Kaka Maharaj, who has been for many
decades staying in a hut by the canal, is comfortable in holding three satsangs with me in a month. That is the
time when we share, discuss—and even debate—about our versions of truth. He
remains tethered to his hut and avoids contact with the people who he thinks
carry too much worldly subjects within themselves which disturbs his sadhna. Once a month, he takes a
solitary footpath to reach the temple outside the village where an idol of his
guru is installed to pay homage on purnima.
He hadn’t visited the nearby town for
more than a decade and seemed set to avoid it forever. But then he paid a
little worldly price for holding satsang
with me. He adores Dada Lakhmi Chand, the legendary folklorist from the area. A
little test of his adoration: suppose he is just about to break your head with a
brick and you just happen to say ‘Dada Lakhmi Chand’ and he would stop to
listen what you have to say about the Shakespeare of Haryana. I spotted this
chink in his armor and enticed him to the town. It was a feat in itself.
There was a biopic movie on Dada
Lakhmi Chand shown at the newly constructed swanky, posh mall in the town. Ask
him to visit the sansar of town and
his weed-lit red eyes would throw daggers at you. He may even throw some object
at you. So I suitably rolled the invitation with the name of his hero. As a
result, he didn’t jump at the mention of ‘town’ like he would have normally. I
could spot my chance and built my orchard around the great folklorist. I built
up an imaginary world extolling the virtues of the biopic in highlighting the
great Haryanvi poet. The result was that I could convince him to watch a
movie—unimaginable—at a big mall. He who doesn’t find the idea of even a
television set in a house too becoming for a healthy life and living! He
agreeing to watch a movie at a mall! That shows yours truly can fruitfully
bargain with hostage takers as a profession.
On the appointed day I drove him to
the town. He was dressed in a pair of kurta-pyjama
that was lying buried under a sack for almost a decade and was surprisingly
safe from the rats.
(The rats would cut even his plastic
jars and steal his meager supply of grocery that keeps him alive on one frugal
meal a day. I have seen big rats scampering across the grassed roof of his hut.
‘They even jump at me when I’m sleeping,’ he once told me. ‘Maybe it’s a
message from your guru that you aren’t supposed to sleep,’ I remarked. ‘Well,
maybe!’ he seemed in agreement with my casual jesting remark. A monitor lizard
once stayed near his hut and then there won’t be any rats. Kaka Maharaj
considered it a friend. But then one day when he was meditating the lizard
crawled onto the head of its sadhak
friend. Kaka Maharaj wasn’t aware that it was his friendly lizard. He swiped
his hand and it panicked and jumped. The lizard must have thought that it was
an attempt at its life. ‘It jumped and ran but stopped at a little distance and
looked back. We looked at each other for a long pause. Then it went away. I
never saw her again. It was my fear that startled her. This littlest ounce of
fear has to go from the body of a sadhak.
The body shouldn’t move even a little under such circumstances. I knew I had failed
in my sadhna. So I cried that day,’
he told me.)
Now, coming back to the movie-watching
trip. He found the town changed beyond recognition since his last trip. ‘I
cannot find the old town anywhere!’ he exclaimed. It was understandable. The
world around his hut has remained the same. It’s the same canal with the same
flow of water. The only change he can make out is that the little saplings he
had planted are big trees now. That’s the parameter of change for him. He
looked startled and intimidated by the booming urbanization. Imagine a person
who stays in a grass hut being taken straightaway to a showy mall! He was
tentative and unsure on the slippery floors. The elevators, lifts, showy
shop-fronts, food aroma from the food court, the humming of humanity, the glitz
and glamor and among all this an old saintly man. He seemed lost among all
this. He towed me like a little child follows an elder in a crowd. The scent of
modernity in the mall hit him hard. It was completely opposite to the free
natural fragrance around his little hut.
Inside the theatre, he sat like an
alien trapped in a hostile environment. But when the movie started and a few
folksongs from his hero blared and bombarded the eardrums he looked a bit
amused. Then the folk-hero’s life history began with his birth. It was too much
for him. ‘All this is a big lie! How do they know all this happened like this?
It was more than a hundred years ago. This is fake! A funny drama!’ he shouted
in my ear. I was thinking of making a respectful exit from the darkness. But he
understood. ‘I know you like it. So watch it. I’m going to sleep,’ he assured
me. Then Kaka Maharaj folded himself like a baby in the womb and slept off in
his chair. His guru his mother. His faith the safe womb. He could actually
sleep in a cinema hall where the music would rattle your bones.
