brick furnaces. He knew the Air Force base with its high walls of bougainvillea that came just before the Haryana border. He knew the flat green fields and pale blue sky of Haryana, once bare save for the odd red-brick construction, but now covered with uncooked bricks drying in the sun and chimneys evenly emitting black smoke. As if in homage to his destination, he spoke of magic on the way.

He spoke at Aakash’s prompting. Since we’d left Delhi, Aakash had become protective of me. He put his elder brother, mother, aunt and sister-in-law in one car, and in my van-like car he put himself in the front next to Uttam, his little brother Anil far in the back and his father and me near each other in the middle row so we could talk. He would turn back every few moments, facilitating the easy flow of conversation and checking that I wasn’t getting bored of the stories. When, occasionally, I looked ahead, I saw the side of his face pressed intently against the seat, his bright, arched eyes ready to wink.

The stories were not simply religious. At the heart of them was not just a reward or a moral intervention from the gods, but rather an emphasis on the powers of Brahmins, the Siddhis, continuing to this day despite the decay of modern times. They seemed designed to expand on what Aakash had said a few days before at Junglee: ‘There’s something in us.’ The message, beyond proving the existence of these powers, was not always clear. In one story, Aakash’s grandfather, killed in war, went to his father before leaving on his fatal mission. The father was old and perhaps sensed something. He asked his son to ask whatever he would of him. The man said, ‘I have so many daughters and only one son. I am not rich. How can I be expected to marry them off?’

‘Over the next six months,’ Aakash’s father said grimly, then chuckled, ‘one of my sisters died every month.’

‘My aunts?’ Aakash asked not with horror but simple curiosity. ‘I have an aunt in Rohtak…’

‘The only one!’ his father said, chuckling again. Then turning to me, he added in Hindi, and cryptically, ‘Sometimes the truth of things has come out of my mouth as well.’ He described the predictions he’d made of transfers in his office, of purses stolen and found where he said they’d be found, and of investments made at opportune times. ‘The place we’re going to today honours the memory of my grandfather, who renounced his remaining years for the sake of his family and community. It’s a story from the last days of the faith. If it were not for him, people would have stopped believing.’

To hear Aakash’s father recall the story made it even stranger than when Aakash had spoken of it in my mother’s flat. Only two generations apart from him was this magical ending to a life.

Aakash knew all the stories. He prompted his father to tell more. Soon Anil, thinner and fairer than Aakash, with uneven teeth clambering over each other, was also prompting stories. I imagined them first told in the small bedroom covered in mattresses, the long nights of summer darkness, the smell of the bathroom, and yet the resilience of people to these things, the stories told anyway, the family life carrying on, the making of Aakash continuing unstopped.

He seemed to have an intimation that beyond the brief new friendship that had arisen between us, my interest in him had other depths. If ever he saw me watching him or I asked him a question about his personal life, his face would brighten as if from the amusement of a private joke between us. ‘You’re writing a book on me, aren’t you?’ he’d laugh, using the English word for book as if a book of that sort could only have been possible in English.

Before arriving at the village temple where the offering of hair was to be made, we stopped at a small town. While his family bought snacks, rearranged their offerings and went to the bathroom, Aakash pulled me into the shade of a teashop. The man, who always made a point of smoking Marlboro Lights, now asked the teashop owner for a single Gold Flake. He spoke in the Haryana dialect, with its threatening inflections, to make me laugh. His eyes blazed mockingly, his manner became at once aggressive and comic. The owner didn’t catch the city joke and handed him the cigarette. Aakash lit it from the roaring blue flame that cradled the steel urn’s blackened base, keeping its contents forever close to a boil. He put it in too far and half its short, cylindrical body blackened, with scattered orange points burning through. Its paper fell from it like dead skin. Aakash handed the cigarette to me after a few drags and slipped his arm around my shoulders. He seemed to take great pleasure in watching his family one by one load into the cars as he smoked with me in the gloom of the teashop. Then he bought one of the many silver packets of pan masala hanging in front of the shop, tore open a corner, and after blowing into it, emptied its contents into his palm. He gave half to me before slapping the rest into his mouth. After a short lull, the brown liquid in the urn seethed.

