Pushing Gods Out

By Ashish Khetarpal

Shanti is married into a clan of human gods. There is her husband Rampal (Keeper of Rama), his parents Ramdas (Servitor of Rama) and Rampyari (Beloved of Rama), as also his brother Ramprasad (Gift of Rama) and others. For the partial namesakes to fulfil the purpose of their being, they must have Rama, the lotus of their garden. They are all waiting for Shanti’s womb to bring him forth. Shanti too, is desperate to push him out so that he can liberate her from the invisible chains that fetter her body, mind, and soul. She sees him as her saviour-servitor-prince. She wants him to avenge her not just against her husband but all the men in the world.

While the family is busy consulting priests in order to make the perfect vessel out of Shanti, who has thus far produced only three daughters of little merit, she is secretly learning chess manoeuvres to use in her turn. But Rama himself grows hesitant; he no longer wishes to be pushed out.

Pushing Gods Out is a story of the trans-generational burden carried by men and women, husbands and wives, sons and daughters, in the god-decreed kingdom of patriarchs. Written in a sardonic tone with a dash of tragicomedy, this piercing satire reaches deep into the heart of a culture that imprisons in its rigid contours every one of its followers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Jan 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9789354581441

Ashish Khetarpal

Ashish lives in Rennes, France, where he teaches English at theUniversity. His deepest interests are writing, Western classical music, drawing, and plants. He has previously authored When the Wind Blows and Other Poems (2016), The Watchdogand Other Stories (2019). His poem, The Inner Duel, was published inCha, a Hong-Kong based literary journal. Pushing Gods Out is hisfirst novel.

Book preview

PART I

PUSHING GODS OUT

1

THE TOY MASSACRE

Before the little god appeared, the domestic goddess had never been bestowed the high honour of the seat now assigned to her by the Brahmin – that stern guardian of religious mores and enforcer of social observances. She had been a mute victim of a series of secularly obtained superstitions as the well-meaning alpha Dadajis and sibyl Dadijis tried to influence the preternatural forces in the matter of begetting a son for Rampal.

Rampal had yet to live up to his name. His father Ramdas, meaning ‘Servitor of Lord Rama’, and mother Rampyari, ‘Beloved of Rama’, had for some reason named their son Rampal, ‘Guardian of Rama’. Perhaps they had known even at his birth, that they were not up to the upbringing of a son burdened with the virtuosity of such a name.

The religious folks of the Indian subcontinent are aware that to be named after the apotheosis of all virtues human, the very symbol of filial obedience, the emblem of fraternal care, the most generous of consorts, the lotus-footed savant, the lulled-eyed insouciant, the just-natured king, the kindest but also the most valiant of all arrow-shooters in the cosmic arena, the most benevolent Rama, does indeed come with a humungous burden.

Whenever any male in the Mishra family got even mildly close to living up to the name, the applause became deafening, emerging from every nook and cranny of the house. Spoons and ladles banged their shiny heads on the cold flat cheeks of aluminium plates, and four-legged tables resounded to the beat. There was audible cheering in the banging of the refrigerator door, the Usha fans performed a tribal clockwise-anti-clockwise dance, and the light bulbs flickered joyously. The applause finally spilt into the street outside and before you knew it, the whole neighbourhood was crying rivers of pride, submerged in ecstatic joy. The reverberations rose till the very seat of the good Lord in heaven was shaken.

Actors in Bollywood movies, whose characters have been given the name Rama, are instantly endowed with his morally upright nature and code of ethics, and idolised. But it is not his character that defines the name; it is the name that defines the character. A Rama must be unrelenting in the face of all looming injustices, a devoted son, a responsible brother, and a loving husband; ready to fight evil forces to save his mother, sister, or any other female taken hostage by sinful, lusty villains. And Rama always slays the demon and wins. Always.

But what if he was to fall victim to some subtle gimmick and die? His son Rama Junior would then grow up under the watchful eye of his long-suffering but stoic mother, who would meticulously groom him to be a Kshatriya warrior and take on his father’s fight until vengeance had been done, order restored, and good had defeated evil. ‘He truly is an avatar of Rama,’ the old grandmothers would affirm in unison while softly snivelling behind their ghunghats. They would raise their palms in the air before curling them inwards and ceremoniously bringing them to touch their temples. The eponymous lad was thus blessed.

But, if the Lord’s prasad was seen to be infected with the germs of devilry, first the choice of name was regretted, then its holder scorned. All the while the old heads would sway from side to side, their tongues clicking. Haaye haaye! Naam Rama ka aur kaam shaitan ke. Name of the Lord and actions of the devil.

