Epilogue: 2005–A House for Mr Biswas

What should be the suburb is really the heart of the city.

Lutyens’ Bungalow Zone: an area of a few square miles, inaccessible to the native as recently as sixty years ago is now the most sought after property in the country. Bribes are paid, transfers are made, friends are stabbed, enemies are pampered, seats are bartered, ministries are swapped, and at the end of it all, the victorious can move into a ninety-year-old bungalow with twenty-four-hour power and water supply, with twenty-foot-high ceilings, with a gravel path approach, with a lawn to die for.

Meanwhile, in the suburbs of Delhi, dwell fourteen million humans of the same colour and features. They work hard, they sleep less, they travel on buses, they disappear down manholes, they die in road accidents, they pay bribes to the power and the water people, they wake up every morning with a tin bucket in hand and rush to the only tap in their crumbling tenements, they survive another day, another week, another month. Then, exhausted, they come on the weekends to the heart of the city with their children and their parents and lie on the cool green grass by India Gate. They remove their socks and dip their two feet in the boat-club pool and wiggle their toes. They look around and see roads that are protected from the sun’s fury by hundred-year-old jamun tress, neem trees, imli trees. They see the roads merging at roundabouts as big as the parks where they live. They see in those roundabouts the seasonal flowers in full bloom, the art deco fountains bursting with energy, they see that no one can enter the roundabout gardens as they are cordoned with spiked chains and iron railings. Then they get a little adventurous and start to stroll about one of the tree-lined avenues. ‘Look, that must be the home minister’s house’, they point to their kids. ‘And look there. That is 7 Race Course Road, the prime minister’s residence.’ But their sightseeing is interrupted rudely by a lathi-wielding constable who looks up and down them and asks them to get lost.

The heart is still inaccessible to the native, and a thousand years from now, when archaeologists stumble upon the mythical city of Delhi, the most well-preserved ruins they shall find would be of Lutyens’ Pompeii. The tumblers and the vases of great sultanates and dynasties will once again be on show.

The departing British handed over to the native something magical—his own land. The native received that land with watery eyes and a lump in his throat and now that he had the government sanction and the constitutional right to walk on the soft lawns, smell the flowers, collect the jamuns, drive on the boulevards. Now that he was free, he quickly made it his and only his. And over the years, many of the Lutyens’ bungalows have become imposing shrines of refuge, away from the heat and the dust of the matrubhoomi, with the accompanying green acreage giving way to swimming pools paved with Italian marble. And those obtrusive colonnaded porticos, a reminder of the whimsical draughtsmanship of a scornful white man, have been torn down and replaced with mock Mughal-Greek-Tudor architecture, all to the delight and satisfaction of the victorious.

There they sit, but you cannot see them—fenced away as they are by stitched-up cane—but there they are, perched on a rattan in their manicured lawns, with their sprinklers whirring gloriously, providing a welcoming mist to their golden mornings, with their dogs already up and running, retrieving Frisbees and Indian Expresses and Jansattas and...oh, look: There he comes, the cummerbund-ed servant with the frilly turban, and he brings the first flush on a silver tray, and the silver teapot is teacosied in a velvet wrap, and the wrap is embroidered with silver zari, and the perfectly shaped sugar cubes are arranged in a silver bowl, and at hand is a pair of silver tongs to pick up the cubes, and rich, frothy milk sloshes gently in a silver beaker, and to absorb the ugly cup rings, between the silver cup and the silver saucer, is wedged a ruffled blotting paper, and silver spoons are in abundance.

And the lord? He snaps the pages of the newspaper and doesn’t even bother to look up and acknowledge all that silver.

There they sit and from there they rule. And when they die, their next of kin miraculously get the same bungalow to live in for the next fifty years.

And it was in such a bungalow, over such a lawn, amidst such flowers, under such trees, surrounded by such servants, that the recently appointed police commissioner of Delhi, Ajay Biswas IPS, was pacing up and down, shouting, ‘Arey Gokul, oye Ramkhilawan. Where the hell are you buggers, dammit?’

The servant heard his sahib’s call and threw away his bidi. ‘Aaya saab.’

Ajay boomed. ‘Damn it, Gokul. Have you filled the vases up? And where’s memsaab?’

‘S-she’s upstairs, saab.’

‘Well, call her and…wait. I’ll get her, you get the living room ready.’