Our closeness in the teashop faded as the day wore on. It was replaced by a kind of aggression, as if a fault line formed between the recent fact of our friendship and the acknowledgement of difference. And though we forged the common ground on which a friendship might grow, neither of us yielded any easily.

The change in mood began on the way to the village temple, or perhaps even some minutes before, when Aakash’s nephew discovered us in the teashop. He ran in like a hound following a scent, then looked around in confusion, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Aakash caught him and swung him into the light; the child let out a screech of delight; I winced, reminded of babies on planes and indulgent mothers. Aakash indulged the child too, letting him gnaw at the side of his face.

Sensing my discomfort, he archly said, ‘With us, children are everything.’

The child now travelled in our blue van, being passed through all three sections of it depending on his fancy, his long, soon to be cut locks flying this way and that.

Before leaving the small town, we hit traffic. Orange-faced trucks with large loads crowded the narrow street. On the petrol tank of one, there was a drawing of a palm and dune. Below, white letters read: ‘Iraqi water. Drink frugally, my queen.’ For many minutes, the line of trucks didn’t move. Aakash admired a new house: ‘Look at the kind of houses people are building.’ I had thought at first the remark was a sneer, but I was wrong; it was a compliment. The house was narrow, four storeys high, in beige sandstone, with red grilles, balconies and silvered windows.

When the traffic didn’t move, Uttam tried to slip ahead of the queue. The minute the van nosed out of its lane, it was honked at angrily by oncoming traffic. The queue had closed behind us and Uttam was left with no choice but to take the car to the right, across the oncoming lane, as far off the road as he could. As soon as he did, the tyres caught in deep black mud. One by one, they confessed the futility of their revolutions.

Aakash jumped out to push, as did Anil; I hesitated, then got out too. At first they thought putting bricks under the tyres would be enough for them to catch, but soon it was clear that they would have to push the car on to the bricks. My position on the left was not ideal; the patch widened where I stood, I was wearing sandals. Despite my uncomfortable angle to the car, I pushed. The car broke its inertia, but just as the wheels left the deep grooves they had made, they splattered black mud on to my white pajama. My right leg was covered from my sandals to the hem of my kurta. Aakash roared with laughter, not now that self-deprecating laugh, but a harsh, instinctive cackle. Uttam appeared and began to wipe furiously at the mud, making things worse. I buried the anger I would normally have shown him for fear of being singled out as soft and privileged.

‘You should have left it,’ Aakash said, when his laughter subsided. ‘There’s a technique in pushing.’

I wanted to hit him. Uttam saw this and brought out a bottle of water from the back. Aakash took it from him and poured it down my leg, squeezing mud and water out of my pajama. Then he washed my feet, looking up at me the entire time. It was a difficult gesture to read. I couldn’t tell if it was like the tenderness he’d shown me in the teashop or whether, by tending to me so thoroughly, he was further asserting his power as a man who could do anything.

After a short drive on a country road, past flat fields of ripened wheat, their arrows hard and golden like wasps, heralding better than any number of flowering trees the approach of summer, we arrived at a small open-air temple in the shade of a peepal tree. A pool of green water lay some metres below, surrounded by pale land.

‘This first temple,’ Aakash’s father said as we got out of the car, ‘honours an even older ancestor than the one I spoke of in the car. It is from him that we derive our caste.’

‘How old?’

‘Oh, I can’t say!’ Aakash’s father said. ‘Three, five, seven hundred years old. All I know is that it was even before the British time in India. It was during the Mughal time when Akbar was emperor.’

‘So, in the sixteenth century?’

‘Yes, maybe. Anyway, in that time, this ancestor did paltiyans from here to Jagannath Puri. When he arrived, the temple doors were closed. So he says, “If I have shakti in me, these doors will open.” The priest there said, “These doors will never open. Jagannath, Lord of the World, will not see you now.” My ancestor said, “Move aside. You’re just a priest; I speak directly to my god.” And, phataak, the doors of the temple swung open, Jagannath himself appearing. He said, “Ask, if you ever meant to ask.” My ancestor fell to his feet and asked the great Lord of the World that no one in his family or subsequent line should ever suffer from, how do you say, kodha…’

‘Leprosy,’ Anil inserted.

