‘Stand down — stand down a step — slacken the tension—’
‘Pull the rope—’
‘Release the ropes — you’ll be dragged down—’
‘Har har Mahadeva—’
‘Run — run for your lives—’
‘The wedges — the wedges—’
Another rope snapped, and another, as the linga shifted downwards very slightly, first this way, then that. The cries of the men in front as their bodies were snapped backwards on to the steps were interspersed with the quieter but still more dreadful sounds of the shifting and sliding of the monolith, and the creaking of the rollers beneath. The men below scrambled out of the way. The men above dropped their ropes in a bloodstained tangle, pulled their shocked and injured fellows to one side, and stared down at the orange linga, into the matting of which the marigold flowers had by now been completely crushed. The drumbeat halted. The crowd scattered, screaming in terror. The steps of the ghat below the linga were suddenly deserted, and, far below, the doms too fled from the ghat — as well as the relatives of the burning dead.
The linga protested against the hastily inserted wedges. But for half a minute, if it moved at all, the movement was infinitesimal.
Then it shifted. A wedge gave way. It shifted again and the other wedges slipped and it began slowly to roll down the way it had come.
Down the rollers rolled the great linga, past the next step, and the next, and the next, gathering speed as it rolled. The tree-trunks cracked under the impact of its weight, it veered to left and right, but it kept rolling on, down, down, swifter and swifter towards the Ganga, crushing the pujari who now stood in its downward path with his arms upraised, smashing into the burning pyres of the cremation ghat, and sinking into the water of the Ganga at last, down its submerged stone steps, and on to its muddy bed.
The Shiva-linga rested on the bed of the Ganga once more, the turbid waters passing over it, its bloodstains slowly washed away.
Part Nineteen
19.1
Dearest Kalpana,
This is written in haste because Varun is coming to Delhi at the end of February or so to attend the IAS interview, and we hope you and your father can put him up for a few days. It is like a dream come true, though only one out of five boys interviewed for the civil service is taken in. We can only hope and pray, such things are entirely in His hands. But Varun has squeezed through the first hurdle, since thousands of boys sit the written exams for the IAS and IFS and so few are asked to go to Delhi.
When the letter came intimating Varun of the interview, Arun refused to believe this, and used some strong language at the breakfast table, with Aparna there and the servants, who, I believe, understand every word. He said there must be some mistake, but it was true all right. I was not there, being in Brahmpur around the time of Lata and Haresh’s joyful news, but when Varun sent me a letter, I went to the expense of even booking a trunk call through to Calcutta from Pran’s house to congratulate my darling boy, and I made Varun tell me all the details and reactions, which he could because Arun and Meenakshi were not at home, they had gone out to a party as is quite usual. He sounded quite surprised, but I told him that in life one only gets what one deserves. Now D.V. he will surprise us in the interview once again. It is all up to you, dearest Kalpana, to make sure that he eats well, and is not nervous and is on his best behaviour and dressed to the nines. Also that he avoids bad company and alcohol, which I am sorry to say he is a little susceptible to. I know you will take care of him, he is so much in need of boosting up.
I am not writing any more news because I am in haste and also have given you the joyous news of Lata and Haresh in the previous letter to which I have yet had no answer or congratulations, but you must be busy, I know, with your father’s hip operation. I hope he is now fully recovered. It must be hard for him, he is so impatient with illness, and now he is himself experiencing it. And you must also take care of yourself. Health is truly the most precious possession.
With fondest love to you both,
Yours,
Ma
(Mrs Rupa Mehra)
P.S. Please send me a telegram after the interview is over, otherwise I will not be able to sleep.
Varun looked nervously around at his fellow-passengers as the cold, dry, flat countryside around Delhi hurtled past the windows of the train. No one appeared to realize how momentous this journey was for him. Having read the Delhi edition of the Times of India from the first page to the last and back again — for who knew what the predatory interviewers might decide to ask him about current affairs? — he stealthily glanced at an advertisement that seemed to leap out at him:
Dr Dugle. Highly honoured and patronised for his social services (Inland and Overseas) by many eminent persons, Rajas, Maharajas, and chiefs. Dr Dugle. India’s leading specialist with international fame in chronic diseases such as nervous debility, premature old age, run down conditions, lack of vigour and vitality, and similar acute diseases. Consultations in complete confidence.
Varun fell gloomily to pondering his innumerable social, intellectual and other inadequacies. Then another ad attracted his attention.
Dress your hair with the creamed oils of Brylcreem.
Why creamed oils? Brylcreem is a creamed mixture of tonic oils. It is easier to apply, cleaner to use and its creaminess gives the right amount of all Brylcreem ingredients each time. Brylcreem gives that smooth soft lustre to the hair which so many women admire. Buy Brylcreem today.
Varun felt suddenly miserable. He doubted that even Brylcreem would help women to admire him. He knew he was going to make a fool of himself in the interview, just as in everything else.
‘The servants will be coming in half an hour,’ whispered Kalpana Gaur tenderly, pushing Varun gently out of her bed.
‘Oh.’
‘And you’d better sleep in your own bed for half an hour, so that they don’t wonder.’
Varun looked at her, amazed. She smiled at him in a motherly sort of way, the pale green quilt up around her neck.
‘And then you’d better get ready for breakfast and the interview. Today’s your big day.’
‘Ah.’ Varun seemed speechless.
‘Now, Varun, don’t be tongue-tied, it won’t do — at least not today. You have to impress them and charm them. I promised your mother I’d make sure you were well taken care of and that I’d boost your confidence. Do you feel boosted?’
Varun blushed, then smiled weakly. ‘Heh, heh,’ he laughed anxiously, wondering how he was going to get out of bed without embarrassment. And it was so cold in Delhi compared to Calcutta. The mornings were freezing.
‘It’s so cold,’ he mumbled.
‘Do you know,’ said Kalpana Gaur, ‘I often feel hot spots on my feet which trouble me throughout the night, but last night I didn’t feel any at all. You were marvellous, Varun. Now remember, if at any time during the interview you begin to feel anxious, think of last night, and tell yourself: “I am the Iron Frame of India.”’
Varun still looked dazed, though not unhappy.
‘Use my dressing gown,’ suggested Kalpana Gaur.
Varun gave her a grateful and puzzled glance.
A couple of hours later, after breakfast, she examined his appearance critically, patted his pockets, adjusted his striped tie, wiped off the excessive Brylcreem in his hair, and combed it again.
‘But—’ protested Varun.
‘Now I’ll make sure you get to the right place at the right time.’