India

Slapped by an Angel

At the age of seven, I received my first bicycle.

My father paid 50 rupees to purchase the bike from a British family that was leaving India to return home to England. In 1942, even 50 rupees was a lot of money. Most bicycles were imported from the UK and cost in excess of 200 rupees, which would have been a year’s salary for a daily laborer.

Since few people could afford bicycles, practically everyone walked—even great distances. Native ekkas (one-horse carriages) were available for hire, but most people did not have money even for that small fare.

All bikes were a standard size and painted black. But my bike was special: it was a small, child-sized bike, and it was shiny light green. I never saw another small bike like that in the whole city. I acquired celebrity status. People would stop in the street to watch me ride, or come to their windows to see me pass by.

As a result, my showmanship blossomed. For me, it was never just a bike ride. It had to be a performance. I would pedal as hard as my legs would permit and catch up with anyone on a bike ahead of me. I would show off how I could ride with no hands, whizzing past all the pedestrians while precariously balancing on my two-wheeler. Or, I would challenge others to a race.

Those must have been safer times. Not only was there very little traffic on the streets, but I could ride for miles out of my neighborhood without causing any concern for my parents. At one point, I even thought of making a map of the city, but I refrained when I realized I would not be able to draw it to scale.

Not long after I got my bike, my father was commissioned as an officer in the Indian Army, which was part of the British Empire. World War II was in full swing, and immediately after his training, my father was packed off to fight the Japanese in Burma.

Balbir’s father Umrao Singh in his military uniform

Several months had passed when, early one morning, we heard a knock on the door. To my surprise and joy, my father was there! He was dressed in his uniform, and his left arm was in a sling. He had been injured, and was flown to a hospital in Calcutta. There he had been given a one-day furlough to visit his family in Allahabad, an overnight journey by train.

Along with him was his orderly, the soldier attendant to an officer. Father told me his attendant would like to take a dip in the holy Ganges and asked me to accompany him. For the Hindu orderly, who came from a small village, this was an opportunity of a lifetime.

The trip to the river and back was almost 10 miles, normally a great distance for a 7-year-old boy—but not when he had his mighty green bike! The orderly was in his army uniform and carried his lathi, a bamboo rod, which in those days was the main weapon for people from rural India. As he walked, I would race ahead on my bike and tell shopkeepers on the sides of the road that my father was back and I was taking his orderly for a dip in the Ganges. The orderly was my “show and tell.”

On our way back home, we had gone only a short distance from the banks of the river when two British soldiers rode past us on their bikes. This was bait I could not refuse. Pedaling fast, I caught up with them.

Dressed in their civilian clothes, the soldiers were leisurely riding and talking to each other. They looked at me once and then ignored me. I could tell by their body language that they did not welcome me riding along beside them. I could pick up only a few stray words of their talk. But then, one of them wove the Hindi word “chootia” (asshole) into the conversation.

It was a commonly used word in the local vernacular, but it caught me by surprise that an Englishman would know that word. I grew up in a family where we did not utter such profanity, or the punishment would have been much worse than having your mouth washed out with soap. Until that day, I had never said that word.

Astonished, I looked up at them and asked, “You know ‘chootia?’”

Unfortunately, my first two words were drowned out, but the last word caught their attention. Immediately, I knew I was in trouble.

They stopped, ordered me down from my bike, and cornered me. One of them sternly asked me where my father was. Frozen with fear, I could not utter a word. My throat was as dry as desert sand.

Father’s orderly was some hundred yards behind and running towards us. When he caught up to us, the same soldier asked him in broken Hindi with the deep accent of an Englishman, “Are you his father?”

“No, I am his father’s ardaly,” he stammered, not quite knowing what was happening.

“Is his father an officer?” the British soldier inquired.

The orderly nodded his head, “Yes, Sir.”

“Tell the officer his son needs to learn manners,” the British soldier said.

The other soldier turned his face and moved a step away, as if he knew what was coming next and did not want to be a part of it. That, to me, was a warning of what was coming, but there was nothing I could do. The first soldier cocked his right hand as far back as he could, and with all his might he slapped my left cheek. The suddenness and force of it swung my head to the right and down to my shoulder.

For me, the world stopped at that moment.

It was not just another moment within the endless flow of time. I experienced eternity in that moment. My mind was clear, and I viewed the event as if from several feet above.

I can vividly recall the looks of those two British soldiers. The one who slapped me had a long face and wore round-rimmed glasses. His face was stern and cold, and his hair was combed straight back. The other soldier, who seemed to be younger, had a baby-round face and dark fluffy hair parted on the side, and he would flip his hair to the side with a toss of his head. He also looked to be the friendlier of the two. They were both wearing white, short-sleeved shirts. They were perhaps 18 to 20 years old—but, to a terror-stricken 7-year-old boy, they seemed like giants.

I can still see the faces of the 15 to 20 bystanders who had gathered around us in a semicircle. They are still standing there, unmoving and mute as statues. I can see the wince cross the face of the orderly when I was slapped, even though I was not looking at him at that moment.

I can read the mind of the child, the center of attention. Scared as he was, he had expected to be lectured. He expected to get a chance to explain himself, that he went to a British school and could speak English, that he had meant no offense. As was his nature, he would have made friends with the two soldiers and invited them to his house for a home-cooked meal. He expected to be treated as an officer’s son—certainly not to be slapped in public.