‘Yes, no one should suffer from leprosy.’

After this explanation, Aakash and Anil disappeared, followed by their older brother, Amit.

Men and women of Aakash’s caste had come from all over the area. Some arrived in open-backed trucks, the women’s faces covered by the long fall of their saris; others arrived in low sedans. The temple was so small and basic that it was hard to imagine people coming from a distance to visit it. It was long and tiled and open on three sides, through which the tranquillity of the green pool and the heavy shade of the tree entered freely. Below a brass bell were Aakash’s ancestor’s feet in white marble. Directly in front of them, also in white marble, was a large pineapple-shaped structure, draped in lavender muslin. A wet temple clutter of rose petals, grain, coins, blue polythene and yellow laddus with smoking incense sticks lay at its base.

A mad toothless country cousin, with thick spectacles and a long white plait, ran towards the women in Aakash’s family as soon as they entered the temple. The two women met and instantly began to dance around the pineapple. The daughter-in-law waited to be invited and when she wasn’t, put a foot forward and joined in. Other women in pink, maroon and rose-coloured saris smashed cymbals.

I was watching the scene when from behind me the men in Aakash’s family appeared, carrying between them a white and gold muslin cloth. The sight of them, dressed in nothing but long, ceremonial dhotis, produced a kind of panic in me. It was the culmination of weeks of anxiety that had been building since I stepped on to the Jet Airways flight to Delhi. Seeing Aakash now effortlessly assume his caste robes made me, in a mud-splattered kurta, feel all the horror of my removal. He hadn’t meant to intimidate me, but he had terribly. He’d shed his wide jeans and close-fitting shirt and the effects of Junglee were on display. His sprawling shoulders and large arms were taut. The black religious strings entwined with red bounced lightly against his chest. They struck an unlikely harmony with Aakash’s colour, the dark gums, the blackish-pink lips, the still-darker nipples and the fine coat of hair that covered his arms and shoulders. A beauty spot was faintly visible on his stomach muscles.

This darkness, like that of a charcoal sketch, made Aakash’s body more than an object for aesthetic consideration; it seemed to have a kind of aboriginal power, as if issuing from the deepest origins of caste and class in India. But his brothers and father, with their paler, flabbier frames, did not unsettle. There was no regeneration visible in them: their gaze was placid; they were not gym Brahmins.

The men each held a corner of the white and gold muslin cloth, which they lowered over the marble pineapple, already draped in lavender muslin. It was filled in seconds with a shower of petals, money and garlands of rose, jasmine and marigold. Then the little boy was brought forward, and as a barber priest shaved a first inch with his blade, the boy began to wail. Soon long, dark hair was added to the moist mess of petals, polythene and money. The Brahmin men sat solemnly around the pineapple as the boy’s large head was shorn. When his scalp was raw and cleanly shaved, cut dark red in places, the priest smeared it with sandalwood paste. It was only then that his mother appeared to ease the day’s trauma.

I wanted to go back to Delhi, but there was lunch organized under the peepal tree and a second temple to visit.

‘Eat as much as you like,’ Aakash said warmly after returning from washing in the green pool with his entire family. ‘Today I’m not your trainer.’ He had changed back into his jeans and T-shirt and had a fresh, turmeric mark on his forehead. He slipped his little finger into mine and led me to a place where a priest was putting these marks on other people’s foreheads. He exchanged some words with the priest as if negotiating a special rate. The priest asked him a question I didn’t catch, but Aakash replied, ‘He’s my brother.’ The priest smiled, and slipping one hand behind my head, drew me closer, grinding the mark firmly into my forehead with his other hand. Under the tree, young and old men were coming around with metal buckets, serving warm puris and potatoes. I felt my exhaustion mirrored in the long afternoon light pouring on to the green pool and in my mud-splattered pajama, which had dried and become a dull brown colour.