And so, like the courteous, tradition-revering, religion-abiding parents they were, Ramdas and Rampyari had transferred this onerous duty to their son. It was alright to do so. The country’s children were religiously instructed and culturally trained to take on the duties carried down in their accounts from their progenitors. All this was done with an affectionate touch on the head and the murmuring of Ayushman bhava. Long live the carrier of my transferred duties and burdens.

Ever since the day Rampal had brought the bejewelled Shanti to live under his own roof, when she had stood at the threshold and knocked over a rice-filled brass pot, and with a mixture of poise and nervousness, stepped in a silver platter of milk and vermillion, leaving a trail of prosperity and happiness with every step, he has been waiting for his Rama. The lotus of his garden. His obedient heir. His piece-of-the-moon. But each time his wife’s belly swelled with promise, no Rama appeared. The daughter-in-law birthed one girl after another, earning herself the nickname, ‘girl factory’.

First came Hira, named for her shining, diamond-like eyes, followed by Mala, who hung from her mother’s neck like a garland, and finally Lalita, who pleased beholders with her extraordinary beauty.

Naamkaran, or the naming of children, was something the Mishra household took very seriously since a meaningful name was the very foundation on which a child’s character in life was defined. But how could names like Hira, Mala, and Lalita possibly be character-defining and meaningful? In truth, they weren’t. Nor were they any longer in vogue. This casual omission was because the serious enterprise of naamkaran was reserved for the Ramas of the world, the male successors who would carry forward the family name. The daughters, considered a spiritual debt, merely waited to be married off from the moment they were born. They were often made to change even the poor uninspiring names bestowed upon them by their patiently waiting parents, to take on the new one conferred upon her by her husband’s family. To become a new woman perhaps. In this way, her role too would be redefined by her new family’s value system. So why fret over something that was to be cast away?

But whilst the three avatars of Lakshmi were being trained in the art of housekeeping, needlework, and gastronomy, the Mishra men were required to do everything they could to lure the higher powers into begetting a son for Rampal. His father had six brothers, each of whom had fathered at least one son. One of the brothers, Saunfdil, had even produced five boys. Rampal too, had a brother, Ramprasad, ‘Offering to Rama’, who was handsome and caprivicious. And so Rampal waited in hope, year after year, for his own image of Rama to arrive. All possible recourses were taken, no stone left unturned.

The seven Dadijis kept week-long fasts for seven months after Shanti’s first vomit. Seven empty stomachs meditated for seven full days, activating their seven chakras, energy centres, and channelling the energy towards Shanti’s womb. They prayed to Surya, the Sun God, whose chariot is yoked to seven horses, representing the seven colours of visible light. Each dadi undertook long exhausting journeys to the seven holy cities of Ayodhya, Mathura, Haridwar, Varanasi, Kanchipuram, Ujjain, and Dwarka, before taking a sari-clad dip in the seven sacred rivers of Ganga, Yamuna, Godavari, Saraswati, Narmada, Sindhu, and Kaveri. They lit seven oil lamps, each ringed with seven marigold flowers, placed on seven silver plates, to be sent to the Lord as an offering via the river channel. Each dadi then offered food to seven priests, whose priestly duties included the ability to eat voraciously and sport religious pot bellies.

Number 7. Auspicious. Felicitous. Hopeful. Promising. The seven circles of the universe. The seven rounds of the sacred fire at a Hindu marriage ceremony, cementing the marital bond for seven lives to come. The seven notes in music. Seven. The symbol of togetherness. The centre of humanity. The number of steps Buddha took at birth. Seven. Seven. Seven. Seven. Seven. Seven. Seven. The spell would surely work. Shanti would deliver not one but seven boys. They would be sapt savitru, the Seven Suns. All hail the power of seven! All hail the good Lord!’

And so it came to pass that after three failed attempts, the girl-factory finally produced a son. Amazingly, the amalgamated power of their yearning had worked. Though not entirely. Some dinky detail must have been left out or forgotten. Maybe one of the fasting dadijis, unable to resist, had given in to a box of ladoos. Maybe the temptation for the ball-shaped sweet had been too strong, or the belief in the fast’s power too weak; maybe another grandmother had not taken the dip in the river as prescribed; or perhaps she had not joined her hands neatly enough, or said the prayer to the Sun God too loudly; maybe one of the verses had been omitted or incorrectly articulated; maybe she had taken in a little bit of water while there. Perhaps the heat had been overbearing that year, not because of climate change but a ruse of the very Sun God she was worshipping, to test her will and devotion.

