Among the Not So Great

Prashanto

Prashanto too arrived in 1927 but went away in 1936, or maybe earlier. He was not here in 1945, but came some time later — early 50s — that’s when I met him. He was an interesting character. Physically, and I may venture to say even mentally, he was very “un-Dara”-like. Some facial resemblance persisted, but then, he was as thin as Dara was fat. He would walk a mile while Dara took three steps.¹ Prashanto would be satisfied chewing a few peanuts while Dara may go in for a chocolate bar. When Dara, on a rare, rare occasion, thought of fasting to reduce, Prashanto chided him saying, “Aré theek sé khao, aur dund baithak lagao!” (Eat well, but do exercises, push-thrus and deep knee bends). Prashanto was himself scrawny, of good height and a fair complexion but tanned well (he roamed around with a banian or without it and a pair of shorts). Same aquiline nose as Dara’s. They both were soft-spoken but spoke of different things.

The dissimilarities did not end there. Prashanto would remain calm (mentally & physically) in all circumstances. Dara would not move physically, but often get agitated or activated and then he would move heaven and earth to reach his ends.

Prashanto had no desires — food, marriage, nothing distracted him. Dara was a gastronome. As for marriage, Dara had at one time written to the Mother about his urge to tie the knot. She did not pull him up short and abrupt. She gently applied the brakes, said “wait, what’s the hurry?” Dara simmered down. Again when the feeling came on him, he wrote to the Mother. Again the reply “No hurry” — and again... Time didn’t stand still — Dara turned 40. He reminded the Mother that he was not getting any younger. She asked him in reply: “Now that you are 40, where is the need for marriage?” The desire slowly dried up or was taken away from him.

Prashanto was a very qualified man. He had done quite well in his studies at Oxford. He returned to Hyderabad and maybe tried to settle down and failed. He was offered good lucrative posts but refused to accept them. When one to-be-employer raised the pay, Prashanto was not very pleased. He said, “Mai kutta kya...? (Am I a dog?) that you hang a piece of meat in front of me and I am expected to run after you.”

Prashanto was also offered marriage proposals. He would not surrender his bachelorhood. Many a prospective bride and party had to leave disappointed. On one of these efforts to entice him into marital bliss, friends and relatives extolled the virtues and advantages of married life. Prashanto agreed and seconded all their ideas. He seemed to give in. People around were just sensing success when Prashanto dropped a bombshell. He smiled and said, “Look here, I too am a believer in love, marriage, etc. etc. But I have one weakness (or habit), that I cannot get over once it comes.” All, especially the bride’s party were thinking, “Oh, what now?” Prashanto continued, “From time to time I get an urge to travel. I cannot resist it. I leave everything, home, hearth, family, friend and wander off.” This put an end to all marriage proposals. Who would wed their girl to such a gypsy? This wanderlust must have overtaken him and he walked out of his house and arrived here again, probably in early 1953. He recounted that he would, when leaving a place, follow the railway tracks. His theory being that the tracks would lead to a station — any station was good enough. There you could get some food. His favourite form of food, on these wanderings, was “mungphalli” (peanuts) and neem seeds. He would munch those and walk on and on. For most of his travels were done on foot, or ticketless travel. This time the “wanderlust” had a reason. The story took place in Hyderabad.

Zeba was Dara’s niece. She was a very turbulent, naughty girl. She had come to Pondy as a 12 year old. When she was around one could expect and be prepared for anything. She could apply some home made medicine, a mixture of lemon juice, salt and chilli on a boil or wound or pour some coconut oil into the mouth left partly open for snoring while at siesta. Dara was at the receiving end. He would chase her but never caught her. What if he caught her. He probably would have laughed and left her. Dara (and Prashanto) actually loved this lively, imaginative girl.

Prashanto was living at Sudhira’s (Zeba’s mother) house. All were at the dinner table. Zeba was very young, but was already very adept (and improving). She suddenly started smearing food all over her own head and face! Her father thought this needed some corrective measure. He landed a slap on the young Zeba. Prashanto rose up and voiced his protest at this harsh treatment. The father said he very well knows how to bring up his child and told Prashanto not to interfere in what does not concern him. Prashanto did not say a word, got up and walked out of the house — headed straight to his familiar rail tracks, out of Hyderabad and ultimately reached Pondy.

It was all so simple — no dinner, no farewells, no plans, no luggage, no money and no tickets. He was sharing a meal with a gang of railway workers. They discovered the tramp knew English — reading and writing as well. They implored him to apply for a vacant job they knew of in the railways.

In two months he reached this place. Dara informed the family.

