weeks as the possibility of war teased us and we reassured ourselves it could not happen, we were ready, and then suddenly it was upon us with a full-scale Chinese offensive that frightened us. Can you pin the present to a given event in the past? Memory plays tricks. But so much happened then that pointed indelibly—and in hindsight, yes—to the world that unfolded for us: the country I have returned to, my place in it. Our own fanatics may have killed Gandhi, but the final nail on the coffin of his message was hammered in by the Chinese attack. No more the friendly namasté India of nonviolence and renunciation, of homespun cotton and hunger strikes; we would be serious now.
The previous day, October 20, had been Mansoor's birthday. Normally this would have called for a small domestic event, with a pilau cooked at home, with peas and potatoes, and sweets distributed to our few friends. But this time we outdid ourselves in an excess of worldly joy and celebration. The result, it seemed, was catastrophe.
At Pirbaag, the Saheb's birthday was always an occasion for thanksgiving and a restrained form of ritual celebration by the followers. The urs or death anniversary of Pir Bawa, celebrated as his wedding or union with the Universal Soul, was the greater festival. Visitors came dressed in new clothes and thronged the shrine, with much ceremony the Pir's grave was anointed like a bridegroom, and there was a communal meal. Ginans were sung into the early hours. But this day Mansoor had turned five, and Ma used a sophist's argument to call for a celebration: the Saheb's sons were important too, wouldn't one of them become the next Saheb? There should be a public event, albeit a small one. It turned out to be a large party, in the pavilion, with food and music and such abundant joy that our world had become different and profane for an afternoon. A cake was brought from Ahmedabad by Master-ji, brilliantly decorated with pinkand yellow icing, and silver balls, and Mansoor's name in smart blue English script across it. It lay prominently on a stool, a new and alien icon, a subject of profound admiration.
There were the traditional Gujarati songs, of course, celebrating the birth of a son, and his mischievous yet innocent and beloved ways when older, which described Mansoor so well. Someone ventured a film song; someone else performed a skit. A Johnny Walker lookalike appeared and drew laughs with his rascally antics; and the most outré of all, a drunkenand luscious-looking Bollywood Helen in a sinuously seductive slow dance. Mansoor was called from play and the cake was cut, while those who could—even those who couldn't—sang “Happy Birday to You,” just as in the films.
Present, too, was my special someone, that very first and secret heartthrob, a nomad girl of the Rabari caste who always wore the same red embroidered head shawl, dozens of plastic bracelets, and a nose stud the size of a small coin. She looked new to the area, must have been a year or so older than I; her face was long and her piercing grey eyes would boldly return my gaze at our shrine, where she came on Saturdays. Try as I might, I couldn't keep my eyes off her for long, all my cockiness turned to sudden ache and vague desire. I was becoming a man. I had already asked Ma, “Is it possible to marry a Rabari girl?” She had answered, “Jah, jah,” go away, with a wave of the hand and a gentle shove of dismissal. My question was only rhetorical, the girl belonged to the realm of what was not possible. She was different. Now at the party my mother followed my looks, met my eye briefly, and had the last remaining slice of the precious cake sent to the girl. That earned me a brief smile, I think, of gratitude.
My father meanwhile squirmed in his seat. This was Ma's occasion, she had ambushed him with it. What was there to celebrate in a birth, he would have told her. The message of the shrine was about the punishment that was the cycle of birth and
The previous day, October 20, had been Mansoor's birthday. Normally this would have called for a small domestic event, with a pilau cooked at home, with peas and potatoes, and sweets distributed to our few friends. But this time we outdid ourselves in an excess of worldly joy and celebration. The result, it seemed, was catastrophe.
At Pirbaag, the Saheb's birthday was always an occasion for thanksgiving and a restrained form of ritual celebration by the followers. The urs or death anniversary of Pir Bawa, celebrated as his wedding or union with the Universal Soul, was the greater festival. Visitors came dressed in new clothes and thronged the shrine, with much ceremony the Pir's grave was anointed like a bridegroom, and there was a communal meal. Ginans were sung into the early hours. But this day Mansoor had turned five, and Ma used a sophist's argument to call for a celebration: the Saheb's sons were important too, wouldn't one of them become the next Saheb? There should be a public event, albeit a small one. It turned out to be a large party, in the pavilion, with food and music and such abundant joy that our world had become different and profane for an afternoon. A cake was brought from Ahmedabad by Master-ji, brilliantly decorated with pinkand yellow icing, and silver balls, and Mansoor's name in smart blue English script across it. It lay prominently on a stool, a new and alien icon, a subject of profound admiration.
There were the traditional Gujarati songs, of course, celebrating the birth of a son, and his mischievous yet innocent and beloved ways when older, which described Mansoor so well. Someone ventured a film song; someone else performed a skit. A Johnny Walker lookalike appeared and drew laughs with his rascally antics; and the most outré of all, a drunkenand luscious-looking Bollywood Helen in a sinuously seductive slow dance. Mansoor was called from play and the cake was cut, while those who could—even those who couldn't—sang “Happy Birday to You,” just as in the films.
Present, too, was my special someone, that very first and secret heartthrob, a nomad girl of the Rabari caste who always wore the same red embroidered head shawl, dozens of plastic bracelets, and a nose stud the size of a small coin. She looked new to the area, must have been a year or so older than I; her face was long and her piercing grey eyes would boldly return my gaze at our shrine, where she came on Saturdays. Try as I might, I couldn't keep my eyes off her for long, all my cockiness turned to sudden ache and vague desire. I was becoming a man. I had already asked Ma, “Is it possible to marry a Rabari girl?” She had answered, “Jah, jah,” go away, with a wave of the hand and a gentle shove of dismissal. My question was only rhetorical, the girl belonged to the realm of what was not possible. She was different. Now at the party my mother followed my looks, met my eye briefly, and had the last remaining slice of the precious cake sent to the girl. That earned me a brief smile, I think, of gratitude.
My father meanwhile squirmed in his seat. This was Ma's occasion, she had ambushed him with it. What was there to celebrate in a birth, he would have told her. The message of the shrine was about the punishment that was the cycle of birth and
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