The Cauliflower, page 10
But this is not our scene! we tell her, panicked. The light outside is swiftly fading. We must get our take. The actor playing Ramakrishna (our star! our Great Hope!) is already in a fearful bait. His slapping hand is suffering from twinges of repetitive strain injury. We dare not offend him any further. He’s been dieting for months now to get down to the requisite size (featherweight!) and is already up in arms about playing his nude scenes after an especially vicious bout of food poisoning (his local chip shop must take the blame; a tepid saveloy of questionable origin—we’re filming all interiors, for financial reasons, in an adapted mansion in London’s leafy Kensal Green).
Perhaps if we screen what we have accumulated thus far—everything in the can—backward, we may lessen the impact of what is yet to come. Perhaps the actors will be mollified if they can see where they’ve been, where they’ve traveled from.
Watch the film rewinding. Look! The Rani is unslapped and then deep in prayer, and then leaving the temple and then talking with her lawyers. The tape rewinds faster and faster until—Ah! Stop! Stop! Play it! We’re in 1847, and we see the Rani asleep in bed. Her rest is fitful, as all rest in her great city must be (because of the heat, the humidity, the bugs). She has been planning a six-month pilgrimage to Varanasi, the City of Light. But there is no train. And the roads are treacherous. So she is sailing there by boat … along the child Hooghly and the mother Ganga, following these great and holy rivers in the strong conviction that every pitch and bob of her valiant craft will resound in her head, her heart, like a prayer.
It’s the night before she leaves and there are twenty-five boats in her convoy—three for her daughters, one for her doctor, one for the washerman.… One contains four cows, and another is stuffed full of their fodder. Imagine the preparation! Well, you don’t have to imagine it—we can rewind the tape farther and you will see.… But how expedient! There’s the fleet of boats (the grab, the brig, the pansi, the katra, the fealchara, the hola, the sloop, all painstakingly re-created in our Thames-side studios based on the watery etchings of François Balthazar Solvyns) being gradually unloaded. Because during her sleep on the night prior to her departure the Rani is visited by Ma Kali (in some accounts the Rani is already onboard and adrift; it’s her first night on the water and she is passing the very spot—Dakshineswar—where her Kali Temple will be built) who tells her that there is no need for her to head off on this pilgrimage. Instead she is to use the money put aside for her trip to build Ma a temple on the banks of the Ganga. The Goddess will graciously accept her devotions there.
Cynics may pooh-pooh the dream. Cynics may think that there were other reasons—an attack of toothache, a legal problem, the prospect of a big business deal—for this last-minute cancellation, but we believe in the dream. If we explore the Rani’s dream (the Rani dreams in black and white! How curious!) we can see the Goddess and hear her speak. The Goddess is huge and seems to be operated by stop-motion model animation (the Rani is so ahead of her time—even as she sleeps!). Look beyond the light and you can almost see the shadowy figures of Don Chaffey and Ray Harryhausen in conference. This is a remake—no, a premake—of 1963’s Jason and the Argonauts.… Listen … there’s even a rousing theme tune written by Bernard Herrmann!
Oh dear. But the Rani’s daughters are all packed up and ready to go and really, really looking forward to their trip.… And the doctor … even the cows! I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. But the Rani has had a dream (*kindly insert communal, Munch-style silent scream here*). In fact, she has had two dreams, thus far: the first to go on a great pilgrimage (this is a waking dream, a yen), the second telling her not to go and to use the money to buy some land instead and build a temple there.
We have inspected all minor details of the actual dream (our experts are compiling a lengthy and highly informative dossier) and we are still unable to confirm (at this early stage) that the Goddess actually mentions the serving of cooked food at her new temple. Cynics (ah, you’re back again!) may think that this was all simply a matter of social status, not spiritual necessity/divine intervention, and hence contrary, in principle, to Hinduism’s adherence to the rules of caste, and, worse still, the spirit of resignation/renunciation/destruction of the ego/et cetera, which jointly underpin its most essential tenets. But we choose to see this as simply another dream of the Rani’s—another waking dream. A deep desire (or “earnest desire,” as the Ramakrishna Movement would have it). An inexplicable urge. And therefore an expression of her profound spiritual devotion, her modest need to serve as best she can—not an undermining of it.
