The Ring

There is a time, at the end of the summer, before the sharp daggers of the monsoon downpour gouges out the sand into runny brown rivulets, that the Ganga, at its narrowest point shrinks enough that you can cross it in three strides. Well, one stride if you are tall person, but the summer I was eleven, it took me three strides. Of course, I was a tall girl for my age. Certainly taller than Shireen, our housekeeper who was with me the day I crossed the river for the first time. It took her four, almost five strides.

She was fifty years old at the time, and a shrunken four feet. I could look down at the top of her head with pride, because I was so much taller. Her hair was thinning, near her neat center part, exposing her nut brown, shiny scalp.

She rolled up the loose folds of her shalwar, and I hiked up my flowered, print dress that came to about mid-thigh, just the level of the water, and waded across. Wet sand shifted uneasily under my clenched toes, while the slime of the water cooled the soles of my feet.

One. Two. Three. And I was across. I turned back to look at the city. Allahabad, hundreds of years of history squished in between the grotesque, box shapes of new architecture, old bamboo pigeon rests and silver television antennae fighting for space atop the time-stained roofs. The gray walls of the fort shimmered wetly in the distance, a mirage in the heat. The same heat that made the city fade in and out until the whole thing just looked like an ill-designed and haphazard movie set. This was my first trip, across the river, as it was called. Others called it the old city, Jhoonsi.

An old city whose origins had been eroded like the shifting sand. A settlement so old that families had lived there for tens of generations in the same houses, tales recounted at wedding and births and deaths, family events to keep the ancestors alive.

Since it was off the beaten track and nothing of earth shattering importance had ever happened here, it was ignored by the archaelogists and anthropologists who regularly swarmed to other settlements along the Ganga. They looked mainly, it seemed to me, for the garbage heaps of ancient civilizations to get an idea of how people lived way back then. Occasionally their beaming smiles would dazzle me from the gritty, grayscale pages of the newspapers. Dr. Clarence, or Dr. John So and So, from America or England, posing with a broken shard of dirty pottery, with a big, very non-academic smile on their faces.

Sometimes, after a heavy rain-fall would strip away the first layers of sand, rough-hewn statues and carved rocks would appear from the depths of the land.

The locals steadfast in their belief that this old city, now engulfed by Allahabad, on both sides of the river was a treasure to be discovered.

Which is why enthusiastic amateur historians from the local University would reap this strange harvest after each monsoon shower, perhaps hoping to make a crucial discovery and immortalize their academic careers forever. If Dr. Clarence So and So from America or England could pose with broken pottery, certainly so could Dr. Mukesh From here or there, eminent historian (as he would be called then), couldn’t he? So, figurines of prehistoric gods and fragmented terracotta pots languished on old shelves in many houses in the city, forgotten by amateur historians/archaeologists, turned government officials or politicians or shop-keepers or businessmen. Sometimes they would return with their wives and children, for a secluded picnic, and their children would pick out their own finds to be cherished and then discarded. And the parents would cluck with annoyance, “What have you picked up Ravi. So dirty you’ve gotten. Really, I can’t turn my head away for a minute. Now go wash all that sand and filth off you.”

“Chalo, chalo…” Shireen admonished me frustratedly, “Angootha Baba is very popular these days. If we are late, we might not get to see him today. Then what will I tell your sister?” She grabbed my hand and dragged me along as best she could.

“Why couldn’t she come? It’s her stupid ring anyway.” I kicked a cloud of damp sand, which fell with a deflated thump.

“You stupid girl. Her wedding is in a week. How can she even come out of the house? Really. Your mother will have her work cut out for her when it’s your turn.”

“Me? Married?’ I laughed. “They better not even try. I might not even get married.” At that she let go off my hand and clapped her hands twice, loudly on her cheek, in admonishment of the devil that made me say such things, ‘tauba, tauba.’ Anyway come along.” Many times she complained that, in her time spent with me, her cheeks would be sore by the end of the day, so much did I vex her.

“I don’t want to go. Why do I have to? She lost her stupid engagement ring, and it’s hot, and I'll tell Amma she lost the ring. Then she’ll be sorry and so will you.”