Ajay hurried over to the foot of the stairway that led to the upper floors.

‘Aparajita?’ he shouted. ‘Arey, where the devil have you disappeared?’

Api emerged from a room tying her hair into a bun. ‘Why are you shouting, bhai? Relax.’

‘What relax, yaar? It is seven-thirty already, and…’

‘You know the Dilliwaalas. Call them at seven and they start trickling in at nine.’

Ajay was insistent. ‘Arey, go na please. See if Parwati has fried those prawn papads.’

‘Uff. Alright.’

Ajay turned his attention to the goings-on in the living room. He accosted someone dusting a Degas ballerina. ‘Arey, Gokul. Has Ramkhilawan put the marquee up on the lawns?’

‘Pata nahin, saab.’

‘Well, find out. And get some angithis fired up there. Now go. And before you go, where is Pillai?’

The servant scratched his head. ‘Must be in the kitchen, saab.’

‘You goddamn Indies. “Must be”, “pata nahin”, “think so”. Bloody, when are you people ever sure, hain?’

The servant nodded, having not understood a word. ‘Ji, saab.’

Ajay decided it was Pillai’s turn for a dressing down. He started for the kitchen.

‘Pillai! You were supposed to…’

The piercing ring of the doorbell stopped Ajay in his tracks. He heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his mane before opening the door.

‘Oh, hello Paul saab, hello Mrs Paul. Please, come in, come in.’

‘Hello, commissioner saab…Splendid bungalow, yaar.’

‘Thank you. I hope you didn’t have much trouble finding the place.’

‘Arey no no, not at all. I recently got my lal-batti installed with that GPS-she-PS, bhai. Now I keep telling the missus: chalo let’s get lost just for the heck of it.’

Ajay faked a laugh. ‘Do come in. Arey, Mrs Paul, hand me your shawl. No Jeeves here, unfortunately.’

Mrs Paul gathered her shawl and handed it over grudgingly. ‘Jeeves, er, was your earlier butler? Christian, was he? We used to have one years ago, called Samuel…’

‘Arey missus, you bhi na. Always joking-shoaking. Don’t mind her, Ajay saab.’

Ajay guided them to the living room with tender pushes and prods. ‘Come, come. Aparajita will be with us in a minute. Keeping an eye on the food front. Meanwhile, what can I get you?’

‘Only Johnny boy will do tonight, commissioner saab, kyon?’

‘Of course, Paul saab. And for you, Mrs Paul?’

‘I will have some red wine, if you have it. If not, then some Jaljeera.’

‘Of course, of course. Red wine, and Johnny Black for you, Paul saab—coming up.’

‘Thanks, old boy.’

Paul saab gave the place a once-over. ‘You had the interiors done before you guys moved in?’

‘Just the putai-shutai. Aparajita thought we’d slowly fill the place up with this and that, you know.’

‘Bad idea, commissioner, what with transfers and all.’

Ajay handed Paul saab his clinking Johnny. ‘We are hoping they would let us stay in Delhi for at least a couple more years.’

‘Why not, why not? After all, you are the golden boy of the force, bhai. Superceding everything in front of you and all, haha. And your wife. Is she working?’

‘I bloody well hope so, or we might have to end up ordering from Claridges.’

‘Arey, no no, I meant as in a job-shob.’

‘Oh. Yes—she’s a lecturer at DU. And talking of the devil, here she comes…’

Api entered the living room and smiled warmly at the guests. ‘Hello…’

‘Aparajita, this is Mr Dhiraj Paul, joint commissioner. And this is Mrs Paul. Sorry, didn’t catch your name, Mrs Paul.’

‘Madhumita.’

‘Hello, Madhumitaji; hello, Mr Paul. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise, Mrs Biswas, likewise. I was just telling Ajay what a splendid bungalow this is. The old-world splendour almost makes you forget the bitter January cold in here.’

The ensuing lull in conversation only added to the impact of the barb.

‘Oh. I didn’t mean to…’

‘No no, you are right, Paul saab, quite right. I’ll get some room heaters brought in here at once…Here, your drink, Mrs Paul. And let me just find ou…’

The shriek of the doorbell made Ajay slosh Mrs Paul’s wine as it was being handed over. ‘Oh, the wretched bell again. Please excuse me a minute.’

Ajay scurried over to open the door, dragging Api with him.

