Maya (33 page)

Engaged in her various duties, Goongi-ji skulked around the house and garden in a clumsily wrapped, soiled cotton sari, her hair a tangled nest. She communicated with the rest of us through a frenzied jerking of her arms, hands, and fingers, accompanied by spasmodic facial contortions, grunts, and squeals, which her interlocutor was obliged to imitate by way of response. It was more than a bit disconcerting to see her and Pundit Trivedi squared off in conversation, flailing their arms at each other, faces twisted, eyes bulging crazily. Under the mass of snarled hair
someone
was keenly alert, forever watching and thinking. At the moment she squatted in a corner of the garden making a great fuss over her lunch—dal and chapati that she bolted down with the aid of both hands, smacking and chomping—all the while keeping one eye on Madhav and the rest of us.

I opened my book and arranged my notes on the table between us. We were reading the
Buddhacharita
, an elegant narrative poem of the Buddha's life composed in the third century. Ashvagosha, the author, was a master stylist, and I had selected this text hoping that my teacher would appreciate the language in spite of its Buddhist subject matter. I presumptuously imagined that reading a beautifully written Buddhist text might expand his intellectual horizons. He repaid me adequately for my conceit. We hadn't finished the first chapter before he began teasing me by punning, in Hindi, on the Buddha's name, referring to him as Bhagavan Buddhu—Lord Blockhead. This wasn't just about Buddhism, though; regardless of the context, Pundit-ji derived enormous pleasure from puns like this, concocted from an imaginative blending of Sanskrit, Hindi, and English. There was always some danger that our work would be sidetracked at any moment with an obscure linguistic joke or an amusing anecdote only vaguely related to the reading. These interruptions were relatively brief, though, compared to the ever-present possibility of unannounced guests; at such times I had no choice but to sit back and wait, and perhaps to discover, as I did on this particular morning, that there are many ways to learn.

With the calf now basking happily in the warm sun, Pundit-ji appeared suddenly to remember our purpose together. He opened the text that lay before him and leafed through the pages, carefully moving one long index finger down the margins until he located the place where we had left off the previous morning, and began to read. Pundit Trivedi did not speak Sanskrit; the language spoke through him, just as it had spoken through his father and grandfather and all the others. To hear him read aloud was to grasp, in an immediate, visceral way, that I was hearing the ancient language of the Aryas, warriors who inhabited the Indian subcontinent over three thousand years ago with their horses and chariots and their elaborate sacrificial rituals. The very name
Sanskrit
means “polished,” “cultured,” “refined,” and above all else, it is the
sound
of Sanskrit—its most sacred treasure—that has been closely guarded over the centuries with uncompromising devotion. The power of the mantra, the capacity of Sanskrit to heal and transform, is entirely dependent on its correct enunciation. These sounds emerged from the crucible of visions, shaped through poetry and metaphor into words that echo the primordial vibrations of the cosmos. Sanskrit is a bridge between conceptual thinking and
the elemental forces of nature, a gateway opening backward out of the mind into the divine realm of fire and earth, thunder, wind, and rain.

Pundit Trivedi taught in the old way, first reciting the sounds himself, then listening closely as I repeated what he said, mimicking, as best I could, his pronunciation. After reading each verse, he analyzed its syntactic structure, split compounds, and deciphered particularly rare or thorny grammatical forms, if necessary rehearsing the appropriate conjugation or declension. Finally, almost as an afterthought, we discussed the meaning of the words. In this fashion the two of us plodded along at the majestic pace of water buffalo, with great deliberation—no more slowly as we labored under the plow, no more quickly as we headed for the river to bathe. Reading Sanskrit with Pandit Trivedi was in essence a ritual act, a sort of linguistic
darshan
, in itself sufficient to insure a more favorable birth next time around.

We were already deep into our reading when Mata-ji arrived with chai; one glass for Pundit-ji and the special “foreigner's cup” for me—a flowered ceramic mug that could be easily identified so as never to accidentally enter the ritually pure kitchen. This business of the foreigner's cup was something that took a bit of getting used to, and during our first week together I committed a crude faux pas that succeeded in embarrassing everyone present. I had reached out to take Pundit Trivedi's glass from Mata-ji to hand it to him. Fortunately, an instant before my fingers made contact with the untainted glass, she deftly pulled it out of reach.