“No…no…baby…. don’t do that. You know that ring is from her in-laws. What will they think of their new daughter-in-law if they found out she lost it? She is your sister, think of her, at least. You should love your sister and help her. And she has promised you ten rupees to buy whatever you want, if you do this. Besides, yesterday you wanted to come.”

Yesterday it had seemed an adventure. Now I was faced with this reality that sapped the very marrow from my bones, that matted my hair to my scalp in wet ribbons and made the back of my neck burn from the combination of heat, sweat, hair and abrasive sand.

We walked for about half an hour before coming upon the start of the line.

“Bhaiya, is this the line to see Angootha Baba?” she huffed out to a man patiently squatting on the sand.

He nodded and we collapsed onto the hot sand as well, but not before she carefully spread a doubled up sheet on it, to keep me clean and somewhat cooler. The sun was not yet fully up. The beach was totally deserted, except for the old neem tree.

It was said to be a thousand years old, at least. When the first group of people had settled in Jhoonsi it was already said to be a fully grown tree that had lived for many years, even then. Brown and gnarled, its branches claw-like arthritic limbs. The erosion of the years had stripped the sand around it, exposing its roots, dark brown, ropy snakes that trapped small plants and clumpy sand. Some people said the roots looked like the coils of dark hair of a beautiful woman. There was, of course, nothing more seductive that the runaway curls of a woman, so it was said.



“Oh girl, you with the dark serpents coiling at your breast

look at me, sometimes, just look at me.

The coquettish bends in your hair have made me unable to

Think and now I am reduced to beating my chest

Waiting for you to

Look at me, just look at me.”



Every radio at every paan shop blared the catchy tune from the new blockbuster movie “Haseena” (the beautiful one), while a glossy poster of the curvaceous heroine who was the object of that adoration, eyes cocquettishly come hither, hair flying, fat curls aflutter, looked on, smiling, shiny red lips pouting. And, as the neighborhood girls would pass by, the boys who gathered around to listen would clutch their hearts and shout out their undying love, by singing along. The girls would blush and look annoyed, while looking down coyly, and straining to see if the cutest boy had looked their way.

Mid-way up the old tree, was a wooden ledge. This is where Angootha Baba would sit, dispensing advice and help. Snippets of conversation fell around me like diseased leaves from a tree, fleeing the searing wrath of summer.

He has taken a vow of eternal silence, so he would talk to no-one.

But such is his grace and wisdom that he can communicate without words, better than a person can with a thousand words at his disposal. Such are the ways of these great souls.

An old woman in the crowd wondered why he was called Angootha Baba. Angootha, of course, was the large toe on one’s foot. I stared at mine, wiggling it back and forth and wondered at its hidden, divine power. “Shhhh…” she was told. “God men have their own mysterious reasons. Do not question it, silly woman.” She shut up, though I could still hear her complaining to herself, “well what is so special about his big toe? I would like to know. Maybe I have some power in my toe, or maybe, my thumb?” She was finally successfully shushed by a light kick from her husband.

Angootha Baba demands total devotion. That’s why we have to be here from the morning to get a place even though he only appears in the late afternoon.

Of course you have to show him that you are serious.

It’s not often that a Baba has such powers as his.

You have to prepare yourself, cleanse your mind, meditate.

We got here at dawn, because sometimes the lines are so long by the time he gets here that you have to come back another day.

The sun climbed higher in the bright blue sky, whereupon Shireen expertly flipped open a large, black umbrella and stabbed it into the sand. Then, from the cloth bag she carried, she took out some food, and a bottle of water, which by now was unpleasantly lukewarm. I was growing bored with studying my surroundings and had started to whine again. She did her best to entertain me with stories from her limited supply, but gradually the heat and the constant drone of a crowd of flies seemed to put her to sleep. I watched as a fly landed on her slightly open lips, and she did not bat it away.

Some of the other children in the crowd had started becoming restless as well, and as our guardians started to nod off to sleep, we headed toward the trickle of the Ganga. Soon we became friends, as only children who had never met before, can. We splashed water on each other, and quickly organized a game of hide and go seek. It never quite materialized because there really were no places to hide on the open beach, so we contented ourselves with running around and screaming like hyenas. The adults slept on, or perhaps they were deep in meditative silence. I could never quite tell the difference.

