The
One-eyed Sadhu
By Salmon
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It’s still early when I walk out of my run-down hotel, a
short distance
from a tea stall and breakfast. The temperature is
tolerable, almost
benign, but in a few hours the sun becomes implacable, a
ferocious
presence, something to avoid.
After a second cup of tea I do what I love doing most in a
new and
strange place. I head for the old part of the city where I
hope to
discover its dim past, and perhaps vestiges of its
beginning, praying
it hasn’t totally succumbed to the inexorable and often
misguided
demands of progress.
Once in the area, I begin to wander, drifting, without
direction or
guide book, no particular destination in mind, no special
sight to gawk
at. I simply walk, taking it in, step by step.
Occasionally, I stop to
sketch.
Its past is written in the twisting streets, narrow alleys,
cul-de-sacs, the jumble of eccentric buildings, of faded
colors, tiny
dark shops, the clamor, the sounds, so many people, all
driven by the
unique rhythm which only this city can claim. Permeating it
all is the
smell of India which can never be confused with any other
place in the
world. This walk can turn into an adventure, touching all
the senses.
For close to three hours I’ve been crisscrossing the old
city. I’m
sweating. My cotton kurta and pajama bottom stick to me. A
flimsy red
scarf, bought somewhere in the market, protectively
encircles my neck.
My cap visor is pulled down on my head as far as it will
go. It doesn’t
help, the sun claws at me.
Slung over my shoulder is a canvas bag. It contains a
sketch book, a
rapidograph, an old German sharpener, pencils, eraser and a
water
bottle. It always travels with me.
The heat is exhausting. It’s been a morning full of new and
intense
impressions. I’ve reached my limit and have to get off the
street, back
to the hotel. I keep imagining how good it will feel to
drench myself
under a shower. I won’t even dry, but simply drop on the
bed, spread
eagle, and surrender to the magic circle of air from the
ancient
ceiling fan clattering above me.
Walking back to the hotel is out of the question. I’ve got
to find a
motor rickshaw .
I’m at the edge of a market place where my search begins
for a rickshaw
stand.
It is then I spot the sadhu in a small clearing. These
ascetic
mendicants, some of whom are spiritually evolved, others
rigorously
committed to the most austere self-abasement are, in India,
everywhere.
I’m not surprised to see him sitting there. Something about
this sadhu,
however, sets him apart, draws me to him.
Spine erect, a solitary majestic figure, eyes closed, he
sits in a full
lotus position, so tranquil he appears to be sleeping. The
skinny torso
is naked to the waist. Some folds of cloth hide his groin.
His hands,
palms cradled together, seem to float lightly in his lap.
The bottom of
his calloused feet are barely visible. The matted, tangled
hair, piled
loosely on his head, resembles a mass of twisted, dirty
yarn. Tendrils
spiral and hang loosely from the tangle. The grey flecked
beard is
wild, snarled. White ashes, smeared in heavy streaks on his
brown face
and body, give him a ghostly look. A bright vermillion
caste mark
slashes his forehead. Round his neck hangs a short string
of beads. An
empty brass bowl waits for alms.
His religious fervor, dedication to some inner compulsive
need,
absolute indifference to the sun’s merciless pounding,
disconnected and
unmindful of the life surrounding him, is astounding.
Around him, like a cosmic dance, rise from the tarmac,
shimmering waves
of heat.
I fumble in my bag, pull out the sketch book and
rapidograph, turn over
a fresh sheet. For the moment the heat is forgotten.
It’s so hot the ink on my rapidograph point dries before it
touches the
paper. There’s no place to hide. I squeeze myself into a
narrow shadow
near the corner of a building.
Moistening the corner of a handkerchief with a bit of
water, I gently
wipe the tip of the pen. The ink barely flows as I begin to
sketch. The
brilliant white sheet of paper a hurls back the sun’s rays.
It goes quickly. I am sweating profusely but continue
sketching. In a
short time I have almost a sheet of credible impressions to
be reworked
later.
As suddenly as the inspiration possessed me it vanishes,
evaporates, a
momentary thing, unable to sustain itself in the searing
heat. Closing
the book I slip it back into the bag, moving once more into
the sliver
of shadow, contemplating my next move.
Should I drop some money in the bowl? Or, simply walk away?
How can he
possibly stand the heat, I wonder? What drives him? What is
he getting
out of it, this unbelievable, superhuman effort? It can’t
be the few
coins at the end of day. To these questions I have no
answer.
Deciding to leave I can’t help asking. Does anything exist
in my life
for which I’d push myself to such limits?
I grope in the pocket of my kurta for the little cloth
pouch I always
carry. It usually contains the accumulation of two or three
day’s
change in small coins. I find it. It’s full, heavy.
I’m now less than a foot away and stand between him and the
sun. I’m
fascinated with the way his stomach rises and falls slowly,
in a
metronomic rhythm as he takes in air, then expels it. What
is even more
astonishing is that he’s not sweating. Every detail of his
face is as
clear as if it were under a magnifying glass. I search for
some
acknowledgment of my presence. None. For him, I’m simply
not there.
Leaning over I loosen the drawstrings of the pouch, holding
it over the
bowl and carefully turn it upside down. Coins thumble out
striking the
metal with a percussive rattle.
With a suddenness that startles and makes me jump, the lid
of his left
eye flies open revealing a bloodshot orb which rolls slowly
upwards in
its socket seeking the origin of this intrusion, this
unsought
disturbance, this suspect alms giver. All of its vehemence
and power is
directed towards my face. Horrorstricken I helplessly watch
as he scans
and probes first one then the other eye. I can’t move, it’s
impossible
to avert my gaze, or pull away. His eye becomes a weapon of
unspeakable
hostility, a gimlet, boring with insufferable pain into my
consciousness. I utter a cry and stagger backwards. The
eyelid snaps
shut.
During this frightening exchange the pouch falls from my
hand. I bend
to retrieve it. The canvas bag in turn, slides along my arm
and
swinging outward strikes him sharply on the side. I can’t
believe how
badly things are going. A new terror grips me. All I can do
is curse my
clumsiness while at the same time expecting an outburst
from the seated
figure, or worse, the lid snapping open again exposing that
dreaded
eye. Nothing!
His refusal to acknowledge I exist or that what has
happened has indeed
taken place is so resolved and complete it only adds to my
distress.
Shaken, I snatch the pouch, tightly grip my bag and
frantically look
for a motor rickshaw.
I yell at one chugging by. Making a frightful racket it
swerves to pick
me up, I hurl myself inside the cab and blurt out the hotel
name and
street. As the driver guns the engine I lean out the side
and crane my
neck for one last look at my sadhu, then fall limply back
on the
burning, plastic seat cover, riven.
He hadn’t moved.
Nothing had changed.
salmon © 2004