While the Mishra men assembled in the courtyard to speculate on these endless maybes; while they rubbed their temples and slurped gallons of chai; while the women occupied the kitchen floor and the young girls were ordered to keep an eye on empty glasses for refilling; while Parle-G biscuits became the hottest selling item of the day at all the provision stores in the neighbourhood, Shanti lay in her bed, sobbing. Her hair was glued to her scalp, her face sticky from evaporated sweat. Her tired body tilted to one side of the bed, her head hanging over the lurid orange bucket she had brought with her as part of her dowry, already half-filled with vomit. There were bloodstains on the sheets. On the inside of her thighs. On the floor. But no one thought to clean the bed or sanitize the room. Like Shanti’s hair, they were all glued to their spots, having witnessed the delivery of a stillborn boy.

Hail the human spirit. The desperation to have a boy was so great that even this did not depress the Mishra household. On the contrary, their hopes were renewed with the upcoming sun. Stillborn yes, but a boy nonetheless. Who among them did not see this as progress? The powers above were not indifferent to their prayers; they were listening, and one day they would deliver the fruit of their fervent labour. They had only to renew their efforts, reposition every grain of sand in the desert, realign the stars and planets, call upon every sprite living in every tree, find every occult verse and incantation, and chant it with every fibre of their beings. They would beg, borrow or steal the most acclaimed tantric’s sacred skull and fill it with cow’s milk. They would even take the secular path to the most revered pir and bend their heads in prayer before raising their hands in dua. They would go to the Golden Temple and do service; to the Venkateswara Temple and shave the ego of hair from their heads; to the Fire Temple (only they were not allowed into the presence of the sacred fire and the great prophet Ahura Mazda). Nevertheless, they would do whatever it took until the immaculate pattern for a boy’s birth was created.

There is power beyond human consciousness, power that cannot be seen, and only the enlightened feel; power that can be stirred using age-old recipes and manoeuvres in order to prepare a welcoming womb, and a halcyon environment for that womb. Western societies have lost touch with these powers because they have lost touch with their innate nature. How can one make contact with a bottomless conscience after gorging on that incredible boulder of a Big Mac, with large fries, before gulping it all down with a black acidic liquid best suited to the cleaning of latrines and bike chains? Hence they suffer. Many of them unknowingly, yet they do.

The Mishras, on the other hand, belonged to an ancient civilization, and knew better. They had a rich chromatic reserve of history and culture, of mathematics and sciences. They believed in many gods, though God is but one, and omnipresent, the final point of convergence. He was sitting either on a mountain top or lying on his divan at the bottom of the cosmic ocean, waiting to be pleased. He had many heads and many hands. He could choose to reincarnate as a fellow human being or show his love from afar. He had endless devices at his disposal, and employed them wisely.

The simple fact that each year, more and more people in the country were pulled out of the miseries that befell their ancestors, was proof enough that God was continuously at work. There was also the ingenious theory of karma. If you did well, you received well. But, if you had committed horrendous deeds in your past life, there was little you could do, and acceptance was your sole virtue. Thus, while He was busy helping others, and till it was time for them to receive in their turn from the cornucopia of his divine love and generosity, the Mishras prepared.

The first task the Mishra men set themselves posed an iconographic quandary. How to produce an image of the Lord (and which one?), holding Amalthea’s horn? Shanti had to be surrounded by such promising images. She had to see and feel at all times that the good Lord was bountiful, that He was always looking down upon her, upon them all, ready to bestow His blessings. And one day, He would implant the seed of His son, Rama.

All the artists, so deemed by virtue of their skills, were called upon, but none could grasp the project’s details or the gravity it held for the Mishra family. Enter Lakkad Singh. He was the local carpenter, and the first to be presented with the honourable commission. In the past, he had made the special king-sized charpoy now positioned in the courtyard, which accommodated all seven Dadajis. It had no doubt helped fend off possible family feuds. Established on his haunches before the seven patriarchs, the long-winded description of the job fell upon Lakkad Singh’s disbelieving ears. He rocked back and forth with laughter. ‘Why make jokes, Babuji? What have I done to you?’ he chortled, wiping his eyes with the dangling hem of his shirt.

This unseemly laughter ruffled the seven bushy moustaches on the charpoy. When he finally stopped laughing, Lakkad Singh noticed the seven angry faces. He calmed down. Ramdas, the household King, was sitting in the middle, with three avatars of Rama on either side. Lakkad Singh wanted to laugh again at the atavistic sight but thought it wise to restrain himself. In the meanwhile, Ramdas continued to draw on the hose of his hookah. He did not say a word or move a limb, only his diaphragm expanded and contracted. The only audible sound came from the water jar attached to the bottom of the pipe, as the pressure inside changed. The other six Ramas sat waiting, motionless, palms canopying their respective lathis. Their facial expressions conveyed their absolute solidarity with their King.