After the movie—sorry, after a sound
sleep—he looked fresh and totally detoxified of the urbanized exposure I had brought
upon his system. The modernist clatter and noise seemed to have no effect on
him now. His smile and poise was back as he walked out of the mall. ‘Kaka
Maharaj you could actually sleep so soundly in that noise!’ I exclaimed as we
drove back. ‘Yes Tagore—he calls me Tagore for my love of books—I don’t know
whether you believe it or not. I saw only my Guru on the screen. Then it was so
easy to sleep,’ he said. Maybe his guru had sent him for a little test and I’m
sure he passed the test by coming out unaffected from a totally alien
environment. That’s the sign of a good meditator. He/she retains the inherent
balance even after coming across conflicting situations.
On the way back, he asked me to buy
cumin seeds for him. I got two 250 grams packets, one for him and one for our
own kitchen. ‘How much is this?’ he asked, gently weighing the little packet on
his palm. ‘It’s 250 grams,’ I replied. He gently corrected me with a slight sway
of head, ‘No Tagore, it’s only 200 grams. The shopkeepers would always cheat
like in the old days,’ he said. Then I expressed my doubts about the difference
in weight telling him that this is the town’s very reputed grocer and I don’t
think they would cheat people like this. ‘Look at the packaging and all the
stats given regarding weight, packaging date, expiry date, nutrition table,
nice logo, nice material,’ I enlisted the indicators of quality. Later that
day, I weighed my packet on the tiny kitchen scale and the weight came to be
exactly 200 grams. I am humbled.
A few satsangs after this incident didn’t go well. He debated and cut my
opinions as if with premeditated intentions. Maybe he was giving it back for
taking him to a place that stood the polar opposite of his world.
A few months back, I found him
visiting my room crammed with books. Possibly he got curious to know a bit more
about me. He is into bhakti yoga and I could feel his discomfort while standing
near the little hill of gyan marga. As
we know one’s company of friends and people leaves a big impact on the person’s
life. Maybe Kaka Maharaj got interested in books. Some days later he asked me
for a book. I chose a book by a local saint, the combined works of Narayan
Maharaj, thinking he would be able to relate to the writing because it was
written by someone from the same area keeping in mind the socio-cultural
factors prevailing in the area. Judging the psychology of reading among non-readers—they
lose interest very easily—I suggested him to read the book randomly, not page
by page. ‘Just open any page at random and read, maybe that particular page has
a message for you,’ I gave my expert advice as I handed over the thick volume.
He was sitting under a mango tree and took the thick volume with discomfort,
almost suspicion in fact. He opened a page at random as I had suggested. He is
all seriousness as he reads the first line on the page. He throws the book into
my lap as if he has received an electric shock. ‘It’s a sheer lie!’ he mutters.
Well, the first line on that page happened to be the local saints ‘prohibition
against weed, ganja and charas. Kaka
Maharaj has been smoking weed as an aid in his sadhna for decades, so obviously he found it insulting. ‘See, I
respect him. But that doesn’t mean he is correct about everything!’ he looks
stern.
Imagine out of 500 pages, this page
had to open and the first line—perhaps the only line in the entire
book—happened to be the one that would offend the reader. So the book was
returned just one-line read. ‘You yourself wanted to read books,’ I muttered
under my breath. ‘No, no … books are suitable for you. Take it away,’ he
instructed. So I returned with my thick book.
Recently he crossed a big milestone in
his sadhna. I call it a milestone
because I have heard and read about it that most of the sadhaks have to cross it sometimes on the path. At one night he
faced the soul-rattling experience of weirdest apparitions, ghouls, djins, naked witches, ferocious demons
and the strangest human-animal hybrids. ‘I was sitting in dhyan post-midnight. They just arrived in big numbers. You cannot
imagine such strange and fearsome bodies and faces. Some of them came so close
that I could smell their breath. The naked horrid witches stayed a couple of
feet away, but they danced in a repugnant manner. My heart would have burst out
with fear if not for my guru. I survived just because I kept focus on my guru
and saw his image in my mind,’ he told. I have read many books of sadhaks meeting such experiences. He is
a simple man of faith, so it may not sound too much to him. But I know with my
bookish knowledge that mother existence has tested him for fear. That day I felt
very glad for him and left with a smile on my face—for him, for his sadhna, for his guru who saved him from
a fall in the face of the devil.
