Monsoon musings

 

The monsoon has been vigorous this season, pouring down with fluffed obduracy. The earth stands expatiated, its pining thirst slackened down, softly yielding to the countless kisses. A greener world looks hopeful despite the wars and political intrigues. Kaka Maharaj has been pushing and prodding the realm of spirituality for the last four decades. He is nearing 78 years in age now. The coarse sheets of materiality slowly shedding; he has a sagely countenance now. Meanwhile I have been plowing the field of paperwork and books. But we somehow manage an effective communication—me with my theoretical knowledge and he with experiential one.

‘Now for the next three years I will stand in the pond water for tapasya!’ he declared a few months back. I let out a low-toned defiant muttering against such austerity in old age. We had a discussion on this and I’m able to convince him to settle for maun vrata, the vow of silence, now and then. Since then he has kept the fast of silence for a month on average and speaks only when someone like me makes it impossible for him to keep his vow of silence.

This time I visit him after more than a month. He has a rope swing dangling from a banyan branch and supporting his old torso on it he meditates on his guru. I find him very drained out this time. He slowly writes on the page of a pocket diary I have gifted him for the purpose. He is having fever for the last one week. He can’t feel his feet from the knees down. He can’t feel the presence of his head and face above the neck. Then finding the diary and gesticulations insufficient to convey all he has to say he drawls and forces out vocal sounds. ‘In any case writing and trying sign language is as good as speaking,’ he says in a feeble voice, his vocal cords waking up after a month of vacation and sleep. Then in measured tones he explains the matter. The story goes like this.

He saw a very strange and unique wild mushroom in the overgrown bushes and grass around his hut. A few insects were feasting upon it. ‘If these tiny ones don’t die after eating it, I’m a human after all,’ he thought. The mushroom was snatched away from the beetles in one quick swipe. Actually that’s how the ancient people must have discovered the medicinal herbs. It was something very nastily potent. Once it entered his system, stroke by stroke and pigment by pigment it almost turned his intestines inside out. ‘I’m thoroughly washed and rinsed from inside. I don’t think anything remained inside,’ he elaborated the after effects of that unknown wild mushroom. I’m glad that he has taken the bout of torrential diarrhea caused by some poisonous fungi as stomach cleansing. Of course it has caused some infection in his stomach which resulted in a fever. No wonder he is in bad shape. But he is very happy about discovering a detoxification treatment to cleanse the system.

‘I shall show it to you! And I will give it to someone looking to cleanse his stomach,’ he looks forward to spread the effects of that unknown fungi for the cause of humanity. I choke with fear. I tell him the story of Buddha’s nirvana. How a low caste devotee unknowingly picked up poisonous wild mushrooms and cooked them with devotional love for the visiting mahatma. The Buddha ate it despite knowing its poisonous nature. He didn’t want to belittle the hospitality shown by the poor man.

I try to dissuade him from risking his life by doing such experiments with unknown substances. He waves me off dismissively. ‘It has its purpose otherwise my guru won’t allow me to touch it,’ he is perfect in his faith. I also have some vague idea about the mysterious purpose it must have served in his system on his path.

Whatever is the intensity of ailment he never takes tablets or mainstream treatment. He starts laughing at the mention of the word ‘doctor’. He would be the last person to allow an MBBS to come near him even if he is dying. Well, he shows me his magical discovery. He has stored it in a utensil for some lucky person to be cleansed inside out. It’s tart black. Stinking. My head spins, ‘Maharaj, for God’s sake don’t give it to anyone. It will be plain murder. You somehow survived,’ I blabber with panic. Looking at me so serious and out of wits he somehow gets the message. I walk with him to the hand-pump to ensure that the last bit is cleaned and washed. I wish the insects good luck as he cleans and throws the black substance on the grass nearby. I’m sure it would count as a chemical attack on the insect kingdom.