By God: The Making of a Messiah

By Shashi Warrier

Ghublistan. An island resplendent with the Divine Herb. A country rich in bat guano. A society where people are content, happy to serve their Prophet. But the country is experiencing a surge in emigration, and the Prophet is getting restless. In an attempt to find out why, Alkanza, the Prophet, commands the Custodian of the Divine Gardens to temporarily leave this utopian society and get him some answers. Commanded by the ruler, His Excellency Tomikanza embarks upon on a riveting, perilous journey with his not-so-faithful barber, Neepane, in an endeavour to understand this strange beast called democracy in, first, that is the world's largest republic, second, that is a unique mix of God's rule and self-governance, and third, that is touted to be the modern world's oldest democracy. Through the journey of two Ghublistanis as they meet inept policemen, blundering spies, and sleazy politicians, By God, The Making of a Messiah gives a tongue-in-cheek portrayal of the religio-political system, subtly but powerfully unmasking its inherent vices, shortcomings, duplicity, and hypocrisy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Aug 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9789389717181

Shashi Warrier

Shashi Warrier is the author of The Hidden Continent, Suzy's Gift and five thrillers: Night of the Krait, The Orphan Diaries, Sniper, Noordin's Gift, and The Girl Who Didn't Give Up. Hangman's Journal is a semi-fictional biography of the last hangman of the erstwhile kingdom of Travancore and The Homecoming is a novel based in Kashmir.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Home Island

THE INITIATE

From the Great God Ghubla, Creator, Preserver, and Destroyer, I beg, on this day, a long and happy life for His Grand Prophet Alkanza (Ghubla’s Blessings Upon Him), and for His Council of Aides (Blessings Upon Them Too).

For myself, I beg food to live, and wisdom to grow. I beg Thy blessings for whatever I do, and Thy mercy for whenever I err. I beg the courage to fight Thine enemies, and wealth to aid Thine friends.

For my land, I beg that the Holy Bats and the Dark Forests flourish, as indeed everything else that goes to nourish my people, Thy followers.

For the world, I seek that the light may strike those who live in the dark, and that swords in the hands of Thy believers may smite down those who refuse to see the light.

For those who have seen the light, I beg beauty for women and strength for their men to protect that beauty. I beg obedience for women and vigour for men in the pursuit of Thine happiness.

I lay my humble soul at Thy feet, Great God Ghubla, in the fervent hope that one day Thou wilt permit me to dine with Thee at the Eternal Feast of Souls, where all good pious men go, and where all good pious women serve all good pious men.

All hail the Great God Ghubla.

The sun at daybreak catches my eye as I rise from the morning’s prayer. I am struck by the beauty of the sea in front of me, of the prayer itself, and of my religion, the religion that provides me this prayer. Hail Ghubla, I repeat as I rise from the face-down position in which we Islanders say our morning prayers, I thank Thee for making this beautiful land and the ocean, and all these creatures for the benefit of Thy followers.

A lump forms in my throat as I look at the Sea of Ghubla for what might be the last time in . . . in weeks, maybe, in months, in years, I don’t know. Today I will board an aircraft that will take me to a faraway land. Many others have travelled thus, but they are all workers, going to work at salaries far higher than they can dream of here . . . I know that they are fools, exchanging the sanctuary of Ghubla’s Own Land for a little more money. Those that have come back are often blasphemous, derisive of the Islanders’ God and his beliefs. These conversions do not bear thinking about, but think about them I must, because the Grand Prophet Alkanza (GBUH) must know what lures these people to blasphemy, and, if possible, find ways to bring them back.

The Grand Prophet Alkanza (GBUH) cannot leave, and neither can the Supreme Priesthood, the Council of Five Aides (BUTT). That leaves me, the Hereditary Custodian of the Divine Gardens, next in the Hierarchy. I am not a Priest, but I am close to the Priesthood, and the only Initiate whose absence from Ghubla’s Own Land will not matter for a few weeks: my eldest son, named Tomikanza like me, the fifty-seventh—I am the fifty-sixth—Hereditary Custodian, is twenty-three years old and capable of handling his duties independently unless there is a crisis.

And so the Grand Prophet (GBUH) has decreed that I shall travel across Ghubla’s Ocean to discover the lure of this strange religion called Democracy, which I privately call Democrazy, that has turned the heads of those who have left Ghubla’s Own Land, Ghublistan. It is my sacred quest, the most dangerous undertaking of my entire life, perhaps the most perilous ever undertaken by a Ghublistani.

