Birth of A God

(A Story)

BY T. J. RANGANATHAN
(Rendered from Tamil by MANJERI S. ISVARAN)

COME my son, come near me. Rainbound you are in a real fix. Poor dear! How it pours! This rain does make a hell of the City. Stowing away the waters of the heavens, man has built towns and cities of indescribable splendour. But what he has stowed away–cunningly he thought–the rain has showed up. My! How the rows of houses wriggle and blink like pythons unable to bear the pain of the arrowy downpour! Don’t think for a moment that crocodiles clad in velvet exist only in a sub-aqueous world. “Here, look at me! look at me!” so seem to say the highways and byways from which the tar has peeled off, exposing the layers of macadam. Like warriors heady with fight in a field of battle, reeling under attack and counter-attack, the trees nearabouts sway and toss violently. Is this a war between heaven and earth? Or is it the time of a great deluge? Thoughts like these terrify you, isn’t that so? No my son. No. This is the hour when the gods take their stroll, the hour of their sport, their hilarious talk. That’s why I spoke to you. Yes, I, too, am a god who is speaking to you. Not a god out for a saunter; but a god imprisoned.

Where are you gazing? Do you seek for me amid thunder and lightning? Why are you looking through the branches of the trees? I am not a monkey crouching on the topmost bough. Ah, that’s a creature more fortunate than I. Today, like the monkey that dances to the tune of the monkey-trainer, man has made me to caper and curvet to his countless little whims. I am god. The omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient! The Great Immanence! Ha! Ha! Ha!

Haven’t you yet discovered me? O-ho, why do you want to run away? Are you afraid? Afraid of me? Wet to the marrowbone, your knees buckling, heart going pit-a-pat, and hard of breath, don’t run away. Take shelter under this tree. Here, see the structure built like a little doll’s house, and within it on a small pedestal, a piece of brick adorned with sandal and turmeric and vermilion. That piece of brick is me, the god. Ah, you look astounded! But you are not, are you, when the gramophone sings and the radio rumbles. When mere man has the power to make inanimate objects articulate, can’t a god do it? I am god, I am not a piece of brick. I am god indwelling in the brick.

Ah, that’s right. Now listen to me. Carefully. I shall tell my story, the story of my birth, growth, and tenor of life. The gods too have their birth, growth, tenor of life, and death. Do you doubt in the self-existence of God? It’s high philosophy. The end of philosophy is nothingness. To all intents and purposes, you and I are the same. Now, listen further: -

Some days ago, of an evening, a party–members of a small family–came along this road. You know that at the close of a particularly hot day, many go to the seaside for a breath of fresh air. The family of which I am speaking moved along with the general crowd. A young man, his wife, and their two little children. The eldest was a girl of five, the other a lisping boy of three, his mouth still redolent of his mother’s milk. Oh, the girl! She was as lovely as a parrot. She talked with the mince so natural to children, sweetly, cooingly. Her hand was clasped in her father’s. For a while the mother would carry the boy on her hip, then she would put him down and catching hold of his hand make him toddle along. The little one would laugh and take a step or two, then hold out his arms, crying, “Boo-hoo! Carry me! Boo-hoo-hoo! Carry me, mother!” At the sight the father would peal into pleasant laughter. And the mother, though her heart expanded in beatitude, she would wrinkle up her forehead, crying, “Naughty! Naughty!” and sweeping him up in her arms, strain him to her bosom.

Look yonder, don’t you see a bridge and nigh it a tree? It was while the family were passing under the shade of that tree that they heard a voice calling, “Sunda! Sunda!” It came from the thither side of the road. The young man recognised it as that of his friend who worked in the same office as he. Instantly the friend and his newly-married bride emerged into view and joined them. And forthwith man fell into talk with man, and woman with woman, thus pairing themselves off. Meanwhile, what could the children do? Left to themselves they began to play.

At the foot of the tree lay a piece of brick. Kamali–for that was the name of the little girl–took it in her hands. She had in the pocket of her jumper bits of different coloured chalk: violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red, and white. She brought them out and started scoring lines on the brick, criss-cross all over. Her baby brother sat by her, watching her, tilting his head from side to side like a magpie, and uttering little exclamations of childish delight.

The work of scoring ended. On me, my son, yes; on me the girl finished scratching with the chalks. In the innocent bliss of those children was I born. In that bit of stone was I enshrined. You men think that in your world, in the mortal world alone do children abide. They are in your midst, I agree, but in truth the children live in a divine world, in a wonderland of dreams. To them the clod and stone and tree do speak; the Deity hidden in these speaks to them. When they talk to the dolls with which they play, it may seem imbecile to you. But, in fact, dolls speak to bairns, for the gods themselves sport with them, conversing gaily with them. You think that if you but mutter a mantra, the gods will answer you. But there is a way of intoning it. Like Parvati and Parameswara, the parents inseparable of the Universe, speech and sense should fuse into one another; then, and only then does a mantra become potent. The heavenly beings can never be bound by blank and barren words.