It’s also important to bear in mind that if the Rani hadn’t had this dream (the cooked food aspiration) then she could’ve hired any number of priests to serve in her temple. But she did have it, which meant casting around for the one specialist, the one expert, the one (quite frankly pretty minor) pandit who would feel inclined to find some kind of working compromise to fulfill it. This was Sri Ramakrishna’s brother, who had engaged with this tricky problem before, remember? (Gadai’s sacred thread ceremony?) Hmmm.
When you play it backward it suddenly all seems … well, so bizarre and incidental as to be divinely inspired. But the cynics (hello, y’all!) see something else. They see a group of individuals who have been naturally inclined, obliged, even forced, to compromise (sidestepping the restrictive rules of sex, gender, race, and caste). They see brash modernity posing as (but signally undermining) the vital traditions of sincere devotion. How could these special someones—these social and spiritual and (yup) political trailblazers—not be drawn together? Is this destiny, or rather just plain (even bare-faced) necessity? Did the Bengali Renaissance start here, or … or were these just the early markers of a movement—an expanding, experimental social psychology—already well under way? Who can say?
One thing worth considering is how the Rani, Sri Ramakrishna, the Brahmo Samaj, and the Bengali Renaissance all have in common a sense of moving forward while still looking keenly back. A kind of easy modernity which passionately celebrates its conservative—even (wince) “primitive”—past. It is intrinsically Kali-esque in nature. It somehow magically transcends the pair of opposites. It is at once of now and of then. A synthesis. A counter-/pro-imperialist, counter-/pro-capitalist farina pudding of yes and no. A milky (distinctly nontransparent) anti-/pro-nationalistic faith-fueled blancmange.
Let’s get back to the dreams. Because there’s still another dream (a second/fourth!). But before we home in on that, let’s imagine the Rani hunting for her piece of land. Or the Rani’s agent (in all likelihood). He sails up the great Hooghly (well, it’s actually the Thames—some swampland down near Canvey Island in which we’ve raised a couple of mock palms. Although his grab—brig—katra—I forget which—is a 100 percent faithful copy, et cetera, et cetera…) searching diligently for the perfect spot. And he finds several.
It’s a matter of common knowledge that the western bank of the Ganga is considered more holy than the eastern side. So that’s where the Rani started her search (hence instantly putting paid to the “first night of the voyage” scenario). But nobody would sell her land on the western side. We are told that the reason is petty jealousy. Perhaps with an added, extra sprinkling of good old-fashioned caste-based (and let’s not forget sexist) hauteur.
So they turn their search to the eastern bank and discover the ancient Moslem funeral ground near Dakshineswar, with its shrine to a holy saint (not to mention a large adjacent plot which supports the bungalow of a nameless European. Although that’s not actually terribly romantic or interesting). Some may think it unpropitious to build a temple over a graveyard. But this is a Kali temple. And Ma Kali is a natural habituée of the cremation ground, is she not?
The land was purchased and building commenced. The designs were magnificent (of course) yet still traditional and classically—classically—Bengali. The whole enterprise (buying the land, shoring up the embankment, raw materials, labor, and another, secondary investment in productive land elsewhere to enable the temple to be self-sustaining after the Rani’s death) meant a total outlay of something approximating one and a quarter million rupees.
The Rani has persistently made a habit of favoring local craftsmen in many of her numerous commercial and creative commissions over the years. She understands the real ecology of business. She is at once a financial whiz and a respecter of niches. She sees the individual’s face behind each fast rupee. The Rani has commercial nous—more important yet, commercial soul.
The second dream (oh yes—that second dream…) involves the commissioning of the Kali image for her now (quick! Fast-forward the tape!) almost finished temple. Unlike its giant and spectacular carapace, the image that lies at its heart isn’t huge. It’s actually quite petite, standing only thirty-three and a half inches tall. It should also be noted that just as soon as the sculptor commenced carving the image, the Rani undertook a series of severe austerities (which are required by the scriptures). She spent much of her time in telling beads and prayer. She bathed three times every day. She ate basic vegetarian fare.