Realizing he had angered the occupants of the charpoy, Lakkad Singh took it upon himself to break the uncomfortable silence. He returned to the ridiculous business they wanted to discuss with him. ‘So, what’s this Amul-ghee thing?’ he asked, trying to recollect the foreign word.

‘Amalthea, you stupid fool, Amalthea!’ screamed Ram Prakash, his hands quivering with anger on the stick. ‘Can you or can you not make it in wood, showing one of the Lord’s hands holding it?’

Lakkad Singh blinked rapidly. They were serious. They really wanted him to modify sacred religious iconography simply because they could not content themselves with all the numerous meanings already vested in it? ‘Have we not enough representations to choose from?’ he thought. ‘Do they not pander to all we seek in this life, and the one after? Then why bother with such a thing? And that too, by taking something from what sounds like a tribal religion? They want me to carve a horn? A goat’s horn? Hare Rama! Hare Rama! And I am the fool? They think they know better, these senile seven. No, I will not be part of such irreverence. I have to live in the community. And what will my clients make of this? Next thing I know, they will be asking me to carve the whole goat! I will tell them who the real fool is!’

Lakkad Singh finally spoke: ‘Thousand apologies, Babuji, but I doubt if I have the skill or the tools to make what you want. And I dare not take on a task that may not only sully my reputation as a man of hammer and wood may very well bring down upon me the wrath of this godly goat-figure you speak of, should I fail. Many thousand apologies, Babuji, but no. Hare Rama! Hare Rama!’ He shook his head vigorously.

Lakkad Singh knew he had intelligently invoked the wrath of God, so even the senile seven would not dare push him any further. He stood up and dusted his pants. Joining his palms together, he begged to be excused. On his way out, he removed the scarf from his shoulder and wiped the sweat from his neck and forehead. ‘Amul-ghee’s horn!’ he snickered one more time as he jumped on his Atlas bicycle, hoping to come across someone to whom he could relate the farcical episode.

Back in the house, the senile seven did not move or speak. The hookah hose remained glued to the King’s mouth, and the pressure continued to rise and fall in the water jar. Bloop-bloop-bloopbloop-bloop.

By next morning, the gossipmongers had walked, bicycled, perambulated, automobiled, telegrammed, telephoned, and pigeon-sent the details of the meeting to every corner of the town. It would have been taken up by the newspapers as well, but who would buy stale news? As a result, all further interviews for the Iconography Project were cancelled. Damn Lakkad Singh! But though the bantering of the family name in the neighbourhood had angered the Mishra men, they continued to garner an abundant stock of hope. Was it not said that all possible paths had to be explored? This was merely a minor setback. The Lord himself had a good number of them, but with moral righteousness and a firm will, he had overcome them all. Good would triumph. The Lord would make sure of that. They just needed to have faith and follow in his bare-footsteps.

Fresh preparations were made. Ramdoot ‘Messenger of Rama’ Dubey, alias Dubeyji, alias Dubey Pundit, alias RamDub, priest at the local Hanuman temple, was called. As a result, the Encyclopaedia of Superstitions was subsequently dropped with a thud on the floor of the Mishra abode. The men coughed as dust particles rose like wood sprites. When they finally dissipated, expressions of awe lingered on every face except the priest’s. He had already anticipated, and indeed hoped for, such a reaction. A crucial reaction de facto.

‘The male child is the cradle of civilization,’ the pundit announced, ceremoniously sprinkling gangajal around the sacred book before tossing some over his right shoulder. No one shuddered or expressed any uneasiness at the sight of holy water contained in a two-litre Thumps Up bottle. The priest was about to resume when, suddenly, everyone in the room froze. A thunderous burp was on its way. The Pundit did nothing to slacken the intensity of its progress, nor did the witnesses to move out of its course. Perhaps they thought being smacked in the face by the gust of a saintly belch would bring good luck or cure diseases.

Punditji used the moment to flaunt the strength of his stomach and throat muscles. He inflated his diaphragm, shifted back his head, and gave a moving display. The apple in his throat made its first public appearance and astonished all spectators. He resumed: ‘Without a boy, the family is doomed, since there is no one to carry forward the name.’ The senile seven nodded in agreement. Hare Rama! Hare Rama! Their women listened, huddled in the kitchen doorway. Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna! The three little girls understood nothing. Arre! Arre!

