The professional pilgrim

Ashutosh Mohan

Nallappa practiced a peculiar vocation: he was a professional pilgrim. Early every
morning, he pedalled an old-fashioned rickshaw that was improvised into a
perambulating shrine, from one of those abominably putrid side streets that lovingly
hug Central Station, into the heart of residential Madras to solicit money and
offerings; he would eventually make a 1,500 kilometre journey to Shirdi and deposit
them on the slightly exaggerated and symbolic feet of Sai Baba, a mendicant saint
who lived and died there over a hundred years ago.

Nallappas first encounter with Sai Baba was as a five-year old toddler living in a
concrete pipe measuring three feet in diameter along one of the highways of Bihar
that had the privilege of being in a state of perennial construction and mending. One
night, his father had brought home a calendar that was forthcoming of details
exclusively regarding months between August and December of the last year. Above
some numbers that meant nothing to Nallappa, who couldnt read, or to the others,
who didnt bother to read, was a picture of Sai Baba; he had deigned to sit with a
folded left leg flattened cleanly on the floor and an oblique right leg, folded again.
Nallappa would stand in front of the portrait and move a foot to the left and then to
the rightthe Babas eyes seemed to follow his movement.

The boy is a bastard and a fool. Nallappa would be able to cleanly recollect the
words of a father whose name he would not be able to recollect with any consistency.
I hope Baba gives him sense. He has to start earning his keep in a couple of years.
Those prophetic words came true. An earthquake that struck Bihar in 1988


exacerbated social fault lines; seismic emigration of the wretchedly poor to other
states followed. Nallappa ended up in Tamil Nadus capital city: Madras, a chaotic
and hopeful metropolis that was scurrying to find its own identity.

***

I come from Bihar, master. I am looking for a job here. Nallappas lucid declaration
was lost on the Central Station tea stall owner who couldnt understand a word of
Hindi. He hated the language simply because his beloved and ever-young Tamil
sounded like honey poured into the ears; he had also forbidden his two daughters from
learning Hindi. His wife brought the family much needed extra income by conducting
Hindi tuitions on their porch in evenings. Fractures in communication inflicted by
linguistic and political standoff were plastered by earnest mime. Nallappa was hired
as an errand boy in exchange for a salary of protecting him from the police who were
not as cruel to outsiders as corporation men were to stray dogs.

Nallappa trivially achieved an existence free from the tyranny of money by losing his
family in Bihar, making his way to wherever fortune took him, and welcoming
whatever came his way. Being an errand boy kept him away from hunger, sorrow and
the law. In due course, Nallappa helped marry the tea mans daughters. He especially
enjoyed playing chauffeur for the post-marriage ceremonial drive around the
neighbourhood in an old mongrel of a car decorated with gaudy flowers; finally, he
deposited the newlyweds into their first nighta trenchant expression with
unbelievable assumptions causing no self-consciousness in anyone.



He had graduated from an errand boy to an errand man and felt the need to move on
on life.
***

I wish I were still an errand boy in my tea shop. Nallappa told his wife, a sigh that
frequently admixed with his speech rendered the last words strongly wistful.

She continued serving him food, grumbling about how the two girls were pestering
her to send them to school.

We cannot afford to send them to school, preempted Nallappa.

Only because you cannot find a better job.

Yes. I agree. said Nallappa in a tone of rehearsed resignation and reconciliation.
But what will they do with education after all? Baba has given us this life and we
should not ask for more. I cannot wait to get them married myself and then disappear
from everything altogether.

What do you meandisappear?

Nallappa capitalised on this distraction to segue into the quotidian. Oh nothing. Do
you think we can afford a fridge? The girls like to eat ice cream everyday.

I dont think so. We cant buy a fridge with the kind of money you make.



We might be able to, if you give Hindi tuitions like madam used to do. Maybe the
girls can give tuitions too when they grow up. That will be very useful to their
husbands.

