Home To India by Jacquelin Singh

the gods, Shiva and Parvati. Dancing.”
    â€œThe cosmic dance,” her husband chanted in agreement.
    â€œBut it’s only the other visitors wandering about. As if on a holiday. Those Bombaywallas, and the South Indians.”
    â€œThe Sardarji with his memsahib. And then a sitar recital. Pukka rag—classical music—in the middle of the night,” Mr. Aggarwal said.
    â€œI didn’t see anybody praying,” Mrs. Aggarwal said.
    Tej looked at me. “Let’s have a look around this place, memsahib,” he whispered. “I’m not sleepy yet, are you?”
    We tiptoed out through the maze of packing-box rooms like cat burglars, not wanting anybody to hear us. We went down the winding stairs to the covered veranda that ran the length of the building and separated it from the sacred tank of spring water. Steam billowed out as the chill breeze off the river hit the boiling water that gushed out of the rocks below the gurdwara, housed in the ashram at ground level. A soft, steady rain was falling now, and instead of mingling with the water of the cold river, it darted here and there on the surface, just as the clouds of steam that rose from the hot springs failed to merge with the flood, but instead rebounded from it in great bursts of vapor. The pool was divided in two by a bridge that could be crossed in five strides. A low railing divided the body of water from the veranda. The bench along the wall of the building, and that which earlier in the evening was the center around which the life of the ashram spun, was empty now.
    Tej and I walked along the veranda, looking at the pictures of Hindu gods and goddesses which papered the outer wall of the building. They had been clipped from religious magazines and old calendars. Some had been hand painted by devotees. Gory scenes depicting battles and tortured heroes from Sikh history shared the space with pictures of Krishna sporting amorously with the milkmaids and Parvati worshiping the Shiva lingam. An ornate wall clock hung over the door of the cave-room which the Babaji was supposed to occupy. Its shiny brass pendulum and carved wooden case gave it authority and rendered Time important. Tej lifted the cover of a transistor radio that sat on a shelf beside the clock. It had been hand stitched by some devotee out of silk brocade and bristled with stiff frills and flounces. At the far end of the veranda was a separate enclosed tank for women to bathe in, and some more stairways, this time leading up to a multitiered terrace.
    â€œThat’s it,” Tej said, taking my arm and putting it around his waist. We stood like that, absorbed in the scene, our eyes accustomed to the night now. All of these details clamored for attention. None of them blended. Everything was cut up, partitioned, refusing to mingle. Every item declared its independence from everything else, and at the same time demanded to be taken into account. It was more than I could take in. I closed my eyes. The damp air had penetrated my lungs, made my hair fuzzy and Tej’s beard curl. Our clothes were damp, our skin felt like wet rubber. It kept feeling hot, then cold.
    â€œCome,” Tej said, reaching down and putting one hand in the pool. “Let’s try it out. It feels warm.”
    The pool itself was in contrast to all the separateness and divisiveness of the surroundings. A constant stream of boiling spring water flowed into it and warmed the water from the icy river to a temperature just right for bathing. Tej drew me down beside him on one of the rock ledges in the shallow, warm, sulphurous water. It had a texture of its own. I had the conviction it was flowing through me, that I was dissolving into it, losing myself and at the same time gathering it all to me. The cells of the body renew themselves—almost a completely fresh set—every year. In that pool, it happened all in a few minutes to me. A great shedding of old cells. Fresh ones taking