The pot-bellied voice continued: ‘A cradle must be made. Yes, a cradle, handmade by the father who desires to see it filled. And he must rock it before the sun comes up and before the sun goes down. This will lead any malefic powers astray and deceive them into believing the baby is already born, and there is little they can do to harm it now. And when Shanti is enceinte, the ruse must be continued. A pair of Rampal’s pants is to be hung near the cradle. This way, the evil sprites will not dare come near and replace the baby with a changeling.’

The mere singularity of these suggestions had the whole household entranced. RamDub knew he was on fire. ‘At the first signs of pregnancy, a gold statue of baby Krishna, the size of which obviously depends on the depth of your devotion, must be welcomed and placed in the house temple. An oil lamp must be kept lit at all times in front of the deity until the day of accouchement. A potted banyan tree, the symbol of life and fertility, must be planted in the west corner of the courtyard. The pot is symbolic of the mother’s womb, and in this way the child will imbibe the tree’s maturity and strength. Precisely at sunrise, water must be offered by Shanti to the neem plant as the sun’s rays pierce the falling water and enter her body. This is important for the spiritual health of both mother and child. A red thread must be tied on Shanti’s wrist and around the banyan tree, to measure their growth. Both the flora and the daughter-in-law must be well cared for.

‘Shanti’s plate must be filled with the food she desires. All her cravings must be tended to gladly; otherwise, the child can develop a birthmark in the shape of the desired food she was not given. Her plate must be licked clean. This will ensure the expulsion of all the contents of her womb during the final hour. And as long as we are talking about food, garlic must not be used anymore – it can give a bad odour to the mother and child. All dark-coloured products must be removed if the child is to have fair skin. This includes tea, coffee, and soy sauce. Only white cow’s milk, mixed with turmeric, must be drunk, in abundance.’ The pundit paused.

Rampal sweated profusely, writing down the commandments delivered by the fat messiah. He did not want to miss anything. Each detail mattered, obviously. Greatness is a recipe with many small but well-distributed ingredients. Once he was sure he had noted everything, Rampal twisted his wrist in relief. He thought of massaging his neck, but saw that the pundit seemed to be resuming his instructions. Rampal quickly wiped his sweaty palm against his shirt and picked up the pen.

‘This is the most powerful recipe known to beget a Ramalike son. Hare Rama! Hare…wait, am I forgetting something?’ The religious hand touched the bloated belly one more time, then, in silence, he gestured for his fees by placing the right hand to where his pocket should have been.

Rampal threw the notebook aside and emptied his pockets. Without counting, he placed the wad of bills at the sage’s feet. He then prostrated himself in the limited space available, touched the swollen limbs, first with his hands, then with his forehead, and received the blessing he had paid for.

RamDub was content; the meeting was a success, his pride buttressed, his position upheld. All was well in the country of Rama. He raised the wad of bills to his forehead before placing them in a small pouch inside his loincloth. The Lord’s name was invoked one more time. ‘Send for me in the seventh month of her pregnancy. I will examine the womb and bless the child.’

Preparations began immediately to put into effect the many commandments delivered by Dubeyji. The episode of the stillborn boy was by now long forgotten by all but the child’s mother. No one bothered to think about Shanti; what she must have endured. The other women had wiped away the bloodstains, but none had thought about the indelible marks on her mind, perhaps not even Shanti herself. Pain and loss were a woman’s lot. Though her angst was palpable, Shanti acknowledged that it was she who had failed the family by not delivering a living son. She could produce as many daughters as Lakshmi would have her do, but her body would not be worshipped as a temple unless she nurtured and bore a boy. But she believed in miracles. Who had not heard of Shiva lingams forcing their way out of the ground in so many places that were now sacred? She tried to soften herself as the receiving ground while strengthening her resolution that she too, could make possible such a miracle. He will come, she thought.

Her Rama would come. And before all the necessary good he would perform in the world, he would be her personal saviour. Sita, his consort one day, would have to wait. Shanti would be the first in line. Rama would always choose her before any other woman. She would nurture him with the milk in her breasts; look after him while he slept, keeping away all evil. She would even strike him if he did not do her bidding. He would have to see that other men had been cruel to her, vile and unfair, and that he must be different. He would take note that society has given her little while taking her everything. And if need be, he would go against its very grain to protect her and bring to her the honour that had been denied to her. To attain this, she would mould him into an anvil, with a strong core and a smooth exterior. He would be kind to all but the kindest to his mother.

