‘And,’ she continued, a happy glow on her face, ‘three or four days later, on the full-moon night of the month of Jeth, another sage who had been separated from his ashram went across on the pipal-pul, the bridge of pipal leaves. That is why that is the holiest bathing day of the Pul Mela.’
Mrs Mahesh Kapoor begged to differ. This Pul Mela legend, she believed, was pure fiction. Where in the Puranas or the Epics or the Vedas was any such thing mentioned?
‘Everyone knows it is true,’ said old Mrs Tandon.
They had reached the crowded pontoon bridge, and it was an effort to move, so dense were the crowds.
‘But where is it written?’ asked Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, gasping a little, but managing to remain emphatic. ‘How can we tell that it is a fact? I don’t believe it. That is why I never join the superstitious crowds who bathe on Jeth Purnima. It can only bring bad luck.’
Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had very definite views on festivals. She did not even believe in Rakhi, insisting that the festival that truly sanctified the bond between brother and sister was Bhai Duj.
Old Mrs Tandon did not want to quarrel with her samdhin, especially in front of the family, and especially as they were crossing the Ganga, and she left it at that.
11.15
North of the Ganga, across the crowded pontoon bridges, the crowds were sparser. There were fewer tents, and here and there the five of them walked across tracts of unsettled sand. The wind struck up and sand blew towards them as they struggled westward in the direction of the platform of Ramjap Baba.
They were part of a long line of other pilgrims who were bound for the same spot. Veena and the older women covered their faces with the pallus of their saris. Pran and Kedarnath covered their mouths and noses with handkerchiefs. Luckily Pran’s asthma did not cause him any immediate trouble, though there could have been no worse conditions imaginable. Finally the long trek took the company to the place where Ramjap Baba’s thatched platform, raised high on stilts of wood and bamboo, ornamented with leaves and marigold garlands, and surrounded by a great throng of pilgrims, stood on the gently sloping northern sands about fifty yards from the present bank of the river. Here he would stay even when, in a few weeks, the platform would effectively become an island in the Ganga. He would spend his days doing nothing but reciting the name of God: ‘Rama, Rama, Rama, Rama,’ almost uninterruptedly throughout his waking hours, and often even in his sleep. This was the source of his popular name.
Because of his austerities and because of what people saw as his basic goodness, he had acquired great merit and power. People walked for miles in the sand, faith written in their eyes, to get a sight of him. They rowed out to him from July to September when the Ganga lapped at the stilts. They had done so for thirty years. Ramjap Baba always came to Brahmpur at the time of the Pul Mela, waited for the water to surround him, and left when it retreated beyond his platform about four months later. It was his own quadrimester or chatur-maas, even though it did not coincide in any strict sense with the traditional four-month sleep of the gods.
What people got from him was difficult to say. Sometimes he spoke to them, sometimes not, sometimes he blessed them, sometimes not. This thin man, as withered as a scarecrow, burned to the colour of dark tanned leather by the sun and the wind, gaunt, exhausted, squatted on his platform, his knees near his ears, his long head faintly visible over the ledge of the parapet. He had a white beard, matted black hair, and sunken eyes that stared almost sightlessly across the sea of people, as if they were so many grains of sand or drops of water.
The crowds of pilgrims — many of whom were clutching copies of the Shri Bhagavad Charit, a yellow-covered edition of which was on sale here — were held back by young volunteers, who were in turn controlled by the gestures of an older man. This man, who in some sense appeared to officiate over the proceedings, had thick spectacles, and looked like an academic. He had in fact been in government service for many years, but had left it in order to serve Ramjap Baba.
One scraggly arm of Ramjap Baba’s frail frame rested on the parapet, and with it he blessed the people who were brought forward to receive his blessing. He whispered words to them in a weak voice. Sometimes he just stared ahead. The volunteers were holding the crowds back with difficulty. They were almost hoarse with shouting:
‘Get back — get back — please only bring one copy of the book to be touched by Babaji—’
The old holy man touched it exhaustedly with the middle finger of his right hand.
‘In order, please — in order — yes, I know you are a student of Brahmpur University with twenty-five companions — please wait your turn — sit down, sit down — get back, Mataji, please get back, don’t make things difficult for us—’
Hands outstretched, tears in their eyes, the crowd surged forward. Some wanted to be blessed, some just to have closer darshan of Ramjap Baba, some to give offerings to him: bowls, bags, books, paper, grain, sweets, fruits, money.
‘Put the prasad in this shallow basket — put the prasad in this basket,’ said the volunteers. What the people had given would be blessed, and having been made sacred would be distributed among them again.
‘Why is he so famous?’ Pran asked a man standing next to him. He hoped he had not been overheard by his companions.
‘I don’t know,’ said the man. ‘But in his place and time he has done many things. He just is.’ Then he tried to push himself forward once more.
‘They say he takes Rama’s name all day. Why does he do so?’
‘Wood burns when rubbed and rubbed till it gives you the light you desire.’
While Pran pondered this answer, the thickly bespectacled man who was in charge of things came up to Mrs Mahesh Kapoor and did a very deep namaste.
‘You have brought your presence here?’ he said in surprise and with deep respect. ‘And your husband?’ Having been in government service, he knew Mrs Mahesh Kapoor by sight.
‘He — well, he was detained by work. May we—?’ asked Mrs Mahesh Kapoor shyly.
The man went to the platform, said a few words, and returned.
‘Babaji said, it is kind of you to come.’
‘But may we go forward?’
‘I will ask.’
After a while he returned with three guavas and four bananas, which he gave Mrs Mahesh Kapoor.
‘We want to be blessed,’ she said.
‘Oh, yes, yes, I’ll see.’
Eventually they got to the front. They were introduced in turn to the holy man.
‘Thank you, thank you—’ whispered the haggard face through thin lips.
‘Mrs Tandon—’
‘Thank you, thank you—’
‘Kedarnath Tandon and his wife Veena—’
‘Aah?’
‘Kedarnath Tandon and his wife.’
‘Aah, thank you, thank you, Rama, Rama, Rama, Rama. . ’
‘Babaji, this is Pran Kapoor, son of the Minister of Revenue, Mahesh Kapoor. And this is the Minister’s wife.’
The Baba peered at Pran, and repeated tiredly:
‘Thank you, thank you.’
He leaned a finger out and touched Pran on the forehead.
But before she could be hurried along, Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, in a beseeching voice, said:
‘Baba, the boy is very ill — he has had asthma since he was a child. Now that you have touched him—’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ said the old wraith. ‘Thank you, thank you.’