‘Oh, hello, Ghai saab. Please come, please come in.’

‘Hello, hello, commissioner saab, how are you? Please meet my Mrs…’

‘Hello ji.’

‘Hello, Mrs Ghai, welcome. Aparajita, this is Mrs Ghai.’

‘Hello, Mrs Ghai.’

‘Hello ji.’

Mr and Mrs Ghai were escorted to the living room.

‘Ghai saab, meet our joint commissioner, Paul saab. Paul saab, this is Ghai saab—IG, CRPF.’

‘Finally, we meet.’

‘My pleasure, Paul saab, entirely my pleasure.’

The doorbell was like a hungry child. Ajay replaced his glass on the side table. ‘Oops. The bell again. Please sit, sit. I won’t be a minute. Api? Come.’

The couple retraced their journey, secretly wishing they had been allotted a two-bedroom flat and not this butler-demanding Alcázar. Ajay swung open the door.

‘Kharbanda! Great to see you. As usual, late by thirty minutes. And you must be Mrs Kharbanda. And this, little Preeti.’

DIG Kharbanda shook the hand till Ajay unclasped his hand. ‘Hello sir, so great to see you. Very sorry we are late. Hello, Madam…’

‘So nice to see you, Mr Kharbanda.’

‘Great, great…Listen Kharbanda, please feel at home. I’ll just rush to the front and check up on the ammo.’

‘Please go ahead, sir. Er, I’ll join you in a moment.’

Ajay left for the front, leaving his wife behind. Aparajita smiled awkwardly. DIG Kharbanda remembered something and felt his elbow-patched tweed at various places. ‘Oh! and Mrs Biswas, this letter is for you. We have had it for a week now. I am sorry we should have come and given it to you earlier, but you know how it is. Where is the time?’

Api took the envelope, amused by the ten or so stamp marks, official scrawlings, and that ubiquitous secret code embedded with dashes and slashes. ‘Oh, thank you. Yes, it is addressed to me alright, but…’

‘The address is of the guest house where you and sir stayed when you were in Mumbai last summer. I think it must have remained there for a few months, until some police guest recognised your name and redirected it to your house in Delhi.’

‘Yes, strange…’

‘And by the time this letter arrived in Delhi, you people had already shifted to this new house. The letter must have remained at your old house for a month at least.’

Mrs Kharbanda thought it prudent to warn her husband. ‘What are you doing ji? Finish up the story fast, no.’

‘Oh. Sorry, sorry. Yes, to cut a long story short, we found this letter the day we moved into your old house, which was last week. I could have delivered it to sir, but I thought I’ll give it to you in person as we were coming here tonight.’

‘Well, thank you very much, Mr Kharbanda.’

DIG Kharbanda tried his hand at wit. ‘Not anything urgent, I hope.’

Api looked tired and weak. ‘Hah…’

‘Are you alright, Mrs Biswas? You look a little tired.’

‘Arey no no, Mr Kharbanda, please. Gosh, we have been standing in the doorway and talking. Please come in. The living room is down the corridor. Ajay will have some drinks for you. I’ll join you people in a minute.’

DIG Kharbanda entered the upper echelons of the Indian police service with stateliness. ‘Thank you, Mrs Biswas. Come along now, Preeti, Mohini…’

Mrs Kharbanda nudged her husband as they shuffled in great excitement over to the living room. ‘You na, ji. Always going on and on about everything. Where was the need? You could have just given her the letter…’

‘Uff, missus, just go to that ladies jhund. And keep your mouth shut and ears open…Oh, hello, sir.’

Ajay reached for his colleague with open arms. ‘Ah, there you are, Kharbanda. Come, come…Paul saab, Ghai saab, this is Mr Kharbanda, DIG, Delhi Offences Wing, and shortly to be shifted to CBI, no less.’

Ghai saab raised his glass. ‘Hello, Kharbanda saab. Bhai we have been hearing just too much about your amazing work—yours and Ajay’s, I mean.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘No sir-var here, bhai.’

DIG Kharbanda had been practising just the right laugh for such occasions for months. ‘Hahah. Thank you, Ghai saab.’

Ajay tapped DIG Kharbanda on his shoulder. ‘What will you have, Kharbanda?’

‘Anything, sir. But Scotch would be nice.’

Paul saab took a hefty slurp of his favourite drink. ‘Where is your missus, Ajay? Don’t see her here.’