She would go to any lengths to bring him anything he wanted. In return, he would stand and fight for her against any injustice doled out to her, and be her knight in shining armour. He would be a man, and fight the other men if they dared gaze at her for more than the appropriate number of seconds, or even dream of defiling her honour. Yes, a man. He would be her liberator, and she would give him all the love he could desire. Her passionate commitment to his upbringing would see no barriers, no limits. She would verify every morsel before she put it in his mouth, and the products of her kitchen would rival the foods of the gods themselves.

Yes, a real man. He would avenge her against other men and bring their heads on pikes if that be her wish. At last, she would be the Queen, and he her Prince-Minister-Viceroy. He would be her servitor. She would develop the strongest of umbilical cords to nourish him, and feed him with not just the food of her body, but also her thoughts. He would come into the world with thoughts precisely like hers. They would be soulmates, made from the same flesh, the same blood, with a common mission to liberate her.

So far, her body had been a cage, but he would grow safely inside it. She would keep him there till he had developed the wings to fly out and liberate her from the worldly cage that imprisoned her. The umbilical cord would be clamped and cut, and blood would be spilled, but it mattered little, for she would create another one – tangible to her though intangible to the others – and the two would be inseparable. He would be the last piece of her bodily puzzle, and when he left her empty to come into this world, he would fill that void with his service and devotion.

He would be the second and last man in her life. The first was required to provide the seed for the garden of her body. Now, the soil of her soul would nourish the seed into an elegant sapling and then a sturdy banyan tree. No matter the height and breadth he may reach, his roots would always be in her.

Such can be the resolve of a mother.

As decided, the pundit returned to the Mishra house during the seventh month of Shanti’s parturiency. But it was not Dubeyji. In fact, RamDub was nowhere to be found. A loud-mouthed rumour started circulating that he had returned to the Lord, having delivered all the messages entrusted to him. His work on the earthly plane was done. It was the seventh day of July, said the susurrating rumour. Dubeyji had performed his morning ablutions with cold water and scented soap. He had then walked across to the temple and closed the door behind him before entering the sanctum sanctorum. With the dutiful affection of a devotee-servant, he had changed the Lord’s heavily embroidered attire before bathing him with milk. Having fulfilled these duties, he sat down in a lotus position, and assumed the expression of a yogi. He meditated (the rumour did not specify for how long). When the junior pundit came to look for him, he only found Dubeyji’s clothes and his wooden padukas.

In life, either everything is a miracle or nothing is. Dubeyji’s disappearance was consigned to the former order. A marvellous marble statue was erected in the temple courtyard, portraying a sedentary Ramdoot, writing on a palm leaf with a reed pen. The cost was naturally disbursed from the temple treasury. Within days, the junior pundit got his promotion, when the number of visitors showed an incredible display of charity to the donation box.

Thus entered upon the Mishra family scene a new custodian of the gods – Tiwariji – priest of the local Rama Temple, along with with his train of assistant pundits, all of whom sported a long oiled tuft at the back of their shaven heads, and saffron-checked Peter England shirts.

‘I am not upset that it took you so long to call on me,’ said Tiwariji to Rampal. ‘I am upset because you did not know better than to ask that Dubey for advice on something so significant. It is, after all, a matter of your family’s future. You should have known it was not his area of expertise. He is or was, wherever he has gone into hiding, a Dubey. His lot knows little more than how to set the Rig-Veda to music. They can chant verses, and they do a good job of it, but it is us Tiwaris who have the knowledge of kal-aajkal, yesterday-today-tomorrow, the three tenses, the constellation of multi-temporality. His great-grandfather was not even a Dubey, but a Samvedi, with knowledge of one Veda alone. It is my family that has been endowed since time immemorial with the gift of seeing into the past and the future. We have been guiding palace-dwellers as well as the down-trodden with their decisions. History bears testimony that it was my ancestors Kings consulted before launching any attack. We were asked to read and interpret omens to avoid defeat on the battlefield. We have the gift of astrology in our blood. We have been tracking the movement of the planets to see which one is casting its influence, and how to deal with it. Dubey was just a chanter of hymns.’

Rampal and the rest of the Mishra menfolk listened mutely with bowed heads while the self-glorification of the priest’s ancestry ran its somewhat lengthy course. But the men were soon convinced. They had been fools. Cretins. All of them. Tiwariji was the High Priest of the Rama Mandir. How could they not have thought of him and his command over the texts? Dubey could never have matched Tiwariji’s wide sphere of knowledge. Where was he anyway? It did not matter anymore. If it was indeed true that he had left the earthly plane, then peace be upon his soul. Hare Rama! Hare Rama!

‘Take me to your wife,’ said Tiwariji in a way that addressed every man in the room. Only a priest could say such a thing and get away with it.

