None of Anand’s paintings had been as talked about, as written about or as appreciated as this particular painting. It had been displayed at the Tate Modern. At the back of the painting, Anand had written in black paint: To my dearest little Maya, love from Papa. ‘Maya’ was an improvement on ‘Mia’ Anand had said. Mia was as pretty as a Hollywood heroine, but Maya meant god’s dream.
The Kumbh Mela or the Festival of the Pitcher. Every four years, on the banks of the Ganga, thousands gathered to take a dip in the river in the conviction that the cleansing bath would wash away their sins. If they didn’t gain peace in the after-life or everlasting union with the almighty, at least there might be a raise in salary or favourable rates of interest in a new bank loan. In Anand’s depiction, a ghostly white river arched across the painting like a sky. Below the river sky, pilgrims, ascetics, elephants and cattle-drawn carts were drawn in painstaking detail. In the foreground was a face in magnified close-up, of a young bespectacled priest with black hair down to his shoulders and a thick beard down to his collarbones.
And under the hair and beard, a careless slant of cheekbone and a thin line of jaw.
‘All well?’ Her SkyVision producer asked the next morning. ‘How are you feeling today?’
‘Fine. Sorry. Just a headache suddenly. Bit strange living with my mother after all these years…’
‘Get them today, won’t you?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Not yoga instructors…not Kashmiri protestors. So what is this Purification Journey all about? Should make a cute tailpiece.’
‘Yes.’ She felt his hand on her arm, ‘Never heard of them before, I must confess.’
‘Mia,’ He gripped her elbow. ‘We’re a little worried about you, darling. You’ve not been yourself lately. You need to get back into the swing of things. Your mind is all over the place; you’re simply not being able to concentrate. You forget something almost every day. Is there something wrong?’
‘ I’m fine,’ she shook herself free. ‘ I’m absolutely fine.’
‘If you carry on like this, you’ll need some help,’ he said firmly. ‘We all think so.’
‘Oh rubbish!’ she tossed over her shoulder. ‘Just been a bit preoccupied, that’s all.’
‘It’s your dad, isn’t it?’
‘Come on, it’s been a whole year.’
‘Then stop acting as if you’re going mad.’
‘Fuck off!’ she laughed. Mad! That tired term used by men to dismiss women, as the sisterhood says. Maybe Rochester locked his wife away because she was a real big cheese.
‘You’re losing it, child,’ his voice echoed after her as she ran through sparklingly empty corridors. ‘You need a break.’
She confronted him again.
He was standing among the group, standing very still, as if concentrating hard. The red-haired man was shouting, ‘We are in the process of getting ready for a new Inner War! The war to save our values! The war to save our ability to love! A war to save our families! To save ourselves from ourselves!’
The men were all young. They were tall, spare, a ramp-row of trendy faith-healers in their white clothes; a chorus-line of groovy godmen.
She walked up to him. When lightning waits behind a thundercloud, the cloud looks perfectly calm. Only when the lightning bursts out suddenly from behind, does the cloud shine jaggedly. The traffic that rumbled around Marble Arch was as loud as always. But when his voice sounded in her ear, for a moment, everything jangled louder than a fairground.
‘Yes?’
Through his glasses, his eyes on her were sharp and interested. She felt angry that he looked only interested instead of instantly passionate. She felt the atmosphere between them grow charged with memories.
‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘Can I help you?’ His voice sounded hoarse, as if he was speaking from the back of his throat.
‘Hello,’ she replied. ‘I’m a journalist. You know, a reporter? Television? SkyVision channel. I’ve come to interview you. There’s’ – she pointed to the bulky denim jacket – ‘the cameraman.’
‘Me? Interview me?’
‘Yes. Can we chat?’
‘So I’m your freak show for the day? The mad man with the bow and arrow?’
‘Not at all!’ she lied loudly.
‘Instead of interviewing me,’ he said wearily, ‘maybe you should interview yourself. Ask yourself a few questions.’
‘I do that all the time,’ she smiled. ‘But I’d like to know a little more about you.’
‘Well, I’d like to know a little more about you.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of incomprehension, ‘I’d like to know why you think I’m worthy of being interviewed. We have been touring all over England, Europe, United States and Japan and I’ve met many people whom I would like to interview. I would ask them why they are all running to buy gold. Running to buy things. Why they are happy to serve the empire controlled from New York and London. I want to ask them, must everyone be a banker or an accountant? Just run after money? How much money do you want, Ma’am? How much money does everybody want? Is there no such thing as just a celebration of being human? To be remembered not for making money but for taking being human as far as possible?’
‘Lovely idea,’ she grinned. ‘Wish I didn’t have to work. Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s take being human a little further into the park. Let’s sit down somewhere. Please come.’
They settled down on a bench, watching the buses circle around the trees down towards Oxford Circus.
What was his name, she asked. Karna, he replied. K-A-R-N-A. And why the bow and arrow? Just part of the costume of a novice. He wore the bow and arrow because he was a novice. Once he had completed his first mission, he would wear the same white uniform as the others. And could he please tell her a little bit more about the Purification Journey? He thrust a black-and-white printed pamphlet into her hands. It read:
Rebirth of Pure Love: The Need for a New Inner War
The 21st Century has dawned. But we have strayedfrom the true path.
The true path towards Pure Love is the rebirth of simple life patterns.
Let us recreate the peace of the past.
Let us work towards the Rebirth of the Mother Woman.
Let us wage the war with ourselves so we may set free our best selves.
Come to PAVITRA ASHRAM, NEW DELHI, INDIA for a 15-day Purification Retreat.
In unpolluted lakeside air, learn about the martyrdom of
past