This morning Mata-ji was accompanied by a Hindu gentleman who stood politely to one side while she served us our chai. He was perhaps forty, dressed in carefully pressed slacks and a Western-style shirt, his hair and moustache neatly trimmed. He had the appearance of an office worker or a government bureaucrat. The muscles in his toes flexed uneasily in the dirt as he watched us receive our glasses. I had seen him before, several times in the early evening, performing puja at a small Vishnu temple near the shop where I went for black-market kerosene. Once the chai was served he stepped forward and knelt, palms joined. He brought his fingers to Pundit Trivedi's feet, then raised these same fingers to his head.

“Namaskar, Guru-ji.”

Pundit Trivedi accepted these formalities with the easy grace of a man accustomed from childhood to the life of an aristocrat. “Namaskar,
Chotilal.” Madhav fetched a dilapidated cane chair, placing it at a discrete distance from the bench where we sat. Meanwhile I leaned back on my cushion and prepared to be kept waiting indefinitely. “
Baiteeyay
,” Pundit-ji said, motioning for him to be seated. “Tell me, how is your wife?”

Chotilal shook his head gloomily. “Not well, Pundit-ji. Her digestion is worse. The medicine prescribed at the clinic does not seem to have helped her at all. She has taken up an Ayurvedic treatment now, but so far there is no improvement in her condition.” He averted his eyes for just a moment, then turned back to Pundit-ji. “She has a good deal of pain.”

Pundit Trivedi frowned, which had the effect of pulling his nose down over his upper lip. “I'm very sorry to hear that. Please tell her so. And your daughters?”

“They are fine, Pundit-ji. The eldest will be fourteen this month. I have completed arrangements for her marriage to a boy from a very good family.” He hesitated. “The dowry they are requesting is more than we can afford. But they will not agree to anything less.
Kyaa kiyaa jaayay
? What is to be done?”

“And the others?”

“Sita and Anju are in school. But soon enough they too will require husbands. We . . .” His voice dropped away into an embarrassed silence. “I did not come here to complain to you about these mundane problems.”

“What is it, then?”

Chotilal stared at the wooden chappal resting on the ground near his feet. After a few seconds he glanced in my direction and seemed to look right through me, then turned to Pundit Trivedi.

“Guru-ji, I have been reading and studying the
Bhagavadgita
, attempting to go deeper into the meaning of Shri Krishna's words. For this purpose I turned to the explanations given by Shankaracharya in his commentary.”

I perked up on hearing the name of my former dissertation subject but tried not to appear nosy.

“I see,” said Pundit Trivedi. “No doubt Shankara's philosophy of nondualism is most profound, but his views are subtle. Do you find the commentary worthwhile?”

Chotilal sat forward, causing the chair to creak. I noticed that through the repeated clenching of his toes, he had dug two small trenches in the packed earth. “It is difficult. In the beginning—before reading Shankara—I felt I understood what Krishna tells Arjuna, that he must fight.” He recited, from memory, the Hindi translation he had been reading:

I watched Pundit Trivedi as he reflected on the significance of this verse, one that must have figured prominently, years ago, in discussion with his son. “The meaning is clear, is it not?”

Chotilal nodded. “Arjuna cannot escape his duty as a warrior. This much I understand. But the explanations of Shankara . . .” He sighed. “The more I study, the more confused I become. I no longer know what to think.”

Both he and Pundit-ji seemed to have forgotten all about me as I sat quietly, pretending to be absorbed in the text we had been reading. It may be that Chotilal assumed I could not understand Hindi; although he really did not seem to care. Nor was he the first to converse with Pundit Trivedi in this way, as if the foreigner sitting nearby had no ears. In Banaras, the most intimate details of one's life become the shared property of family and neighbors; maybe under such circumstances people don't need, or expect, privacy. Pundit-ji now looked at Chotilal with obvious concern. Before he could respond his guest continued in the same bookish, formal Hindi.