‘In the kitchen maybe, Paul saab. Dinner won’t be long, I assure you.’

‘No no…’

Got him, the bastard, thought Ajay. ‘In fact, let me just go and check up on her and her lieutenants.’

‘You do that, you do that…’

Ajay grabbed a fistful of cheesy bites. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

The conversation turned to the mundane with Ajay gone. ‘…Haan, so Kharbanda saab, how do you find saadi Dilli?’

‘Great, Paul saab, great. Coming to Delhi was just the change I wanted.’

‘Shall I top you up, Paul saab…?’

‘Yes please, Ghai saab. No holds barred tonight, hahah. Haan, Kharbanda, you were saying…’

Ajay reached the engine room and found Pillai at the deep end.

‘Pillai, how are things?’

‘We are running a little late, saab.’

‘I can see that. And where is Aparajita?’

Pillai swiped at the sweat from his forehead with his finger. ‘Memsaab has just gone upstairs. Will be back in five minutes, she said, saab.’

‘Yes yes. Listen, tell Gokul to put on that white safari suit with brass buttons I got for him yesterday. And make sure he comes in with the starters in five minutes, no more. You got that?’

‘Ji, saab.’

‘I repeat: Gokul in five minutes, and with some ice, too.’

‘Ji.’

‘And when memsaab comes down, ask her to come over to the living room.’

‘Ji.’

Meanwhile, upstairs in one of the bedrooms, hidden away from all the commotion, Aparajita tore open the envelope with trembling hands. She detatched the folds of the delicate sheaf that looked as though it might crumble to pieces on being handled. One teardrop fell with a plop on the first page. She smudged it away and read on.

Mrs Aparajita Biswas

c/o Ajay Biswas IPS

Atithi Guesthouse

Pedder Road, Mumbai – 400026

Dearest Api,

Would you believe me if I told you there has not been a single day, right from that Muk-mem evening all those years ago, till that afternoon at the railway station last week, when I have not thought about you? I went away from your life Api, but you didn’t go away from mine. What else was there then, that was left for me? It’s a terrible plague when I realise that I can only spend my happiest moments, as and when they come, with no one else but myself. Of what use is that? To think that one day I’ll die alone. In the end, when you come right down to it, human life hangs only on hope. And what of me? Kept to my own, my achievements become a curse, a disease I cannot cure myself of. No, I must destroy myself. Destruction of self is the…

Can you believe it! You just swept in a few minutes ago. Now look what you have done? Here I was, all ready to write a long one, when suddenly I find you standing right in front of me. On second thoughts, you have saved me a lot of time. I can now skip large chunks that I think we have discussed already.

And you are right—it was a confession chamber that I wanted. The desire to...

There was a knock on the door. Api bunched up the letter instinctively.

‘Yes?’

It was Pillai.

‘Arey, memsaab, you are here? Saab is calling you. The pulao is done.’

‘Thank you, Pillai.’

‘You are crying, memsaab…Is everything…everything is alright, memsaab?’

‘Yes, yes it is, Pillai. Tell Ajay I’ll join the guests in a minute.’

‘Ji, memsaab,’ said Pillai, retreating.

Api uncrumpled the pages carefully:

...The desire to confess is as deep a human trait as any. To confess in the hope that one may be absolved, or to confess for no other reason than just to confess? That is the dilemma we face. I am far beyond absolution, Api. And who else but you do I have as my chamber, you tell me?

There is something that you—and perhaps Ajay—would never have discovered, and so I’ll tell you now. My real name is Kalki and not Akhil. I am not a Chamaar but a musahur.

AKHIL SUKUMAR is KALKI MUSAHUR and KALKI MUSAHUR is AKHIL SUKUMAR.

I accept there have been better anagrams but this one’s served me alright till now, I guess. In hindsight—of course, in hindsight—there always was an Akhil inside Kalki. What I hadn’t figured out was just how much Kalki there was in Akhil. Just how much Kalki there is in all of us.

I was born on a bloody road. The blood was my mother’s. My sisters couldn’t find a midwife in time. There was no way my mother could get relief from the upper-caste well, and so they tell me that my sisters ran to some puddles to fill their little mouths up and ran back to where my mother was almost dying of pain and then spat out some water on her face and the rest down below on mine. That’s how I came into this world.