Shanti was lying in her bed, languidly turning the pages of Grihalakshmi (House-goddess) magazine as a woman’s hand brought ripe fruits to her mouth. The hand belonged to Kaikeyi, who was sitting in the chair beside her. She was the one in charge of pampering Shanti and taking care of her every need. She had been strictly instructed by the men to allow Shanti to be herself while pregnant with the family’s future heir, and to endure her every whim. The pregnant goddess was allowed to be eccentric and throw things around as long as she ate like baby Krishna and got fat like baby Ganesha. They decided it was the baby that made her behave in a temperamental fashion, which indicated the chances were good it would be a boy.

Shanti sat up when she saw Rampal enter the room with an unknown man. As the two approached the bed, she tried to decipher why her husband looked meek while the other man’s expression alternated between annoyance and fury.

‘Stop right now, I say!’ Tiwariji howled. ‘What are you foolish women doing?’

Kaikeyi leapt from her chair and covered her head with the end of her sari. She was too stupefied by the voice to decide if the question was rhetorical or not.

‘I said, what do you think you are doing?’ Still unsure, the women said nothing.

‘What has happened, punditji?’ Ramdas intervened.

‘Don’t you see? She is feeding her watermelon.’

‘Watermelon? But …’

‘Yes, watermelon, and no but boot. This fruit must not be present in the house. Throw it away right now.’

A second ‘but’ wrote itself on Shanti’s face, but no one bothered to look at her.

‘That dim Dubey might have read some books, but he can’t be expected to know everything. Eating watermelons when pregnant can increase the size of the child’s head and complicate the delivery. Do you want another dead son? Do you?’ A true pundit of rhetoric indeed.

The divulgence of this premonition infuriated Rampal to such an extent that he ordered the entire stock of Shanti’s favourite fruit to be immediately ejected out of the house.

‘But, Guruji,’ Kaikeyi tried to intervene. ‘Dubeyji said that if Shanti’s cravings were not satisfied, the child could develop a birthmark …’

Tiwariji raised his right hand, signalling the woman to hold her tongue. ‘You needn’t cite The Encyclopaedia of Superstitions to me. I’ve not only read it one-hundred-and-eight times, but it is I who am accredited with the revised edition, published last year by SatVachan Publications. Watermelons are an exception to the rule because it is an Afreekan fruit, not Indian. Pregnant women there can eat it because they have wider hips, and birthmarks don’t show so much on their skin.’

And so it was settled. The laconic theory sounded plausible coming from Tiwariji’s mouth, who had by now settled into Kaikeyi’s chair. A brief silence. Tiwariji placed his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and his eyes on Shanti’s womb. She sat uncomfortably, not knowing what was expected of her. Should she touch the priest’s feet? Cover her head? Custom dictated she should. But she did not. Shanti tried to look away from the savant, in vain. Her mind fixated itself on the man who had, with such incredible ease, taken away her favourite fruit, while her husband, her parmeshwar, Supreme Lord, watched spinelessly. It was impolite for a married woman to look the priest directly in the eyes, so she focused instead on his remarkable brows. Were they real? Focus, foolish woman, focus! So, she focused on the jet-black tuft on his head. It would be insolent to ask if he used coconut oil or gooseberry. Ripples of shame formed on her face for staring at the celibate priest in this unprescribed way.

She finally succeeded in pulling down her gaze from his head, but the stubborn thing fell onto his muscular hands. The bulging veins that disappeared under his cuffs made something inside Shanti shiver. Her eyes remained fixated. She knew this chaste seer was privy to all her body functions. His single touch could untangle all the knots in her system, and liberate her private body from the shackles of her social mind. Surely his ancestors were of the clan that served as doctors and mid-husbands. Their knowledge was fruitful, even though it had taken away her favourite fruit. They have helped everyone from kings to ordinary men, for they knew the human body and spirit as they knew the back of their hands. O what wonderfully muscular hands they were!

Slowly, torturously, her imagination began to play games. She finally thought it a good idea after all, to bend and touch his feet. A clever pretext to see if veins were popping there as well. If that was indeed the case, Shanti speculated, then his entire body must be something sculpted with the very Lord’s hammer and chisel. She hesitated for a while, but her imagination got the better of her. She had forgotten by now that Rampal was in the room as well, standing there, oblivious to the mental images she was tending to. It did not matter. It was custom, after all. And if custom dictated that she touch the pundit’s feet and seek his blessing, then that was precisely what she was going to do. There was no dishonour in keeping customs alive.