I take the steep path up the top of Ghubla’s Holy Mountain, where I live in a house of brick overlooking the two smooth, round rocks between which lie the Divine Gardens, my lifelong charge. At the south end of the Gardens are the smooth rocks where the first Grand Prophet, Alkanza The Very First, saw Ghubla’s Light, and they are called the Rocks of Transcendence, ROT, the holiest spot in all of Ghubla’s Land. I will not see these hallowed Rocks for some considerable time, and these Gardens, these herbs and flowers that I have tended like babies ever since I was a small boy, and the lump in my throat grows at the thought.

My wife, Kolra, has packed the few things I will need on my travels in a modest suitcase, and placed my ticket and papers and money in a small pouch that I will hang from my neck by a cord. All is ready for my departure. Before I change into the outlandish clothing people wear across the ocean, trousers and a shirt, I undo my middle garment so that Kolra can administer the ritual farewell gesture. After she rises, I change into the foreign clothing, happy that it covers my knees, at any rate.

My barber, companion, and general factotum, Neepane, is waiting at the bottom of the hill with a taxi. I have chosen Neepane despite his lowly position in the Hierarchy because he has been to several other countries without losing his faith, and knows the ways of the outlanders. He will guide me through all my dealings with the unbelievers. I could have made this a state visit, but that would involve protocol and would certainly not permit me to wander the streets of other lands as I wish, so I have decided to make it a private visit with only Neepane for company. I have spent the last year learning English, a language spoken all over the world, according to Neepane, so I will not need him to interpret except very occasionally.

The driver sits in one of the comfortable bucket seats in front while Neepane and I manage on the bench seat at the back, wondering why cars are more comfortable for the driver than the passenger, though the passenger is higher up in the Hierarchy. Perhaps it’s because driving the car requires that the driver be comfortable . . . But I prefer the old chariots of my childhood, the horse-drawn chariots in which the charioteers made do on a small platform in the front while the passenger lounged comfortably at the back.

Chariot rides were bumpy, of course, and the odour of horse dung pervaded the streets, but chariots had a quality that no modern car can give you. I don’t speak of it because it’s no use dwelling on things of the past, but sometimes the disadvantages of modern times overwhelm me. If we hadn’t had cars and aircraft our people wouldn’t have gone overseas, and if they hadn’t gone overseas they wouldn’t have strayed from The Path, and if they hadn’t strayed from The Path I wouldn’t be in this metal contraption on my way to a journey in a metal tube to a place across the oceans. Instead, I’d have been collecting the flowers of the Divine Herb and preparing the Grand Prophet Alkanza’s (GBUH) daily special herbal tea before presenting it to him with the ritual salute which gives me so much pleasure.

The drive to the airport takes only twenty minutes. Neepane has already told me of the protocols, of checking in and going through security. We stand in line with commoners at a row of counters where women in strange clothes order male passengers to lift suitcases and bags. Blasphemy! When our turn comes, I ignore the woman while Neepane puts my suitcase and his own on the scales. The woman looks at the weight, and tells Neepane, Your luggage weighs forty-four kilos, Sir, that’s four kilos over the limit. You’ll have to pay sixty dollars if you want to take that on board.

I do a quick calculation: sixty dollars is forty thousand surlees, in our currency, which is six weeks’ wages for one of the lower orders. Too much. I nudge Neepane. He takes his suitcase off the scales. That’s thirty-nine kilos, Sir, says the girl. You can take that small piece in the cabin.

These people at the airline are cheats. My little suitcase can’t weigh thirty-nine kilos! Outrageous! All it contains are a few changes of outlander clothes, my brass ablution pot, a few sacred bronze odds and ends that I use for my daily worship, a few dozen copies of The Book that I hope to distribute among the faithful, or hopeful, or maybe among the unbelievers, my iron smoke pot that I use for cooking the Divine Herb, my folding prayer stool . . . Why, that’s nothing at all! Neepane carried it quite easily, though he had to rest from time to time.

My fingers itch for the Little Finger Stick that Kolra has packed at the bottom of my suitcase, just in case I have to admonish any women believers I meet on my travels. Would that I could bend this woman over my knee and beat her as prescribed, two inches below the base of her spine! I am bound by different laws here, so I cannot do that. But I will not demean myself by arguing with a woman who exposes her knees at work, so I hold my peace and wait for Neepane to finish the process of checking in.