My family ate rats and picked up shit for a living. I wasn’t proud of what they did but I was proud of them. Then some terrible things happened to me and my family, Api, that I can never tell you and never will. But what you do know about your Akhil is true: that he is an orphan from Bhopal and that he loves you more than anyone can ever love you.

Before I became Akhil, I sold tea and tended to a bookstall at the Mughalsarai railway station. It was there that I read all of Agatha Christie. Before my tenth class exams, I ran away from Mughalsarai all the way to Bhopal. I had overheard someone mentioning a Ramakrishna Mission Orphanage and School in Bhopal that took in children like me and prepared them for the tenth and twelfth boards. And anyway, there was nothing that held me back at Mughalsarai.

I stayed at the orphanage and the school for two years before I came to Stephen’s.

Prior to my tenth boards, they asked me to fill up my religion and caste. The damn thing’s tied to my tail like a rock, Api. To the world, I am, always will be, my caste. I was afraid to mention musahur as it could have given my identity away. I filled in Chamaar.

Now when I look back, I think that was the day when I decided to finally stand up, decided to opt for a lower caste. Because on that day, I had the opportunity to become anything—brahmin, bania, khatri. And everyone would have believed me, of course. That day, Api, I chose my caste, and I chose Chamaar. I chose it because I wanted to show to the world what a lower caste can achieve as a lower caste. And, Api, you can say from that day on, I met my life on my own terms.

But I still couldn’t get you, Api, I still couldn’t. Do you hold it against me? I could have kept quiet that day, when your father mistook me for an Iyengar—Sukumaran he called me. You loved me so much that I think you wanted me to be quiet. But, Api, will you believe me when I tell you that I loved you even more and that’s why I corrected your father? For fifteen years, I have asked myself, would being a Sukumaran instead of Sukumar really have made that much of a difference to me? I love you, Api, but the answer is yes.

I must wind up.

My accomplice is my childhood friend Chander, who also suffered at the hands of the Thakurs of our village. To have him along was not my idea. He found me out some ten years ago by sheer chance. He was working at a pharmaceutical factory in Himachal and I had gone there for a conference. I helped him find a job at IIT as a lab attendant. Only a couple of years later did he tell me of his intention, of what he thought his aim in life was. It wasn’t much different from mine.

Strange are the ways of providence. Of all the DIGs in this world, it had to be AB who was handed the Saane case. Anyway, it was all coming to an end. I couldn’t have gone on. I wanted it to end, I wanted to be found out; it was just an absurd coincidence that of all the people, it was you who made the connection. You and your dagger.

It is always terrible to kill a fellow human being. For what I did, I must pay. Of course, you might say, who’s to decide on the severity of the punishment and that a voluntary punishment would be a token one. You’ll have to wait a little longer to find that out. I’ll try and call you from Batia one last time. I hope you get this letter before you leave for Delhi.

Once I am dead, my dearest Api, the residual oxygen in my cells will help prolong a dying minority of chemical reactions. My nails will grow for a few more hours, so will my hair. My RNA will be translated into heat-shock proteins. Eventually, there will come a time when my body performs its very last reaction—maybe a few hours after I am gone, maybe a bit longer, hard to tell.

But I know that you’ll help me perform that last chemical reaction. My last breath will have your name.

Yours,

Akhil

Api stared at the page for a long time, then got up and walked over to where the dressing console was, in a niche by the bedroom window. She pulled the second drawer out, the one that stored the general medicines, and began ransacking it for the small white plastic bottle of calmpose.

Meanwhile, down in the dungeons, Paul saab was explaining weather patterns to DIG Kharbanda.

‘And by the time the rains arrive…Oh, come, come, Ajay. I was just telling Kharbanda that you two are the new poster boys.’

‘Kya Paul saab.’

‘Arey seriously, bhai. Especially after five of our colleagues stand suspended because of you.’

Ajay scrambled for a nuanced response. ‘Yes, we are sorry to hear that. It wasn’t our intention, you know, Paul saab.’

‘Of course, Ajay, of course. I only feel for Chaubey—the others can go to hell—but Chaubey was just six months away from his shawl and his clock. Still, you guys did what you had to. And solving twelve so-called solved murders at one go—and then catching the real killer as well. Bhai wah!’

‘Thank you, Paul saab.’