The faint sound of distant conch shells sounded, and the adults began to stir, angrily calling out their charges. “Really, what will I say to your mother? I closed my eyes for barely a minute and now look at you. Getting to be as big as a mare but still running around with all kinds of low class people, and getting your new dress wet and dirty. Tchh tchhh.” It was one of Shireen’s duties to make sure that I stayed clean and that mingled with people only of my class, high class, as she said. She was quite adamant about it, always.

“Sit down, sit down everyone…brothers and sisters and be quiet,” a man in the crowd shouted. We did, though a quiet rumbling of curious conversation remained in the background, like the distant roar of a hollow drum.

Gradually the sound of the conch shells drew closer, and a man in a dingy lungi climbed up to the ledge on the tree and ceremoniously spread a dhurrie on the ledge, propping a few pillows there as well.

The crowd clamored, ‘is he coming, is he coming?” The man, who had now climbed down from the ledge shouted into the crowd, “yes, yes, stay calm, please brothers and sisters. Baba is on his way.”

Several men who were blowing into large conch shells, their cheeks puffed out, arrived next, while people prostrated themselves on the ground, awaiting the Baba. One of the new arrivals held a sheaf of flyers in his hand. He passed a few around to the crowd. Each flyer was greeted with a gasp.

It was a grainy black and white picture. It showed the indistinct picture of a bearded man sitting on the ledge, one leg tucked under him, the other hanging down. The large toe of the foot of the hanging ledge was dipped into a pail of water. Standing before him, with hands folded and head bowed, ready to receive a drink from the blessed pail was an indistinct picture of an easily recognizable figure. A woman with cropped black hair and a distinctive streak of white blazing back from her forehead.

“See brothers and sisters, the Prime Minister Madam herself came to see the Baba and get his blessings before her elections.” She had, of course won, which is what made the Baba’s powers even more legendary.

People talked excitedly, and by now I could barely wait. Everyone in the crowd admired the flyers and passed them around.

The man collected the flyers to use again, while another collected the offerings from the assembled people. Some threw in coins, other crumpled bank notes, still others handed rice and jaggery tied up in little red and white checkered cloths. Shireen threw in a ten rupee note that my sister had given her for this purpose.

The alms collectors then retreated to the base of the tree, waiting.

Then, there arrived three men, the one in the center, using the others for support. He was helped up into the tree, where he leaned among the pillows and turned to face us. Heavy lidded eyes peered from a shriveled, heavily bearded face that had spent many days under the sun. He had been a farmer before he gained enlightenment, as we all knew.

One day, while toiling in the heat of the sun, struggling to feed his large family, he gained enlightenment. It was said that his lone buffalo which he used to plough his little field with, unable to bear the heat, lay down and just died in the field. In one moment his life and livelihood were both in grave jeopardy.

So he raised his fist to the heavens and demanded, in a thundering voice, “Lords in heaven. I ask something of you for the first time in my life. Answer me if you dare. What have I done to deserve this? My family and I are starving and now this buffalo has also died. Do you want us to just kill ourselves? Tell me and I will do just that.”

At the end of his impassioned plea, he kicked the dead animal, in disgust, with the big toe of his left foot. And lo and behold, the buffalo arose with a low grumble, shook itself and stood up, shakily. He went down on his knees and swore to become a man of god, using the healing power and wisdom of his big toe to help others. Right then, he took a vow of chastity, and converting his wife and children into his first disciples set out on his mission.

The first year of his healing journey yielded enough miracles to guarantee a huge following in the years to come. There was the woman who bore twins after a decade of being barren, due to the power of his toe. The man who could not see, who was cured. The woman who found the money her husband had buried somewhere in the yard, just before he died. The legends grew, until the citizens of Jhoonsi implored him to come and live among them, to draw from the history of the village. And, he, perhaps tired of traveling, had made that his permanent base. That had been five years and many miracles ago.

One of his entourage held up a large pail of water to his extended left foot. Baba extended his large toe further off the ledge, and dipped it into the water, then swirled it around vigorously. He did not want to short-change his followers by not fully releasing his potent power into the liquid that was his instrument.