O Excellency! he addresses me in the approved manner after he checks us in and we are in the queue for the security check. The security man might touch thy holy knees while he is checking thee. He’s only doing his job, so I beseech thee to practice forgiveness with him, just as thou did with the woman at the check-in counter.

Touch my knees? I ask, bewildered. Why was I not informed of this earlier?

Perhaps I forgot to tell thee, Excellency, he replies. But it happens very rarely. Observe: thou canst see the man checking people.

I look in the direction he points. A man in strange sand-coloured clothing waves a wand around passengers, who stand with their arms out straight from the shoulder, and legs slightly spread. As I watch, he feels up the passenger, and, I note, doesn’t touch his knees, with the wand or his hands. He didn’t touch that man’s knees.

He didn’t, Excellency, says Neepane. It happens very rarely, by mistake, when the man has been on duty for many hours.

Then their hours of duty must be shortened. Our knees must not be defiled.

Excellency, their hours are not in our hands. The airlines insist.

Again a wave of regret washes over me. The old ways were so much simpler and better. I say so. I don’t like these new-fangled things, I tell Neepane. The old ways are much better.

True, Excellency, Neepane replies. But without these things we wouldn’t have been able to sell the guano, and without selling the guano we wouldn’t have been as wealthy as we are.

Wealth? I retort. What is wealth. Dross!

Of course, Excellency, he replies with a bow. But I have not been able to persuade my wife that it is so.

He speaks truly! My own Kolra required many beatings with the Little Finger Stick, a stick of cedar not thicker than the little finger, with which one is encouraged to beat one’s disobedient women—wives, daughters, sisters, and wards—as well as those lower down in the Hierarchy. I was gentle with her, making her bleed but twice, when many other husbands would have been much more vigorous, and made her bleed each time. Perhaps because she understood that my gentleness is no sign of weakness, she learnt quickly.

I am lucky that Kolra understands so well. I have heard from others the same complaint that I hear from Neepane, and understand that women are slow to insight, and quick to anger. Has not our own first Prophet (GBUH) said so in The Book, the Sacred Silm, the epitome of hidden perfection? I remember the chapter (4) and the verse (112), and the verse goes thus: Seeing the strife arising from having men and women equal, Ghubla in his wisdom made women the weaker of the two sexes, and impaired their minds with a deft touch, so that they cannot oppose their Men, and even when they do, can be disciplined by the application of the Little Finger Stick in the manner approved (the manner approved being in Chapter 6, Verse 81).

The half-hour wait to get to the security man is itself torture for me, unused as I am to waiting for anyone but the Grand Prophet Alkanza (GBUH) or the Aides (BUTT), but I bear it for the knowledge that this journey will bring us all, and keep reminding myself of appropriate sections of the Sacred Silm from time to time. Chapter 16, Verse 49: All is well in service of the Great God Ghubla, be it inaction or the shedding of the blood of loved ones, for inaction is but a form of patience, of strength, that one may choose the right time to strike, and the love of and for those who stray from the True Path is not love but delusion, and Ghubla exhorts men to put delusion to the sword.

I console myself that with my inaction I am putting delusion to the sword and make my way to the hall where we must wait before being summoned to the aircraft. And in the hall, the horror of it strikes me, and I grow faint, having to lean on Neepane for support. Excellency! he exclaims, supporting me by the arms. Excellency! Must I fetch a physician?

No, Neepane, no, I moan. The knees. So many bared knees. How can I bear this?

Excellency, this I did tell thee about! he says. Oft and again I warned thee! Gather thee thy strength, Excellency, and let us proceed!

Have you any of the Divine Herb in its pure form? I ask. Chewing on a leaf sometimes eases pain and gives strength. Such is the nature of the Herb.

No, Excellency, he replies. It is not in my place to keep it, or to offer it to thee.

It will be difficult to gather my strength, then, I tell him. This is all your fault. You’d better help.

He holds me up so that we can proceed, and as we do, I notice a woman shedding her spulla—a garment designed to cover the knees loosely without impeding the movement of the legs—and handing it to a clerk at a counter. The board above the clerk says, in large blue letters on a yellow background, in our language and the devil’s English: Rent-A-Spulla Drop Point. What is that? I ask Neepane.