Ghai saab gave a mystified look. ‘Arey, I didn’t know it was you guys who got the killer. I thought it was the UP police. That IG Ravinder said he…’

Paul saab poked Ghai saab in the chest. ‘Arey, Ghai saab, that Ravinder talks through his ass. You mean, you don’t know the whole story? Kya yaar, Ghai, which world do you live in? Refresh our Ghai saab’s memory, will you, Kharbanda?’

DIG Kharbanda took a large sip before his put his drink down. ‘Er, sure, Paul saab…Ghai saab, you know na, that our man was killing desh bhakts on the lines of Agatha Christie novels?’

‘Yes yes, that much I…’

‘Well, this fellow turned out to be some laboratory attendant at IIT. We found his house to be full of Agatha novels. Turns out he was going through them one by one.’

Ghai saab shook his head slowly. ‘What a bastard.’

‘He was a low caste from a village in Bihar called Batia. His family was burnt alive by a Thakur sarpanch thirty years ago. Revenge, Ghai saab, a simple story of revenge it was. And that’s not all. The fellow—I think Chander was his name—he went all the way to Batia in the end, killed the same sarpanch, and then went on the run.’

‘I had heard something about some professor at IIT also getting…’

‘Yes yes, Ghai saab, I was coming to that. This Chander then comes back to IIT and shoots this professor—his name was Professor Akhil—and this was so tragic as our Ajay sir knew Professor Akhil very well.’

Ghai saab turned towards Ajay. ‘Is that so? I am so sorry, Ajay saab.’

‘Yes, Ghai saab, I couldn’t bear it for months. This professor was my best friend back in college. Carry on, Kharbanda.’

DIG Kharbanda lobbed a peanut in his mouth and continued, mispronouncing a few words early in his sentences because of the munching. ‘Ajay sir’s best friend was shot in the head by Chander. You must have seen it all on Aaj Tak. Those camera close-ups. It was all over the media—a brilliant professor murdered. Last July it was…’

Ghai saab knocked on his forehead. ‘Oh. That was the time I was in Paris on a fact-finding mission. Ajay saab, my very belated condolences.’

‘Thank you, Ghai saab. Go on, Kharbanda.’

‘We—I mean, only through the extraordinary efforts of Ajay sir—we knew beforehand of the Agatha Christie connection. We made a list of people who had been borrowing her books from all the libraries in Mumbai. And bhains-ki-aankh. We got Chander’s name. It was touch and go. He had his passport and air tickets ready but we swooped down on him at his home and after a protracted shoot-out, we killed him.’

‘Wah. Five stars to you, Ajay. And also to you, Kharbanda.’

‘Thank you, Ghai saab.’

Ghai saab sipped his drink with concern. ‘And this professor friend of yours, Ajay. How come the poor fellow got caught up in all this?’

‘Ghai saab, what can I say? My friend had helped this chap get a job at IIT. And in the end...I-I am sorry, I get emotional just thinking about it.’

‘Yes, of course, Ajay saab, I am sorry to have brought it up.’

‘No no, it’s alright, Ghai saab.’

‘…So, why the hell did this low caste—this Chander—why did he kill the professor?’

‘Why do you think, Ghai saab? My friend’s full name was Akhil Sukumaran.’

‘I still don’t…’

‘Sukumaran, Ghai saab, Iyengars. Brahmins of the first order—Vaishnavites, you know. And my poor, brilliant friend was killed for no reason other than the fact that he was a brahmin.’

Ghai saab drew his breath in. ‘My God. I am so sorry to hear that. This is kalyug, Ajay saab, kalyug. All we can do is wait for the tenth and final avatar Kalki to come and redeem us.’

‘Indeed, Ghai saab, indeed. Some more Johnny for you?’

Ghai saab’s reply was drowned by the doorbell.

‘Damn, the bell again. Will you excuse me a minute, Ghai saab?’

‘Please, Ajay, please. Here, give me the bottle.’

Who am I?

Aham Brahmãsmi

I am the seeker and the sought

I am the giver and the got

I am the thinker and the thought

Akhanda mandalãkãram

Vyãptam yena charãcharam

Cogito ergo sum

I am the fragmented and the whole

I am the logic and the lore

I am the child of man

I know no end

And so I never began

Ya devi sarvãbhuteshu

Chetanetyãbhidhiiyate

I am the seed of a plant

That grows in the world

That does not exist

I am the real and the imagined

I am the Rat Eater