Chapter 3: The Answer

Recently, I had had the realization of why I like to laugh at myself: It was the least humiliating way of coming to terms with the disaster of a life I had led. It was an unusual tactic my brain used to distract me from the stinging unhappiness, but it worked.
There had been nothing funny about today.
“People come here to die,” he told me, “You should never leave Kashi. It is God’s vessel: ever filled and ever empty.”
The pilgrim looked straight into my eyes as I pretended to make an attempt of disguising my irritation. I didn’t come here to ask this holy man for his holy words. I came to find a way out.
“In the olden days,” he continued, “People used to break their legs so they couldn’t walk away and mistakenly die outside the city limits.”
The pilgrim looked up philosophically, musing over the past. I thought to myself: Yes, a lot used to happen in the older times. People broke their own legs, the dinosaurs walked the earth, and we used to watch movies in video cassettes and a rusty VCR. But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to throw away my DVD player now, does it, Mr. Prehistoric?
No, no, Mr. Learned Human: people don’t come to Kashi to die. They come here to live a life that is as eternally stagnant as death itself.
“Seek, believe, and it will come to you,” his voice was high and transcendent, floating above and beyond normal human comprehension and continuously challenging gravity. “I have been a wayworn saint for years and yet the truth escapes me. But just like a patient old tree, I hope that in time the understanding in me will grow to its full majesty.”
“Ahem,” I ahem-ed, “Excuse me, but I’d rather sit in silence with my own thoughts.”
He smiled smugly – a smugness that made me grit my teeth. I bowed my head down as he got up to leave. Funny man, I thought. He strangely reminded me of Dr. Scholar, and our conversations outside Vipin’s Tea Corner all those years ago. And I could never forget what Dr. Scholar had to tell me.
It is funny how, with every passing year, the lessons you learn become less memorable. I was a confused kid back then who was hanging on steadfastly to every piece of advice or intelligent sounding ‘how to live your life’ step. But as I’ve gotten older, I have no time or patience for wisdom. Either that, or people are just not as wise anymore.
“Stay calm, my friend,” the pilgrim buzzed me away from my thoughts, “I shall leave you in peace,” he said, “And hopefully, like the waking eyes adjust to comprehend the beauty of every morning, your mind will adjust and awaken to the beauty of this life.”
Well, the story of how I, a controversially successful businessman, had ended up quixotically searching for an answer at the ghats and temples by the Ganga river and was now trying to avoid an overzealous holy man, is a long and strange one. I’m usually considered to being too much of a sinner to have hopes for a spiritual experience that this place is advertised to offer. And my wife is too Christian to see me hovering around Hindu temples. But Christ is good at the forgiving business; I’m hoping that his style has rubbed off a little on her.
It was Ramu’s recommendation anyways – the first time I had ever listened to his advice outside the kitchen. If I wasn’t to completely lose myself in the mysteriousness of this place, then I would be totally regretting wasting this day away. But hell, I might as well try, right? This is surely a better outlet for my depression than alcohol. I mean, it must be. People wouldn’t rave about it otherwise. Tourists come from far and wide just to sit here and stare. And I’m smarter than all of those junkies – maybe my sitting and staring will actually be of some benefit.
Now that the pesky pilgrim had left, I sat alone on the rooftop of a temple at Tulsi ghat, dozens of dangerous steps up from the river. The orange, evening sun was slowly shying away, barely peeking out from the horizon. Its reflection on the river was beautiful, creating a mosaic of orange, red, blue, and a couple other weird colours like teal or magenta that people pretended to be extremely familiar with, just to sound different. I felt calmer than I had in years. Ever since Niyati was born. Or even further back, since that drunken day at church nearly 10 years ago. Now that I think about it, I hadn’t felt relaxed since college, when all my stress to find myself successfully drove me schizo.
I had allocated too much of my happiness to the women in my life, and was never comfortable unless I concerned myself with the love, like, or lust I felt towards any one of them at any given time. They were all the same. I’ve been in love with the same girl for half my life, but have just been putting different masks on her. Whether it be Anita, Atty, or even Monica – in each one of them, I looked for the characteristics that I wanted in Kalpana.
I didn’t really enjoy the company of my friends or other acquaintances, but hated the fact that I needed other people to confirm my own character. I hated my job and I despised my love for the money I made through it.
And the rest of the family? Let’s not even go there. I’d rather die and go to hell than go to heaven and meet Papa again.
Shit – have I ever been calm?
But I was calm today. Today was different. I had this sudden feeling – not the kind of feeling that optimists have about the stock market or their pessimistic wives have about impending failure. Not the kind of feeling that had any preconception, plan, or expectation. I felt right; I felt that, for once, I was at exactly the right place at the right time. As if every single event in my life had sequentially happened leading to this very moment right now.
It was strangely quiet, even though I could clearly hear music from the bhajans at a nearby ghat and the boatmen driving visitors crazy near the river. It was as if I could pick and choose what I wanted to hear, and mute it whenever I wished.
I began to think back, rewinding through the chapters of my life and all conflicts that were presented. And I thought of Dr. Scholar’s advice again. Watching the sun set, my brain slowed down and I slowly began to forget. I forgot to keep any track of time. I forgot about work and the TV channel. I forgot about the censors who had driven me here. After a deep breath, I forgot where ‘here’ was.
For a brief moment of infinity, feeling the orange glow of the setting sun and inhaling the riverside air, I forgot Azad Shanker. I heard my own voice from the mouth of someone else whisper softly in my ear. It was what Azad is and then It made sense.
I rose out of Azad and flew upwards. Feeling light, I felt myself going higher and higher. I saw me sitting by the edge of the rooftop, perfectly lost within the nothingness. I went higher, strangely feeling the wonderful waft of the late afternoon air and the cool holy water of the river at the same time. Soon, I was above the entire land, above the sun, which waved at me as it disappeared behind a horizon. I saw beyond the horizon and beyond the edge of the Earth. I became space and I paused time. I saw a darkness and then I was everything.
And then I was back. I looked at my palms and rubbed my eyes, as if reawakening my soul all over again.
This is what Jesus must’ve felt like that Sunday.
I checked to make sure that I was truly back. Same clothes. Same sense of unease in my fashion sense. Same feeling of constantly feeling slightly bloated. I lifted up my shirt so see my stomach – yes, the same sense of shame at my man boobs. I laughed at myself. A dog, limping at the bottom of the steps, barked at some scared tourists. I laughed at them. I’m still Azad.
But something was different. Because now I know. I know the answer. I should write this down. I should tell somebody… Anita! I got up and raced down the steps. I stumbled and slipped, but grabbed on to the railing to prevent the fall. Screw you failed pilgrims – I know the answer!
And to think, I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for the censors waiting at the office today. I wondered if everything, actually, does have a reason. So does Anita’s or this pilgrim’s God actually work in these mysterious ways?
Nah, I thought – Calling God ‘mysterious’ is just oversexyfying him. I’m sticking with ‘confused’.
I laughed again. It’d be funny if the God that I’m so confused about is just as confused about me. But then again, if I am confused about Him, then to me He may not exist at all, and the non-existent has little chance to be confused. The irony of it all could confuse Confucious.
I’m going to head to Bubble’s. The fucking censors are at the office. I have to tell my wife. I have to tell my daughter, too. She’ll understand.