Where is the time? As if walking with your pathetic shrine all day is not tiring
enough, I cook and do all the housework. The girls will not help and you just sit
outside smoking your beedi. How much do you expect one woman to do?

Dont start complaining now. Do we have chillies for the gruel? Go, bring me some
quickly.
***

Amma! Amma! cried Nallappa hoping that there would be at least one elderly
person in the house. The house was big. In Nallappas mind, big houses meant
disproportionately big problems and hence generous offerings to the Baba.

A young boy of ten looked out through the railings that half-heartedly tried to form
themselves into a gate. What do you want?

I am going on a Pilgrimage to Shirdi. Are there any offerings I could take? Are there
any adults in the house? Where is your mother?

Why is the music from your rickshaw so loud?

It is not a rickshaw. It is Sai Babas shrine. Are there any adults in the house?
Amma!



Why is the music from Sai Babas shrine so loud? asked the domineering
conversationalist.

How else will everyone in the street know when Baba enters? Nallappa asked back,
indignation gaining an upper hand over sugary sweetness.

But it is awfully loud. I am getting a headache. What is the point of playing it so
loud? You are going to ride through the whole street anyway. I am getting a
headache. The boy pinched his eyelids together and grimaced.

Oye here! Reduce the volume. Little master here is not keeping well, said Nallappa
to his wife, casually misrepresenting facts; she stolidly fidgeted with knobs and
brought the volume down, only after momentarily turning it up startling already
nervous birds in the neighbourhood.

That is better. So, why are you going to Shirdi?" asked the boy.

To carry peoples offerings and to pray for their profuse welfare," rattled off
Nallappa becoming impatient.

So, Amma asked you to come?



No, no. said Nallappa, indignation morphing into a species of irritation. I will be
going to Shirdi anyway. I am merely here to ask if your mother has any offerings that
I can carry for you.

Why do you want to carry peoples offerings?

To help people. Baba helps me, if I help others.

Unconvinced, the boy hesitated for a moment. He then turned around and went into
the house. He returned with his mother.

Nallappa! you are here finally! I knew Baba would send you soon.," said the boys
mother animatedly as she opened the gate. The last time you took our offering to
Shirdi, my husband got promoted at his work in less than a week! A miracle! The
boy had lost interest by now and was trying to balance a big smooth pebble on top of
a tiny serrated rock.

It is all Babas grace Amma. I am simply a messenger.

When are you going again? I have some clothes and money. This time I have vowed
to feed five beggars. Leaving the gate open, the boys mother went inside to fetch
Nallappas cargo.
***

Swamiji, where are you traveling to? Nallappa asked cautiously.



A bearded gent in ochre robes rearranged his face instantly into a smile that hinted
that he had been expecting the question all alongafter all, they were alone in this
compartment of the train. Haridwar, I go there every six months. One needs to wash
ones sins away, eh? But then, one starts accumulating sins even on the journey back
home from Haridwar. These sins, how pernicious they are, how capricious.

Nallappa was silent, he did not want offend his Swamiji by claiming to understand
deep mysticism such as this.

How about you? asked the gent.

Shirdi, Swamiji. I go there every three months.

The gent quenched conversation by looking out the barred window, his long hair
seeming to register protest against this act by dashing away in the opposite direction.

Do you want to know what I do for a living, Swamiji?

Do you want me to know? said the gent enigmatically.

Swamiji, I collect peoples offerings, submit them to Baba and pray that he blesses
them profusely in return.

You have no other job?



No, Swamiji.

Do you have a family?

Yes, Swamiji. One wife and two daughters.

How do you feed them without a job? You dont look like someone with a big
inheritance?

Whatever I collect from people I take forty percent as Babas blessing to this poor
soul. I even pay for my travel to Shirdi and accommodation from that forty percent.
The rest I offer to Babas feet. The forty percent feeds me and my family. It is barely
sufficient for us. You know, with two daughters and todays inflation, just forty

What? interrupted the gent unceremoniously. That is preposterous. You will rot in
hell for this.