The image was soon completed, and the Rani was utterly delighted with it. But before she could finally install it, the temple complex still needed a few extra tweaks and modifications. There were several irritating delays (remember the swift, and that quick peek we had at that large pile of raw materials near the plate-washing ghat still waiting to be used?). In the meantime Ma Kali was stored in a box. But she wasn’t happy there. She began to perspire. Eventually she contacted the Rani (finally! The second dream!) and told her that she wished to be removed from her box and installed in the temple immediately.
Gulp!
Ma Kali, the great creatress, is no respecter of contractual deadlines, it seems. So the Rani—in a panic—searched her calendar for an auspicious day on which to install the image as soon as was conceivably possible. But none suggested itself. So she installed the image anyway, with great aplomb, and under considerable personal duress, no doubt.
If the Rani’s dreams are to be taken seriously, we must inevitably conclude that Ma Kali is not a goddess to be lightly trifled with. She is impatient, unpredictable, and imperious. It should also probably be borne in mind that loyal devotion to such an irascible deity may well involve a certain number of personal privacy violations, funny turns, broken arrangements, canceled holidays, prodigious financial outlays, et cetera, et cetera.
Argh. But we kinda
knew that already, didn’t we?
Here follows a timeless and unifying spiritual message—via the twenty-four-hour/seven-days-a-week live broadcast channel of Sri Ramakrishna—to all religious zealots, humorless fundamentalists, and wishy-washy Western New-Agers:
The Master wants GOD-
-realization not SELF-
-realization!
It’s a subtle distinction, but the ego becomes God. God does not become the ego.
Ah,
“God is in all men,
But all men are not in God,”
The Master shrugs.
1861, approximately
Mathur Nath Biswas is wandering around the Dakshineswar Kali Temple grounds when a tearful, almost hysterical Sri Ramakrishna comes running up to him, stark naked.
Sri Ramakrishna (petrified): “Mathur! Please! Please help me! Something dreadful has happened!”
Mathur Baba (visibly alarmed): “Just calm down, Gadai. Catch your breath.”
Sri Ramakrishna (shaking like a leaf, starting to hiccup): “It’s awful, so awful. I’m so—hic!—scared!”
(He points to his genitals, mutely.)
Mathur Baba (staring down at Sri Ramakrishna’s genitals, somewhat perturbed): “Gadai, what’s the matter? Tell me!”
Sri Ramakrishna: “I was—hic!—I was urinating in the—hic! —pine grove when I suddenly saw a—hic! —a tiny worm [shudders, uncontrollably] crawling out from the end of my nunu!”
Mathur Baba continues to gaze at Sri Ramakrishna’s penis as he quietly digests this momentous piece of news, then he gazes up into Ramakrishna’s eyes (only just suppressing a smile).
Mathur: “Gadai, I can sincerely promise you that this is honestly nothing to be too concerned about.”
Sri Ramakrishna (with childlike credulity, still hiccupping): “Are you—hic! —sure, Mathur?”
Mathur: “Yes. Absolutely [thinks for a moment]. In fact it’s—well, it’s actually very good news.”
Sri Ramakrishna (brightening): “Really?”
Mathur: “Oh yes. Because all human beings have a worm in their body exactly like this one of yours.”
Sri Ramakrishna (astonished): “They do?”
Mathur: “Yes indeed. It is the worm of lust, and it is responsible for generating lustful ideas and feelings and urges within us. But the Mother has just seen fit to rid you of yours! Gadai, you are indeed truly blessed!”
Sri Ramakrisha clasps his hands together, delighted. His previously crestfallen face is now wreathed in beatific smiles.
Oh, which of us can truly comprehend the divine play of Sri Ramakrishna? Is he man or child? Leader or follower? Masculine or feminine? Radical or conservative? Idiot or genius? A god, a god-man, or just too, too human?
Is this book a farce, a comedy, a tragedy, or a melodrama?
What is this?