She finally moved in the priest’s direction, but her ballooned belly, with her Rama inside, did not seem to like it. Why would he pull me back? We are supposed to be working together. He should be helping me so that I can, for once, do my mind’s bidding. She put her hand on her belly to calm the unborn god, and then removed it, convinced they had reached an understanding. So where was I? Yes, the empyreal dictate of customs. Shanti had only just moved the tip of her head in his direction when Tiwariji raised his hand and stopped her.

‘There is no need for this; not while your husband is present. I am only here to examine your womb.’

Taking his cue, Rampal made his exit. But Kaikeyi stayed. As soon as Rampal left the room, Tiwariji got down to the most exciting part of his vocation – examining the rotund belly. Even though Kaikeyi was the only other person present, a curtain was raised between the sexes.

‘Has the baby started kicking yet?’ said the fold of Tiwariji’s sleeve.

‘Little bit,’ replied the redness of Shanti’s cheeks.

‘How often?’

‘Once in a while.’

‘On which side?’

‘I…I can’t remember.’

‘How can you not remember? It’s inside you, isn’t it?’

More rhetoric. Kaikeyi took Shanti’s hand to support her against the priest’s interrogative assault, but she kept getting distracted. Between the questions, her ears kept registering the monotone humming of the bees over the remaining fruit abandoned on the other side of the curtain. She went red with rage when she saw the priest’s hand clawing a large piece of the fruit before stuffing it in his mouth. She turned towards Shanti, but she had her eyes closed. Kaikeyi saw him clean his tawny moustache with the back of his hand. This time, she pressed Shanti’s arm with some violence. The two exchanged a quick look before Kaikeyi guided Shanti’s gaze to the impertinence happening behind the curtain. Pig!

What was the colour of your urine this morning? What else have you been craving? Have you noticed any change in your skin? Has it become more or less radiant? Do you have any photos from before your pregnancy? How do you feel around the old men of the house? Who comes more often to your mind? Your mother or your father? Have you had any strange dreams you would like me to know about? Such was the anomaly of the pundit’s diagnostic questions. By the time Shanti managed to answer some, while ignoring others, feigning incomprehension, innocence, or downright hypomnesia, she had lost her jittering butterflies. The meeting with the omniscient savant was turning into a mundane medical rendezvous.

It was then that Tiwariji put on a medical glove on his right hand and slapped his palm on Shanti’s belly. Suddenly, one of the butterflies resuscitated. The heat from the pundit’s palm made her heartbeat race. Blood flooded her face, turning her cheeks scarlet red. She quickly looked at Kaikeyi to see if she had noticed. She had not. She seemed focussed on the watermelon.

Shanti looked at the priest through the curtain. She wanted to see the expression on his face while he rubbed her pregnant belly. Much to her disappointment, he seemed utterly immersed in the examination. His eyes were locked on the ceiling in a way that suggested complete disconnect from the surrounding world. Shanti took the opportunity to examine his face. Whatever she saw and whatever she felt, she never divulged to anyone.

Finally, Tiwariji turned towards the two women, each in a different plane of excitement. He recovered his hand and told Kaikeyi to remove the makeshift curtain. She obliged.

As Rampal entered, he uttered, ‘So, bhai Rampal! I think we are ready to talk.’ And the two exited the room in male conclave.

Shanti’s face emitted what might be kinesically confirmed by a modern-day Mien Shiang practitioner as something similar to ebullience, followed too soon by despair. Kaikeyi folded the sari curtain and coolly picked up a piece of watermelon.

‘Your wife is not experiencing a lot of foetal movement,’ the pundit said with the calmness of a brain surgeon as he took off his single glove. ‘It’s not a good sign. The baby is distressed. It should move more. She must make it move. Before leaving the bed in the morning, she must come to a side position for half an hour. After getting up, she must do yoga, especially the downward-facing dog position. She must then take a hot-water bath before drinking some cold fluids. This will help wake the baby and encourage movement. Once she eats, she must lie down again on her left side. The foetus must feel the pressure on that side of the stomach. A baby that kicks on the left-hand side is always a boy.

‘Also, there is to be no knitting around her. It represents a symbolic knot in her uterus and cannot be allowed. Her urine must be examined regularly. Keep in mind that a bright yellow colour portends a boy. Also, a new picture of her must be taken every day to see if she is getting prettier or more jaded. Many cultures, less-or-equally-rich-as-ours, have come to believe a girl steals her mother’s beauty out of jealousy, but a boy prays for it since hers will be the first face he will see when he comes into the world. Now, show me your hand, I will tell you the day and the hour of your Rama’s birth.’

The Mishra men now had a significant