A startled Nallappa said cautiously, But Swamiji

Also, the beedi you were smoking at the station - that will steep you in snake pit of
cancer. Over and over we are born and over and over are we killed. What you are
doing will entrench you further in this horrendous cycle of samsara. Find a decent
job. Leave the saint alone.



That night, the gent slept the sleep of an honest man who has withheld nothing.

***

This infernal coughing is getting worse. Sometimes I even cough blood. What are
you putting in my food nowadays? Sawdust instead of chilli powder to save money?
Your cooking has become pathetic.

This accusation made his wife livid. Stop this nonsense, you slob. It must be the
beedi you smoke all the time.

Dont take away the only pleasure I have, please. It must be the food. Check if there
are insects in the kitchen. I saw a grotesque lizard there just yesterday.

I wont," said his wife flatly. In any case, do you remember the loan we took from
mama? He has waited so long only because he is my moms brother. But now, he
wants his money back by the end of this week.

Where is the money? asked Nallappa helplessly.

We need to find it. I will lose my familys respect otherwise. You dont want them to
think that you are no-gooder either, do you? taunted his wife.



If he wants something by next week, I can only think of taking money from Babas
offerings," said Nallappa and laughed. But of course, that is unthinkable," he
teetered.

His wife capitalised on this pregnant equivocacy. Why? We can always replace the
money. Also, who would really care if you did not go to Shirdi? Baba will understand.
Helping the poor is helping God. We desperately need this money. Without meeting
his eye, she got up, went to the fridge and brought him some ice cream.

What flavour is this? asked Nallappa.

Butterscotch. The girls like it a lot.

Hmit is good. Let us take the money out tonight. I think we should repay mamas
loan immediately. I wont go to Shirdi this time. Baba is merciful, he will
understand.
***

Amma! Amma! crowed Nallappa.

The boy recognised Nallappa and called out to his mother.

You did not bring back any prasad from your last trip, accused the boys mother.
How was it? she asked trying to produce an aftertaste of curiosity.



I had an unfortunate trip. On my way back, I lost all my belongings including the
prasad in the train. I know how much prasad means to devotees, they are physical
manifestations of Babas blessings. I have known children being cured of deadly
diseases after eating just a handful of the rock sugar. I dont know why Baba is testing
me like this. Nallappa began to intently follow the track of an ant carrying a piece of
what looked to him like jaggery on its back.

Oh, that is not good! Did you lose any valuables? Do you need any money? asked
the boys mother, as if still trying to plaster with copious amounts of concern, the dent
of her original accusation.

No, Amma. It is the prasad that I am feeling bad about. The ant had dropped its
putative jaggery and was trying to pick it up again.

Dont worry about that. It is all right. When are you going back again?

In a week.

All right, I will bring some money. Wait a minute.

As he was waiting, Nallappa suddenly became conscious of the small boy who was
staring at him from behind the bars of the closed gate. Even though it had been only
three months, it seemed to Nallappa as if the boy had grown over two feet.

***



Madras Central Station was crowded. Nallappa was sitting on his berth, looking
through the barred window at his wife who was standing on the platform, resting her
forehead of the bars of the window.

I am sorry that I cannot come this time.

Oh, that is all right. We need to start saving more money. The girls will have to be
married off soon.

They are only fifteen. We should wait for five more years, protested his wife.

Nallappa was looking intently at a train that was just pulling into the station. Initially,
it produced a pinching shriek that degenerated progressively into a chugging quiet. I
dont feel comfortable waiting that long. It is good to get everything over soon.
Especially with my health

You are a pathetic hypochondriac. You are just fine. Mama said that coughing blood
is quite common at your age. You have not yet stopped smoking beedi.

Nallappa sighed.

Have you packed all the offerings? asked his wife. She strained her toes to extend
her height after which she strained her eyes trying confirm the existence of a bundled
cloth bag.



Yes," confirmed Nallappa. I will be back in a week.

You should buy a cellphone. It will be easier for me to keep in touch, now that you
are going to travel by yourself mostly.