“Shankara writes about Brahman, a state beyond all distinctions—beyond all the worry and pain of this illusory world. Beyond even the need to fulfill one's dharma.”

Pundit-ji's brows arched almost imperceptibly. “Indeed, this is one interpretation of Shankara.”

“But how can it be, Guru-ji? Is this world really nothing more than maya?” He appeared genuinely exasperated. “Is all that we do for nothing?”

“
Hari Ram
!” Pundit-ji exclaimed. “You are becoming a philosopher, Chotilal. What is the point in worrying about such abstruse matters?”

But Chotilal was clearly in no mood to back down. “Is this,” he threw out his hand in a nervous arc that took in the garden, the cows, even Goongiji, who had finished eating and was now following our every move with great curiosity, “all of it . . .
not real
? I want to understand, Guru-ji. I need to understand Shankara's meaning.”

“And what if it were?” Pundit-ji responded pointedly. “What if all of it—the whole world—were nothing but a dream?
Kyaa fark hai
? Would knowing this change anything?” He seemed to have suddenly become aware of his neighbor's heartfelt distress.

Chotilal let both hands drop to his lap in a dramatic gesture of
resignation. “
Bardhaa fark
, Guru-ji. If this life is no more than a dream, then why should I worry to pay my daughter's dowry? And my wife's pain—if it is not real, then why should I care? Why should I care about anything?”

“Is that what you would prefer?” Pundit-ji's voice was flat, betraying no emotion. “Not to care about your daughter's marriage? Not to care about the suffering of your wife?”

Chotilal did not immediately respond. He bent forward in the chair, his elbows resting on his knees, and began to massage his forehead with both hands. “It would be easier, Guru-ji . . .” He looked up, his face framed between two open palms. “Would it not?”

A solitary crow circled in the sky, a shadow fell across the garden as the bird descended, coming to rest on an empty branch. The crow extended its wings, ruffling the feathers, then closed them neatly, rearranging a few errant plumes with his beak. On the wall behind us, two monkeys had paused in their rounds. One of them was grooming the other, searching his companion's fur, picking out the lice. In the distance I heard the faint sound of a radio playing a popular film song.

Chotilal had nothing more to say and seemed to be awaiting some response to his question. By this time the holes under his toes had grown into miniature canyons. Pundit-ji studied his face with a curiously detached expression I could not begin to decipher. He may have been uncertain how to respond to such ingenuous pathos. After what seemed a very long time he spoke.

“Few of us can doubt that life includes a great deal of discomfort. But this teaching of maya is very tricky, and if one is not careful with it—as with a strong medicine—it can bring more trouble than it solves.” He considered for a second or two. “Have you heard of Kela Baba?”

“No, Guru-ji. Who is Kela Baba?”

“A swami I once met, when I was a child. During the winter months he lived alone, somewhere in the Vindhya Mountains. But he occasionally traveled to Banaras. On one of his visits he came to our home. He sat here. Right here.” He patted the stone bench. “He and my father talked. I was just a boy at the time, but the memory of that afternoon is still clear. Kela Baba was said to have attained deep realization of Shankara's teaching. People came from far away to receive darshan and to hear him speak. In return for his instruction they would offer him bananas, which he loved.”

Pundit Trivedi adjusted the wisdom pillow, fluffing and patting it into the proper shape.

“I will tell what I myself saw and heard.”

He leaned back on one elbow and settled in.

“One morning Kela Baba was discoursing just outside the gates of the Durga mandir . . .” Pundit-ji gestured southward with his free arm, in the direction of the temple to the goddess. “My father and I had gone there to perform puja. As we were coming out onto the street, we saw Kela Baba talking to a group of villagers on the subject of maya. We had just walked over to listen when one of the men suddenly shouted very loudly and people began to run off in every direction. An elephant had somehow gotten loose from its trainer and was stampeding through the bazaar, overturning vegetable carts and trampling everything in its path. When the swami saw this huge beast, with its trunk lashing wildly, he snatched up several bananas that had been given to him by disciples and fled for his life. For some reason, the elephant took a particular interest in him and charged in his direction.”