death and the illusion that was the world. But my father bore it, this celebration of a birthday; he smiled, he waved, he clapped as required, all with restraint and embarrassment.
Finally, Mansoor, who was crazy about bows and arrows, and spears and guns and slings, was presented with a dhanush, a bow-and-arrow set of his own, brought from Ahmedabad by Master-ji. The little boys went tofight the bandits on their make-believe rocky terrain of Kathiawad, among the graves. The sacrilege was complete.
On Ma's face, as she watched the proceedings around her, a look of profound happiness, and embarrassment, and, dare I say it, guilt.
Bapu-ji stood up to go and rest. He could have gone from the pavilion directly into his library, then straight into the house; instead he decided to step down and acknowledge the people standing outside among the graves. Having done so, he stopped before the mausoleum, joined his hands to do a pranaam to the Pir. As soon as he turned to proceed towards the side gate of the house, an arrow shot from the new dhanush hit him in the side of the neck.
He gave out a brief but sharp cry, a very human cry, clutched at the wound, and stumbled onto his knees. The turban toppled from his head. His attendants rushed forward to help him up and then walked him into the house.
The neck wound drew a stream of blood; it could have cost him his life, for the boys in their excitement had lost the rubber cup at the tip of the arrow. What would hurt more in the days ahead was the knee that had bumped the pavement. The child who had released the arrow was none other than Mansoor. Having done so, he stood behind the large grave of Jaffar Shah, his kohled black eyes wide open, a nonplussed look upon his face.
That night, while Bapu-ji was in bed, his face drained, his neck bandaged, and running a fever, several of his young followers arrived, having just heard on the radio the news of China's attack in the northeast.
Ma told them the Saheb was tired and needed to sleep. But they had come in the earnest belief that the end of the Kali Age, predicted often enough in the ginans and by the Saheb, might be nigh, and the Saheb had to be informed. The day's events—a blatantly profane celebration in the house of Pir Bawa—had been ominous enough.
My father heard out these earnest young men, smiled indulgently at them, and said, “Let's see.” He waved them away, then closed his eyes.
Later that night, fully awake yet weak, Bapu-ji sat up in bed and asked for tea, and when he'd had it with a biscuit, he got up and went to the library.There, sitting against a cushion on the floor, his desk on his lap, he began to write. A white cap on his head, glasses on his nose.
Ma asked me to go and put a shawl round his back. Silently and with great care I proceeded to do so. I couldn't tell if he noticed me. With a nib, attached to a holder, that he would dip into a bottle of black ink, he was copying onto foolscap paper the contents of a few ancient-looking pages preserved between sheets of glass. I had secretly observed him at work before, but tonight, in this state, his fevered hand scratching on the page, the blotter used sporadically to dry the ink, I sensed the urgency of his mission, his dedication—to preserve our story for posterity.
Ma's night of abandon had ended badly, and she was blaming herself for the double calamity, the wounding of Bapu and the wounding of Mother India. “It went too far,” she said, almost in tears. “The variety program was too much. That Helen girl—chi-chi-chi …” She shook her head in disgust. “But how could I stop her, or tell all the people to leave?”
“Ma, you brought down the Mahabharat upon us, with your sin,” I teased her.
She could have giggled then, but this was a grave matter. What was left unsaid was that she had used up her savings, and perhaps gone into debt, for our afternoon of abandon. What had got into her?
“I am here,” Mansoor declared, drawing his bow
Finally, Mansoor, who was crazy about bows and arrows, and spears and guns and slings, was presented with a dhanush, a bow-and-arrow set of his own, brought from Ahmedabad by Master-ji. The little boys went tofight the bandits on their make-believe rocky terrain of Kathiawad, among the graves. The sacrilege was complete.
On Ma's face, as she watched the proceedings around her, a look of profound happiness, and embarrassment, and, dare I say it, guilt.
Bapu-ji stood up to go and rest. He could have gone from the pavilion directly into his library, then straight into the house; instead he decided to step down and acknowledge the people standing outside among the graves. Having done so, he stopped before the mausoleum, joined his hands to do a pranaam to the Pir. As soon as he turned to proceed towards the side gate of the house, an arrow shot from the new dhanush hit him in the side of the neck.
He gave out a brief but sharp cry, a very human cry, clutched at the wound, and stumbled onto his knees. The turban toppled from his head. His attendants rushed forward to help him up and then walked him into the house.
The neck wound drew a stream of blood; it could have cost him his life, for the boys in their excitement had lost the rubber cup at the tip of the arrow. What would hurt more in the days ahead was the knee that had bumped the pavement. The child who had released the arrow was none other than Mansoor. Having done so, he stood behind the large grave of Jaffar Shah, his kohled black eyes wide open, a nonplussed look upon his face.
That night, while Bapu-ji was in bed, his face drained, his neck bandaged, and running a fever, several of his young followers arrived, having just heard on the radio the news of China's attack in the northeast.
Ma told them the Saheb was tired and needed to sleep. But they had come in the earnest belief that the end of the Kali Age, predicted often enough in the ginans and by the Saheb, might be nigh, and the Saheb had to be informed. The day's events—a blatantly profane celebration in the house of Pir Bawa—had been ominous enough.
My father heard out these earnest young men, smiled indulgently at them, and said, “Let's see.” He waved them away, then closed his eyes.
Later that night, fully awake yet weak, Bapu-ji sat up in bed and asked for tea, and when he'd had it with a biscuit, he got up and went to the library.There, sitting against a cushion on the floor, his desk on his lap, he began to write. A white cap on his head, glasses on his nose.
Ma asked me to go and put a shawl round his back. Silently and with great care I proceeded to do so. I couldn't tell if he noticed me. With a nib, attached to a holder, that he would dip into a bottle of black ink, he was copying onto foolscap paper the contents of a few ancient-looking pages preserved between sheets of glass. I had secretly observed him at work before, but tonight, in this state, his fevered hand scratching on the page, the blotter used sporadically to dry the ink, I sensed the urgency of his mission, his dedication—to preserve our story for posterity.
Ma's night of abandon had ended badly, and she was blaming herself for the double calamity, the wounding of Bapu and the wounding of Mother India. “It went too far,” she said, almost in tears. “The variety program was too much. That Helen girl—chi-chi-chi …” She shook her head in disgust. “But how could I stop her, or tell all the people to leave?”
“Ma, you brought down the Mahabharat upon us, with your sin,” I teased her.
She could have giggled then, but this was a grave matter. What was left unsaid was that she had used up her savings, and perhaps gone into debt, for our afternoon of abandon. What had got into her?
“I am here,” Mansoor declared, drawing his bow
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