When he arrived here he was put up somewhere near Parc-à-charbon (if not at the Park itself, before it took its present posh form). He had many old friends here and Bihari-da of the D.R. must have been one of his closest. He joined him in his work, washing bananas and lemons. He worked and moved around, scrawny, in old khakhi shorts and sleeveless banian, shaved head and usually with an unshaven chin, hunched shoulders — he looked every inch the hobo that he was. He couldn’t care less as to what he looked like. Not many would take notice of him, much less think of engaging him in conversation. He considered it a blessing that people did not take notice of him. He said, “As soon as people take notice of you — you are in trouble.” But those who, undeterred by his appearance, did talk to him found him exceedingly interesting. He talked slow and soft. His English was as you may guess the “King’s” — spiced with an occasional “sala;” or some other Urdu or Hindi word (expressive if not expletive).

His work in the D.R. over, he may come out and head East, West, North or South — as fancy took him. Once I happened to meet him heading North from the Ashram. I asked him, “Where are you going?” He replied, “Home.” I said, “I thought you lived in Parc?” He said, “Yes, I do. But who says I should go by this road and not by that and reach by the shortest route?” He could be found walking away from his destination to reach it.

One day as I stood in front of the Ashram, enjoying a fine drizzle, Prashanto happened by. He was in his usual attire, but perched on his head was a folded newspaper that he held pressed down with one hand. I plucked it off his head. He stopped and pleaded with me to return it. I happened to glance at the date — it was a recent — a “yesterday’s” — edition. Feigning surprise, I asked why he was wasting so recent an edition. Someone could still be interested in reading it. Prashanto in reply said, “What, you call this news? De Gaulle pulls Churchill’s nose. He in turn twists somebody’s ear.” Intrigued I asked him, “Then why are you holding on so dearly to this paper?” He smiled a bit shyly and said, “Oh, some well-wisher gives me the papers. When a sufficient number are collected, I sell them and Behari and I go eat some ice-cream.” I couldn’t but return his precious paper. I thought “How childlike — innocent and secretive these two old men are!” In fact they were two of the best men I came across. Not only I, but many who knew them hold the same opinion. I recount a strange paradoxical story. Each one has to draw his or her own conclusion.

The story unfolds in or around the D.R. There was a lady who took her breakfast in D.R. every day. She did not eat the bananas — but took them and gave them as alms. This was reported to the Mother. The Mother had, often enough, said that each one should take only what he/she needs. So the Mother instructed Ravindraji to stop giving her breakfast. She pleaded with the Mother. The Mother sent her to Ravindraji telling her to plead with him, as it was his domain of work. Be that as it may, what was more interesting and mysterious (or meaningful) was what followed. Prashanto and Bihari-da washed the bananas. Prashanto would keep aside the bananas which he thought were not good enough to be distributed at the counter. Sometimes there were quite many. On his way out Prashanto would distribute them to the urchins — just outside the D.R. This happened not long after the “lady’s” incident. So, Ravindraji dutifully reported the matter to the Mother. The Mother told Ravindraji, much to his astonishment, not to admonish him. “Simply tell him not to distribute just outside the D.R. He should go a distance away and do it.” She then added, “You just don’t know how lucky we are and from where we get all these things.” What to make of this? Maybe best not to use our ever fallible Reason — just swallow the information and wait.

Prashanto was an avid cricket fan. The Nawab of Pataudi had been his classmate. He had seen him play (play more and study less). India’s late President Zakir Hussain was also one of his classmates. Prashanto was, it is said, the much-disliked Aurangzeb in one of his previous births. Strangely enough he was given the duty of taking care of Dara — which job he did to the best of his ability till Dara’s passing away. (Paying for sins committed 300 years ago!)

The hurt you cause in the forenoon self-propelled
Will overtake you in the afternoon.

Tiruvalluvar Kural

Prashanto spent his days simply, doing his work, taking walks and telling stories if and when we needled him. Then, one fine day, he just lifted anchor and walked away, again on his wanderings — bitten by the migration bug. It was probably not just the migration bug that bit him: He had an ear-ache that seemed to increase when he approached the Ashram and diminished as he went further away. One day he walked on and on and in a couple of months he found himself back in his home town, Hyderabad. Maybe he followed the railway tracks. We came to know that he reached his niece’s house (Sudhira’s daughter). But everything had changed, he was lost in the concrete jungle. He entered a dispensary to have his sore foot seen to. He casually asked the doctor if he knew of a (his) family. One million chance — the doctor knew — and so Prashanto walked into the family he had walked out from the dinner table. Sudhira was there. She passed away shortly after. Zeba was happy to look after him till his demise. He never asked for anything, didn’t need much — just his meals, and a few beedies. Zeba described him as a “Fakhir”, with no wants or desires. He lived a few years doing practically nothing (except smoking), then he too was gathered up — he may have followed a subtler “rail track” to reach his final Station and destination.