Who was he?
Who the heck was Sri Ramakrishna?
Eh?
Eh?
?
!
Twenty or so years later, during a festival being attended by the immensely famous and popular philosophers and social reformers Keshab Chandra Sen and Pratap Majumdar, a craven admirer approaches them and starts to gush.…
Craven Admirer: “I see seated here before me Gauranga and Nityananda [two legendary fifteenth-century incarnations of Krishna and Balarama]!”
As it transpires, Sri Ramakrishna also happens to be sitting nearby. Keshab turns to him and (possibly a little embarrassed, perhaps a tad vainglorious) murmurs …
Keshab: “Gauranga and Nityananda, indeed?! What, then, are you?!”
Without so much as a moment’s pause, a beaming Ramakrishna responds …
Sri Ramakrishna: “I am the dust off your feet!”
Ah …
“Sri Ramakrishna—
He’ll never be caught napping!”
Keshab Sen chuckles.
1858, at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple (six miles north of Calcutta)
Uncle very often talks about how the image of Ma Kali was left inside a box while the temple was being completed and how the closely confined Goddess started to sweat. This idea seems to preoccupy Uncle a great deal. I think this is because when he looks at the world—when he gazes all around him—Uncle often sees God being packed away in a box and ignored. Uncle thinks that the modern world and the big city of Calcutta want to wrap God up in soft muslin cloths and just place him aside. Uncle thinks that God is simply another distraction in this busy life of ours. Of course, we can bring the box down from the attic during religious festivals. We can gently unwrap God then. But once the flower garlands have wilted, the candles are blown out, and the incense has burned down, God is shoved back away again until the next time that he is required. Perhaps for a wedding. Perhaps for a birth. Perhaps for a death.
And Uncle also sees many different kinds of God being worshipped today. There is the God of words (or the God of the many scriptures), there is the God of strict rules (of caste and of our different and conflicting worship traditions), there is God with form and God without form, of course. But none of these Gods does Uncle worship exclusively. And we must never forget that there are also the Gods of lust and the Gods of money—the Gods that Uncle most truly fears and despises.
Uncle thinks of nothing but God, and so he is constantly searching for other people—fellow travelers on the path of faith—who may worship the same kind of God that he does. This God who dwells like a flickering flame within his own wildly beating heart. Uncle longs for intelligent talk about God. He thirsts for it. He feels starved of it. He longs to meet people who might teach him something he doesn’t yet know. If he hears of such a person through the temple grapevine he will track them down and present himself before them. He will take the dust off their feet. “I have heard that you have seen God,” he will say, and his yellow moon face will be alive with joy and hope.
But Uncle is often disappointed. And he is often humiliated. Indeed, we are both often humiliated, because I am always with Uncle, accompanying him to these different addresses and offering an introduction for Uncle. Such lofty individuals can be very cruel. They don’t understand Uncle. They can’t see that Uncle is unlike other people—that Uncle is special. And Uncle will not put on any airs and graces. Uncle is incapable of such things. Uncle is uncalculating. Uncle has an open heart. But these individuals expect more than this. They look at Uncle and see a poor and uneducated village boy who stammers when he talks and smiles and smiles and can barely keep his wearing cloth on.
Sometimes I wish Uncle would try and be just a little bit less like—well, like himself. But Uncle never listens to me.
And Uncle takes his disappointments very hard. Although the humiliations do not bother him. Not one bit. Uncle has no ego. When people laugh at Uncle he just laughs along with them. Uncle shares in the joke. He laughs at himself the loudest of all. But I know that Uncle hates to feel alone. He wants others to love God as much as he does and to share in this love with him. But then who may love God as much as Uncle? How, I wonder, might that be humanly possible?
Uncle will not see that his approach to religion is slightly unbalanced. But who would dare tell Uncle this? Not I. Uncle understands God. Uncle knows God. But I understand everything that surrounds God—an understanding which in Uncle’s mind is insignificant and amounts to nothing. Uncle has no interest in balance. Uncle cannot see past God. Beyond God is maya—simply lies and illusion—Uncle says.