One by one people filed to the tree. Their concerns and questions were whispered to one of the men who said it out aloud to the Baba. A remedy was suggested, with a look or a gesture, and then the supplicant would receive some of the blessed water in his or her cupped hands. Some would sip it with reverence, while others would rub it into their scalp for a more extended blessing.

Soon it was our turn. With tears in her eyes, at this great honor, Shireen said, in a trembling voice, to the Baba’s attendant, “Tell Babaji, that this girl’s sister has a terrible burden. She is to be married in a week’s time, and somehow, a gold and diamond ring given to her by her in-laws has been lost. We will be destroyed, it is a matter of a daughter’s happiness and the family’s pride, you see.”

The message was shouted out. Baba looked down upon me and then toward his messenger. He raised his eyebrows. The messenger said, “Baba wants to know if one of you has actually touched the ring before it disappeared?”

“The girl has, which is why I have brought her here,” he was informed. I was moved closer to the tree, until I was right under the ledge. I waited.

Suddenly a pressure descended upon my head making me jump in surprise. Shireen held me in place as his large toe pressed upon my scalp in blessing. The toe remained on my head, for what seemed an eternity, the round imprint burning into my scalp. Finally he withdrew it, slowly. “This is a great honor, that Baba has blessed the girl, himself. Surely the ring will be found,” the messenger exclaimed.

The crowd looked at me with envy. Not only had we managed to keep the holy man’s attention for a long time, I had personally been blessed by him. Some of them tried to touch me as we passed, hoping for a touch of the glory that had touched me briefly.

We received our blessed water, before turning to leave. Shireen massaged hers into her hair and scalp. Drinking it was contrary to her strict Muslim beliefs against idolatry and superstition. I stood there uncertain about what to do. Blessed or not, this water had had someone’s toe in it, and it smelled faintly bad. The next supplicant had taken our place and luckily no-one’s attention was on us.

“Keep walking…fast” Shireen begged as I seemed ready to drop the water into the sand. It would be scandalous if one of the Baba’s devotees saw it. Baba could curse us so that the ring might never be found, and he might curse our family’s seven generations as well.

As I walked, drops of the water trickled on to the sand from the spaces in between my fingers. Each drop was a smudge of wetness in the sand, digging out a small hole for itself. Then all that was left was a faint dampness in my palms, which quickly dried under the fierce heat of the sun.

When we reached home, our parents had not yet returned from their trip. The house had been turned inside out, and all the servants had been questioned by my sister. They had been informed that we had gone to consult Angootha Baba. Whoever had stolen the ring and not returned it, within the next day, would die a horrendous death. He or she would vomit blood for seven days and would die on the morning of the eighth, such was the power of the Baba. That person’s future generations would be cursed. If the ring was returned, even if anonymously, the curse could be avoided. Still, no-one had confessed, and the ring was not found.

My sister was in tears as she imagined this horrendous start to her married life. Woe was upon girls as careless as she. How were her in-laws to trust her to run their home when she could not even manage to safeguard a ring? She had suddenly taken to praying five times a day, something she had never done before. This was serious. Someone had told her once that God was sure to listen to the true supplicant, especially one who could not stop her tears.

She was sitting on the prayer mat, having just completed her evening session, when we entered. She looked at us with hope and despair, encapsulated in the tears that had made her eyes pink and her nose a swollen tomato.

Tears streamed continually down her cheeks as she imagined our parent’s wrath and disappointment. Shireen tried to console her, telling her about the Baba’s blessing. I, wisely decided not to risk a slap by asking her about the ten rupees right now.

Instead, I went into the large shaded bathroom and washed my face with the transparent Pears soap, lathering it up, until bubbles flew around the room. I scrubbed vigorously, trying to loosen the grit of the sand that seemed to have made a home in every crevice. Some hid under the creases of my nose, other grains in the little hollow under my lower lip. My face finally felt cool and refreshed, after three vigorous latherings. It was a good feeling.

And then, as I was about to return the soap to its dish, there, lying as if it had always been there, was the ring, its twinkle only slightly subdued by soap scum. Maybe, I could now get twenty rupees, instead of the promised ten. It had been a good day.