Kamali gathered me in her arms. “Gopala Krishna! Govinda Rama!” she sang rapturously, and her little brother jumped about and danced, as a complement to her lilting music. And in that piece of stone was I animated.

How delightful were the dance and song and innocent mirth of those children! I was immersed in them all. Of a sudden the frisking youngster stretched out his hand and touched me. The contact of his soft, plump fingers sent a thrill through me. The girl wheeled round briskly and snatched me away from his hands. The boy burst out crying. Oh, how pleasing was that cry to my ears! The mother looked at them. “Here, Kamali, why are you teasing the child?” she snapped. “Give that stone to him. Or do you want a good hiding?” With which she resumed her talk with her interlocutor.

The threat went home. How frightened was poor little Kamali! Quickly she put me into the hands of her brother. He found it hard to hold me, he was that tender. Still, he showed himself very brave and did not drop me; but the next moment he was down on the ground, whimpering, with me over him. He then began to rub out the many vivid lines of diverse hues that his sister and drawn on me. “Oh, I don’t do that, Kanna, there’s a dear. Don’t do that to our god. He’ll prick your eyes,” cried Kamali, holding the boy’s hands tightly in hers. Ah, what a pleasure it gave me–their sport and speech and quarrel and tears! Suddenly the boy laughed and laughing began to spit on his sister, in quick spurts, and blowing bubbles out of his mouth.

Presently, the men and women stopped conversing. It was time to move on. And holding me still, Kamali started to walk. “You stupid, why do you carry that stone?” flared up her mother, and seizing me hastily, chucked me summarily. They moved on and were soon out of sight.

I lay at the foot of the tree. The same night some men came that way. They seemed to have had a good swill of toddy, and in their semi-intoxication walked light of heel and of heart, singing a rollicking ditty. And in the light of the moon one of them caught sight of me, lying there at the base of the tree. And hardly had he spied the chalk marks on me when he cried out to his companions: “Look, that’s the Deity!” They echoed his words, and with much scraping of unsteady feet and broken ejaculations, they installed me at the foot of the tree, falling down and prostrating full length before me, their palms joined in fervid obeisance.

A couple of days passed and my importance began to rise very high indeed. The tribe of my devotees increased. Every night, when the noises of the day had died and silence descended on the road, quite a goodly number of people gathered to worship me. They brought me offerings of flowers, vermilion, turmeric, sandal, betel and areca-nuts, and with them came a pujari, too, beating his drummikin.

My son, in your world, the world of mortals, for anything and everything a pujari makes himself indispensable. Why is it so? In business–in buying and selling–he appears as the broker in politics he ingratiates himself into the favour of the top-ranking leader, with a covey of chelas around him; in literature he plays the grand role of the critic. To law the lawyer is the pujari to ritual, the pundit; to democracy, the capitalist; to the arts, the self-worshipper; to revolution, the atheist. Goodness gracious! Anything in the world seems to stand in need of a pujari. If there is a middleman to throw mud into the mouth of one who works with the sweat on his brow, there is the lawyer to dig deep the earth to bury all justice and righteousness. The critic of letters builds a mausoleum over some of the world’s best poetry, enthroning himself as the arch-priest of taste and judgment, and draws people to admire his eminence and bow unto him. The temple pujari conceals the image of the Deity behind a thick curtain. And I, too, was not spared by one such; he appeared on the scene, as I said, rather quickly.

The dance and song and adoration grew intense, day by day. They did the karakam, ¹ they twisted the necks of cocks and scattered the crimson-crested heads in front of me. A great length of the road was blocked by crowds which collected to witness these religious gaieties.

My son, where are you gazing? Don’t you like my story? Are you thinking of leaving? Oh, I didn’t notice it. The rain has stopped and so you want to get away. Be patient for a while. A calm generally precedes the storm. I am sure it is going to pour in torrents again. Then only the skies will clear. In the meantime, I shall tell my tale briefly. Already I have shortened it much too much. I want you to do me a favour; hence this story. Be patient for a while and listen to me. A few more minutes and I have done.

You harbour a doubt, don’t you? I told you that the incidents connected with my life happened under the tree near yonder bridge, didn’t I? How did I who lay there manage to reach the present spot–that’s your doubt, isn’t it? Quit reasonable and justifiable. One day the crowd of people happened to be very dense. Before me stood pots of toddy beautified and decked with flowers, heaps of rice and other edible offerings. “Like rain-charged clouds–like–like” sang the pujari, shaking his head vigorously and beating his drummikin. Just then a posse of policemen, armed with lathis, arrived at the spot. The crowd was obstructing the traffic on the road, they rapped out, and ordered it to disperse immediately. It was the most troublous of times, those days were–of political turmoil in the land. The police reigned. There was no check to their zoolum. They were the Raj. The crowd scattered helter-skelter. The pujari scooted with his drummikin. The policemen picked me up and flung me far. Oh, the iniquity of it! But what could I do with them who were drunk with defiance, the vicious crew? I prayed that the District Collector might open his eyes and punish them for their crime, and praying thus flew across space. But I didn’t fly of my own volition. The brawn of the policemen’s arms inspired my flight. There was a mound of rubbish at the foot of the tree and I fell precisely to perch on it. Had I touched hard ground, I would have been smashed to dust. To have perished like that! Then I would have saved myself, my peace undisturbed. But it was not to be. And who is there that has the heart to perish my son? Shrunk and double bent, tottering with the aid of a stick, and collapse threatening every step–an ancient and decrepit like that wishes to live for ever in this planet. Disintegration! Alas, it is dreadful!

