SILGHAT SADHUS
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The sadhus were on parade in Silghat. On top of a steep hill, overlooking the carnival site was a temple and a set of steps that must be climbed. At intervals either side of these bloody steps was a sadhu. Some sadhus had a mat filled with religious trinkets, bits of string and magic stuff, did a swift blessing with the transaction and made a profit on the side. But right now they were just performing sadhus, striking their pose, accepting their cheque and settling straight back in the zone.
If it was all a sideshow that was fine by me; I was at the fairground, after all.
They were each about as stoned as it’s possible for a human being to be and still remain upright. They sat impassively, each a living work of art, ignoring this puffing white foreign thing as Dog hove up beside them.
It was exactly as if he’d stuck a coin in the slot. Down fluttered the ten rupee note and at that moment two blood soaked eyes would slowly focus on his face. Dog would raise his camera and, with a deft wiggle of his head, ask permission. Sadhu eyelids would lower in assent then he would ‘assume the pose’.
Every sadhu is different; each has his own particular ‘shtick’. One slowly took an enormous breath and blew a trumpet made of buffalo horn, posing sideways for maximum photographic effect. A lengthy to-o-ot and a couple of pictures later he deflated, sank ineffably back into his silence, the pipe and him coming to a total stop at exactly the same time.
The next, a thick-set, strong man in filthy red robes with a top-notch of braided hair that reached in a cone a foot away from his skull slowly raised his Shiva spear, a huge devil’s prong of pantomime delight decorated with red polka dots and assorted dingle-dangles. This poor sadhu was so completely whacked he could barely focus, had to be prodded to stay awake.
The lad who was doing the prodding was a youth of about fourteen. Each of the sadhus had a servant, someone whose chief function, it seemed, was to stuff ganja in chillums and pass them on. He stuck a finger in the sadhu’s bony ribs. Like an automated children’s toy Sadhu Shiva came to life. He raised one hand in blessing, stretched his index finger, lowered it till the tip of that finger rested in a pot of bright pink powder. His eyes met mine. I knew what was coming.
I scored a massive tika, a bright pink splodge between the eyes. He seemed to freeze, finger still poised in the air after my blessing, eyes glazed, locked in time and space. I think he’d forgotten entirely that I was there. His glamorous personal assistant poked him again. He settled back into repose.
The beggar of beggars lay on his back in the dirt. There was nobody at that fair that hadn’t seen the monster – he had the prime real estate, slap bang in the middle of the crossroads – he was epicentre of the Silghat fair.
Imagine a man sitting on the ground cross-legged. Bind his legs together then tip him on his back. Leave him like that for a very long time. Twenty years. Don’t feed him, let his muscle eat itself, let his legs contract till skin hangs tight around bone, the tendons drawn up tight, winding this twisted mass of legs and feet and toes together. Bits of him stuck out at every angle: knees, feet all jutted out, waving in the air, twitching in the dust and the sun.
His head rested on a covered brick, two roving eyes scanned the crowd. No matter what he looked like, inside that extraordinary shape was a person with bright eyes and… well, not much else. His arms thrashed about in front of him locked in their own private ballet, twin sticks waving wildly in the dusty fairground air; they were thin, brown and wrinkled, just bones somehow moving, wrists turned inwards, doubled under, threaded round.
His face was stretched and cadaverous, trapped in a lifelong scream, head thrown back in a stretch of pain, nodding wildly, looking around, squirming slowly in the dirt, surrounded on all sides by hundreds of moving legs, an umbrella of horrified faces. People stumbled on him with a gasp, suddenly on top of this extreme creature.
Bongo giggled. This was his way of expressing embarrassment.
‘He’s always there.’
Behind those knotted limbs, inside the contorted frame was, of course, a man. To my shame I couldn’t see that. All I could see was his deformity. I saw him on many occasions during the day as I criss-crossed the fairground in wonder. Once I watched as he lay on his side, a gentle expression of contentment on his face as a young boy spooned gruel into his mouth.
‘That’s his son,’ whispered Bongo as we passed.
‘His son!’
I looked over at the wife. She was young. I couldn’t bring myself to think about that wedding night. The girl sitting in the dirt bore him three children and together they travelled the fairs. Each day she lay him out in the road and the kids would dutifully attend him while she waited and watched. He was the husband. He was the breadwinner. He was working. This was his job.
The beggar of beggars was a proud family man. He lay on his back in the dirt, working hard. He saw every grimace; he heard every taunt, caught the eye of the crowd as they stumbled upon him, lay there and twitched his arms and determinedly stayed alive, mutely crying out:
‘Look at me! Look at me and weep! Count your blessings!’
If that’s not hard work, I don’t know what is.
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