Okay. The fans have started spinning. The train will leave soon. You go home and
take care of the girls. His wife seemed not to hear; she was intently looking at
someone who, she whisperingly conjectured, was a film actor. Nallappas train began
to chug out of the station. The actor had disappeared.

***

Nallappa was coming out of the temple, peoples offerings duly handed over to the
Babas feet. He was wearing a white shirt decorated with haphazardly splashed rust
red. He started walking to Shirdi railway station.

Give me something to eat, master. I havent eaten anything for a week. A beggar,
whose cloak smelt of rancid meat, was approaching him. Stray dogs were following
him with an eagerness that suggested that at least some of the food donated to him
percolated down to them.

I dont have anything. I will give you something next time. Take your beggary
elsewhere. Nallappa turned away from the beggar to look at the temple. He
perfunctorily tilted his head downwards in symbolic obsequiousness. Usually, he
liked to catch a glimpse of the shrine before turning left into a lane with high-rise


apartment buildings that entirely hid the temple. Shaped like a giant funnel, the temple
dome appeared whiter than usual. He wondered whether it had been polished recently.

I cannot wait master. Might not be alive," said the beggar jolting Nallappa out of his
reverie. Nallappa turned around and almost crashed into the beggars scraggy and
hirsute chin. Without lifting his head, Nallappa apologised to the beggars thighs,
sidestepped, and continued walking.

But master, I cannot wait," persisted the beggar.

What? Who are you? What do you want? asked Nallappa with good-natured
curiosity.

Master, I said I cannot wait.

Wait for what? Nallappa resumed walking.

Wait until you come back next time," said the beggar, now walking at Nallappas
side. The dogs sauntered a few feet behind him.

Why do you have to wait for me? I never asked you to.

For a moment the beggar hesitated, trying to decide whether recapitulation or renewal
might be the best strategy to resuscitate this conversation. Can you give me


something to eat? I havent eaten anything for a month," he renewed, his deprivation
inflated from a week to a month within the span of two minutes.

I do not have anything now. Ill give you something the next time I come.

But master, I cannot wait. Might not be alive. said the beggar, not altering the line
of his pitch.

Nallappa froze. His body became still, eyebrows the only moving parts. His eyes
became unfocussed. The beggar, informed by his copious worldly experience,
resigned and began walking away.

Here, take my bag, whispered Nallappa.

Master? asked the beggar dubiously.

Here, take my clothes, sell them, wear them, do whatever makes you happy! said
Nallappa, almost screaming. He thrust his cloth bag into the beggars arms which
instinctively grasped it.

The beggar hesitated for a moment as he digested this unprecedented reaction.
Master is angry with me. I do not want anything. Here, take your bag back.

Nallappa stood still with folded hands and stared blankly.



Master wants to punish me. Please take your bag back, beseeched the beggar.

Nallappa continued to stare blankly.

The beggar, now a nervous wreck, looked around frantically to find an arbitrator. He
saw a small crowd in a tea stall by the road. Just as he began walking towards them,
Nallappa sprinted in the direction of the railway station.

***

There was no one else in Nallappas compartment. Now shorn of his luggage, he
stretched himself out on his berth. Resting the back of his head on his palms, he
crossed his feet and desultorily stared through the barred window. As the train picked
up speed, time compressed space, rending objects into a hypnotic visual concoction
that was engrossing as kaleidoscope but devoid of meaning. He began reminiscing
about how he sat on top of a goods train on his first trip to Madras, about how the
view from the top of a train was very different from the view through its window,
about how he would sell tea in trains in his errand boy days, about how when a
compartment was empty, he would sit by the window, press his face against the metal
bars and count trees as the train throttled along, about how someone stole his purse,
about how the kind ticket inspector loaned him some money and saved him from
caning, about how the blind beggar sat next to the lavatory and sang delightful songs.

By the time the train had reached the next railway junction, a sleep that had eluded
Nallappa until now, finally enveloped him.