I lay at the foot of the tree. The pujari didn’t forget me. He came again, cautiously. He brought with him a charity-box and placed it in front of me. Next he brought a mason and raised this wigwam for me. Drivers of hackney carriages, rickshawallahs, and by and by the taxi-men, too, began to put their nickels and coppers into the charity-box. And again, as of old, the worship started to the sound of the drummikin. I was put on a firm footing now. I was rather amused at the honours and solemnities done to me. A little pleasure, a little pain–so mingled were my feelings. Whether the place was no impediment to wheeled traffic, or whether there was a decline in the sovereignty of the police, I knew not which; but the cops stopped their interference.

The months have passed, six months after my birth in the new spot. I thought of the innumerable brother bricks who had been baked and burnt along with me in the same kiln, and it made my heart swell with pride and happiness. Poor things! Some among them stood closely packed and choking in the wall of a building, supporting a beam. While others in flights of stairs leading to higher storeys were wearing out under the tread of human feet. But see, that a glorious life was I destined to lead, I who chanced to tumble down from a load of bricks which a cart was carrying! “He who bolts becomes king,” thus in the houses of heaven, the planet in the ninth says it, which is truth, my son, a simple truth. But I am not thinking like that at the moment; I thought so in the days bygone and exulted in it.

Six months have passed since I was born, you know that already. How was I born? In the innocence of the children. You know that too. This is the secret of Creation: No creative process is involved in the acquirement of knowledge. The instrument to split the atom is born in the imagination of the scientist. In the dream of the poet is the poem born. The world is born in the illusion of god. When the devotee becomes simple as a child, divinity is born. The sport of children is the highest piety. For long I didn’t see the little ones who were responsible for my birth.

Yesternight, as usual, the pujari was engaged in conducting the worship to me. People clustered all around the place. In the fringe of the crowd stood that young man–yes, Kamali’s father–watching the fun. Near him, holding his hand, was the lovely Kamali herself. I was thrilled to see her. I wanted to fly into her hands; and as in that day long past yearned to be petted and talked to endearingly by her. I hungered to hear her sing again the divine song: “Gopala Krishna! Govinda Rama!” Ah, she saw me suddenly. Maybe she had seen some of the coloured lines she had scored over me, running like exaggerated nerves, still shining undimmed for all the lapse of six months, or maybe had seen some other mark of recognition. The pujari had not only not rubbed out those lines, but he had emphasised them with a thick coat of paint. She, certainly, had espied the nascent ones. “Father, it’s my stone, it’s my god!” exclaimed Kamali, her lips parting in a flowerlike smile and eyes widening with wonder. And shaking herself free from his clasp, she darted through the crowd to take hold of me. The crowd parted and cleared the way for her, thinking that some preternatural fever had suddenly overpowered her in presence of the Deity. She reached the sanctum, I felt the tips of her fingers caressing me. Ah, how blissful was that touch! But there was the pujari, he was outraged. “Get away!” he growled in a towering rage, and pushed her out brutally. “Is the Deity reserved for you?” he snarled again. Was it not installed as his sole monopoly? Was it not there to fill his charity-box?

The child was thrown into a swoon. She couldn’t bear the shock. The cause was not that the pujari had pushed her out. She had given me life, she was my mother who had dandled me in her tender arms and croodled sweetly in my ears. And the pujari who had sprung up from nowhere, like mushroom in a fleeting hour, had prevented her from even touching me: that caused the shock and the swoon. Was she not my mother who had breathed life into me? The superstitious folks expressed that she was possessed by some Spirit. They lighted camphor, burnt incense, and swung the dipa before me. But she lay unconscious. Her father bore her home on his shoulders. She was stricken with high fever. Now, they have summoned the pujari to exorcise the spirit, by casting the sacred ashes on her to the chant of incantations. Every day, both morning and evening, the pujari goes with his charity-box, beats his drummikin, and does his work of casting the ashes. And I tell you, so long as he does this, my son, the girl’s fever will not abate. There’s only one way to save her. And it is to drive out this pujari.

But alas, what can I do! I can blind the eyes of the People, but I can do nothing to the pujari, I am powerless with him. I can even change the hearts of sham devotees and show compassion to them. But I have no power over the pujari who sells my compassion in doles. The crocodile is strong in the waters; the pujari derives his might from me. If I am no more, there will be no work for him. So, my son, you must do me a service. You will be blest immeasurably. Uproot me from this spot, go straight east. See yonder, the deep, dark ocean, rolling its billows, bursting and boiling and clamouring with a million throats! Fling me far into the ocean. This, only this boon, I beg of you, my son.

¹ A kind of country-dance, the dancer carrying on his head a pot bedecked with flowers.