The Cauliflower by Nicola Barker

all of my crippling doubt. I will defend Uncle’s honor with my life. Or else my fists. But what am I defending? What has Uncle left us with?
    Man is a simple creature. And for the most part the formless Brahman is beyond his foolish comprehension. How are we to worship him, then, without using the familiar examples of our daily lives? When we Hindus worship the divine we find many different ways to adore him. We call this worship bhakti . Sometimes we like to worship him as his servants—he is our master. Sometimes he is our divine spouse, our lover. Sometimes God is our mother or our father and we throw out our arms for comfort and worship him, moaning, like a child. Or else God is our dearest friend, our great strength and companion through every earthly trial.
    Uncle was Ma Kali’s neglected suckling. He moaned and moaned, but she would not comfort him. Her dark nipples were full of milk, but she would not feed him so much as a single blessed drop. Uncle could not rest without her comfort. I was always full of doubt. But now Uncle, too, became doubtful. Questions. So many questions. Is the Mother real? he would ask. Am I going mad? he would ask. If Mother is real, then why will she not appear to me? he would ask. Where is Mother? he would ask, striking his chest. Mother! Mother! Hridayram! Why does she still hide from me? he would ask. What have I done wrong, Hriday? Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!
    I could not answer. I could only stare. Fear had silenced my tongue. But I could still hear. I could still listen. And what I heard made me yet more fearful. Because there were many complaints about Uncle. The temple guards, the other priests, the administrators, the cooks, they all complained about Uncle. First there were simply mutterings, but then they grew louder. Soon it was a roar. It was only a matter of time until such a great racket must reach the ears of Mathur Baba and the Rani. Then we would be ruined.
    One night, when Uncle rose, in secret, and wandered, sobbing, into the jungle, I steeled my nerve and I followed him there. I needed to know where Uncle was going. After a while I saw him pause in a small clearing under a sacred vilwa tree. I was some distance away. I was too afraid to draw closer. I saw Uncle calmly remove his wearing cloth and sit down. And then I saw something truly dreadful. I saw Uncle remove his sacred thread and place it onto the ground beside him. What to do? How to respond? I bent over and I picked up a small stone and I threw it at Uncle. Then I picked up another stone, and then another. Soon stones of all sizes were raining down on Uncle. Uncle was deep in meditation, but eventually his eyes flew open and he beheld his nephew.
    â€œWhat are you doing, Hriday?” he called.
    â€œYou have removed your sacred thread, Uncle,” I called back. “What are you thinking, Uncle? This is too much, now, too much! This is not acceptable, Uncle!”
    (Was this not the same man who on grounds of caste had refused to eat the temple prasad ? And now to remove the very symbol of his proud Brahmin inheritance?!)
    Uncle shrugged. “To see God one must be free of all earthy ties, Hriday, even ties of caste. My Brahmanical thread is a source of status and pride. To see the Mother clearly during meditation I must toss aside such fetters.”
    I shook my head at Uncle. Then I cast down the remaining stones. What more could I say? What more could I do? I was truly at my wit’s end with Uncle. How might I reason with Uncle when Uncle always had an answer to every question I might think to ask him? Uncle has always been possessed of a devilish logic.
    A few days later Uncle was performing the arati in front of the Goddess. I was preparing lunch for Uncle, something very plain (Uncle was plagued by terrible indigestion; he constantly complained of a burning sensation in his chest), when suddenly a temple gardener—who has always held a soft spot for Uncle—came running across