A crowd had gathered on the side of the road near a calf with five legs and a sadhu seated on an animal skin. The sadhu had long hair worn in thick dreadlocks and painted markings on his forehead, and wore a crown of rudraksh beads. He sat cross-legged, straight-backed, rocking. Beside him lay his staff and a water vessel. Several cobras moved about him, including an albino with three lines on his hood: the mark of Shiva.
The sadhu took out his chillum and filled it with ganja. ‘Om namah Shiva,’ he chanted, ‘Kali ma ki jai.’ When he inhaled, a foot-high flame leapt from the chillum. Then he began to sing in a loud, powerful voice about not being attached to worldly things:
Bears, tigers and elephants stalking the forest
Oh Shiva, Oh Shiva
Don’t fear not having enough
There is too much worry here
Bears, tigers and elephants stalking the forest
Oh Shiva, Oh Shiva
Maintain your true self
There is too much worry here
Bears, tigers and elephants stalking the forest
Oh Shiva, Oh Shiva
The terror will consume you
There is too much worry here
Bears, tigers and elephants stalking the forest
Oh Shiva, Oh Shiva
He will hold you
There is too much worry here
Bears, tigers and elephants stalking the forest
Oh Shiva, Oh Shiva
Rest and turn inward
There is too much worry here
Bears, tigers and elephants stalking the forest
Oh Shiva! Oh Shiva!
Find joy within
There is too much worry here
Bears, tigers and elephants stalking the forest
Oh Shiva, Oh Shiva
‘Look!’ Govinda pointed to the calf in astonishment.
Mumbles soon set him straight. ‘That is no miraculous calf,’ muttered Mumbles. ‘Look at this. See how people live. The lane is a health hazard. The local authorities are still squabbling over who should fix the drains after the monsoons, because of so many years of a Marxist government.’
‘Is that why you like Bhindranwale?’
‘I don’t like how Sikh people are being treated,’ said Mumbles.
Govinda thought about his father. Everyone seemed to be upset with India. Govinda felt different because Serpent Lane, even in its mad state, was his neighbourhood. Everything of value to him took place there. Now he was being asked to step away from his home. ‘I’ll never-never-never be glad about leaving.’ Govinda said, getting worked up.
‘I understand that. It is a terrible thing if someone denies you your land of birth,’ Mumbles tried to console him. ‘This is our birthright. To be free to call a place home is very important. No one has the right to refuse you that. Not even the Prime Minister.’ He thought for a minute. He cleared his throat. ‘Just imagine what it would be like to live in Australia or Canada or somewhere where the streets were clean, and not used as a public lavatory, where there was fresh water and fresh air.’
‘What is a lavatory?’
‘Toilet,’ Mumbles said gruffly, drawing down the corners of his mouth.
Govinda naturally knew what a toilet was. He also knew that life in the lane could be hazardous. Graffiti and poster-strewn walls were all around them. But at the same time, in one shop, a man appraised a bolt of cloth. He held the fabric to his chin and measured it down the length of his arm. On the opposite side, three tall mannequins stylishly dressed in sarees appeared to be observing him.
As they strolled, Govinda saw a group of weeping people moving down the street while carrying a corpse with a sickening grin on it.
Also passing by was a naked holy man, a Jain, who had renounced everything: his children, wife and even clothes. The Jain’s hair was dark and his eyes were clear and penetrating. His bare feet were callused and cracked. His body was hairless except for the parts below his belly button. His penis was showing to the world. Its resemblance to a snail made Govinda uncomfortable.
The Jain was muttering: ‘When you swim remove all your clothes. Seek liberation from earthly existence. To swim across the ocean of samsara you must remove all the clothes of your attachments.’
Govinda had seen men like this but he was still taken aback because he had never been so close to one. Jains usually looked mad. Some kept mumbling what could have been mantras, but this man spoke clearly.
‘He is talking about samsara,’ said Govinda to Mumbles but the cook was not listening to him.
Mumbles stroked his beard, pressed his fingers against his full lips, stared into the distance and appeared unmoved and unconcerned with mundane matters. Govinda felt timid and held the hand of the cook, who seemed to be thinking about other things, as he drew a deep breath.
‘What was that man talking about?’ he asked Mumbles. This time Govinda made sure he was heard.
‘That man believes we are all caught in the trap of being born over and over again.’
‘Oh, you mean reincarnation,’ said the boy. ‘I know all about that. I know that in your religion the soul can undergo millions of transformations through various forms of life before becoming human. These life forms could be a rock, a vegetable, or an animal. There is no difference between these types of existence. However, the human has a privileged position compared to other life forms. In the Sikh view of karma, human life is seen as being most precious, and animal, vegetable, and mineral are viewed as being below human life.’
‘You, my beta, are becoming a seer,’ Mumbles said smiling. ‘But life is more complicated than that.’
‘Life in an unhappy kitchen is not a comfortable thing,’ said Govinda. He noticed that Mumbles was no longer carrying the letter written by the scribe. He looked back and saw the soiled paper lying in the dirt.
They continued walking in silence, and Govinda wondered if Mumbles knew he had dropped the letter. Govinda asked him if the letter was important.
‘Yes, very,’ he said. ‘It is to my guru.’ ‘You dropped it back there,’ said Govinda. Mumbles ran back and picked it up. Govinda could see he was angry about dropping the letter and couldn’t be bothered keeping up the pretence. Govinda was pleased to see Mumbles agitated. He wanted the cook to feel uneasy and to be punished for taking up so much of his mother’s time and attention. He did not like the cook’s turban or his lips or anything about him.