Mayhap I should have told thee more clearly, Excellency, he says. Women coming into the country can rent, at the airport, a freshly laundered spulla in the sacred ochre, for a small fee. They return those rented spullas at that counter. That is why thou seest so many women with exposed knees at the airport. There will be more such in the aircraft, Excellency, even amongst those who serve thee.

Do they expect me to eat a meal served by a woman with exposed knees? I ask, furious. Sacrilege!

Excellency, I told thee beforehand: make this a state visit. Thou art no commoner, so there is no need to burden thine advanced soul with this unsightliness.

Well said, Neepane, I tell him. But I have my reasons. In any case, the solution is simple. I will not eat my meal on board the craft if the woman with exposed knees serves me. I will have your meal instead, because it matters not to me who served it to you.

When we reach the point at which we wait before boarding the aircraft, he hunts in his pack for an object that seems a mask, a six-inch oblong of opaque material with an elastic cord hanging from it. Excellency, use this to cover thine eyes, and try to sleep while we wait here.

When I take the mask, he sits down beside me. A liberty. Stand, Neepane, I tell him. You might nod off if you sit down.

He stands immediately. I like his obedience, his readiness to follow orders. Curious, I ask him, Why did you, unlike all those others who went overseas like you, stay faithful?

I don’t know, Excellency, he replies. I never thought about it.

Didn’t they offer blandishments, the unbelievers? Didn’t they try to corrupt you?

Not directly, he replies. Only indirectly.

How? I ask. Give me an example.

With their greetings, Excellency. Their greeting is very simple. Instead of our ritual greeting, they shake hands.

Shake hands? I ask. How?

Both the persons put out their right hands, palms facing left, and grip each other’s hand, palm to palm.

Persons? I ask, aghast. Do women do this?

He nods. I’m afraid so, Excellency.

And . . . I find it difficult to bring out the words. And do men and women greet each other thus?

He nods again. He swallows, and I can see the difficulty he has dealing with the subject. Good man. His faith is strong. And what of men of high standing and men of low standing?

None of that matters, Excellency. They don’t seem to bother with standing, or our kind of Hierarchy.

Sacrilege! I say.

Softly, Excellency, softly, he tells me. If thou raisest thine voice, someone might recognise thee. They go by how much money one has.

Sacrilege! I whisper.

Indeed, he replies, but it is the way of the unbelievers, and in their land, I had to do what they did.

And so will I have to do as they do, I say, because I travel as a commoner.

Indeed, Excellency.

I will steel myself, I tell him. But do try to save me from the handshakes of women and low men.

I will, Excellency, I promise. But it is unavoidable sometimes.

With the mask on I can see nothing of the ugliness around me, and I manage to doze for a while before Neepane wakes me. Excellency, he says, time to go on.

He has let me doze as long as possible, and we are almost the last passengers to board, without having to wait in a queue for that. There is room in the overhead lockers only for one bag, so my bag goes into it while Neepane tucks his under his seat. His leg room is restricted, but he is used to it, of course. I take the aisle seat, because it’s easier to get to the toilet from there, and I can stretch my legs. He manages quite happily in the middle seat, the discomfort of travelling there more than compensated by the honour of having been appointed to take care of me.

As I settle down, I notice that one of the people serving passengers in the economy section is a man. I nudge Neepane. Make sure that the man serves me, I tell him.

Neepane has plenty of experience travelling in these aircraft. He eases himself past me without touching me or otherwise inconveniencing me, though he does bump the back of the head of the person in the seat in front of mine. But that’s only another commoner, so it doesn’t matter.

He speaks to the steward and returns. He says that he’s going to be serving elsewhere, Excellency, but he’ll be happy to serve you if you wait until he’s finished the area he’s assigned.

He recognises that he’s talking to a superior soul, then. I am content to wait, to be served after the commoners, because I am not hungry. The delay is fine, I tell Neepane. I can wait.

The small screen in the rear of the seat in front of me shows moving pictures that are terrible compared to those I see on my TV at home. The people in these stories get up to all kinds of heathenish behaviour, and have no sense of spiritual longing. I cover my eyes and manage to doze, only to wake up when the stewardess pushes a trolley past us. Her knees are a foot away from my face and I avert my eyes from the sight. She smiles at Neepane and offers him a packed meal, which he takes. He has forgotten that he must