Upon being slapped, he expected immediate action from his protector, the orderly. He expected the orderly to use his lathi, a weapon that stayed frozen in his hands. He expected the surrounding crowd to curse the two British soldiers and beat them up unceremoniously. But neither the orderly nor the others in the crowd could lift a finger against them. Anyone trying to interfere would have been killed instantly, with impunity.

The boy felt shocked and disappointed when the British soldiers mounted their bikes and rode off, without even being confronted.

And then, the child actually got scolded by the orderly. It was obvious that the orderly’s manhood had been challenged and humiliated, and he was irritated at the child for being the cause of it. He threatened to inform the child’s father of the incident.

The rest of the way home, the child biked a few steps behind the orderly, as if in slow motion. Both were in a state of shame, and they could not face each other. They were experiencing the humiliation of helplessness—both personal and collective.

The slap had landed deeper than the child’s face. It had pierced the depth of his psyche.

For as long as I could remember, I had a sense that I was a visitor sent to live with my family temporarily. I felt that I was really from another family, another country. When I was four or five years old, I articulated that feeling to my mother. When she asked where my real home was, I told her, “England,” and that I would be returning there for good at the age of 10. Amused, she shared this with friends and relatives, and soon I was being asked to tell visitors about my “real home.” At first, I willingly participated. But, once I realized that I was being asked to perform, I stopped and refused to disclose any such feelings, even to my mother.

When the British soldier slapped me, it was as if I had expected him to know. He was one of the people I felt close to and with whom I identified. It was a peculiar feeling, as if one of “my own people” had humiliated me in front of these “others” with whom I didn’t really belong. Even more than that, it was as if I suddenly discovered how “my people” mistreated their hosts in their own land—hitting a child for a mere misunderstanding!

When the orderly was leaving with my father the next day, he took me aside at the railroad station and confided that he did not mention anything about the incident to my father. I was relieved. Compared to the British soldier who had slapped me publicly, I considered that poor, uneducated orderly to be much more civilized and cultured. It was clear that I did not want to grow up to be like the person who had slapped me.

With that one thunderous slap, I had grown up. I was no longer just a visitor in India. I was an Indian.

How dare a foreigner insult me in my own country?! I was not going to take it lying down. I was going to avenge it. The incident did not diminish my desire to go to England. It inflamed it. But, now I had to go there to avenge—to kill as many British as I possibly could. I would not be able to kill enough. But, symbolically, I would convey the message that my people were not as helpless as the bystanders around us that day had seemed. There was at last one brave person among them. “My people” and “I” had become one, and my revenge was intensely personal.

Over the next few years, the embers of my humiliation smoldered into anger. My every thought was like a gust of wind that fanned the flames into rage and hatred for the British.

That lasted until the evening of January 30, 1948, when Mahatma Gandhi was assassinated.

Gandhi’s nonviolent approach to driving the British out of the country had appealed to me as a child. At the age of six, I announced to my family that I was a follower of Gandhi. I even declared that I was only going to wear clothes made out of homespun Indian cloth, as Gandhi urged us to do instead of buying factory-made cloth from England.

Two years later, that one slap convinced me that the British would need to face the barrels of guns to be booted out. I became strongly opposed to Gandhi and his message of “turn the other cheek.” The only thing the British deserved was “an eye for an eye.”

I decided to change my psyche, which was quite gentle. I could not kill even a fly or a mosquito, and for that reason I had become a vegetarian at the age of four in a meat-eating family. But now, I had to learn how to kill. I made up my mind to learn to damage people. I tried to become a bully, to pick fights for no rhyme or reason.

I demanded that my parents take me out of the British school. My father was in the British army, but I insisted that, if I were to continue living in my family’s home, the tricolor Indian freedom flag would have to fly from our house—and it did.

Then, on January 30, 1948, when I was twelve years old, I heard the news that Gandhi had been gunned down. My heart swelled, and I started to cry uncontrollably, tears flowing over my cheeks. My emotion caught me completely by surprise. Stunned and confused, I had no idea why I was crying for someone I opposed.

A large majority of India shed tears at the news of Gandhi’s death, but I wept all night long. My younger sister, ten-year-old Shakti, joined me, and we both sobbed as if our parents had died. Shakti and I were close, and I knew my sorrow alone was enough cause for her to cry.

The next morning, we saw the first rays of sun from our verandah, and at that moment we both stopped sobbing. It was as if the dancing sun rays had brought forth more than just a new day. For me, it turned out to be a new reality—a new life.

Over time, I realized that those drops on my cheeks were no ordinary tears. For me, they turned out to be like holy water that cleansed my psyche. It was a deeply spiritual experience that set me free. And, I had no need to hate the British anymore.

There is a legend in India that angels appear on the banks of the Ganges. I believe it, for it was there that those two British soldiers manifested themselves to awaken me. I thank them every single day.

My Life’s Theme Song

I have a vivid and tender memory of when I was three years old. My father and I were walking home from his restaurant one evening. We heard devotional songs being sung on the flat rooftop of a house along the road. My father said we should stop in as a courtesy to the neighbors.

The house was three stories high, with three flights of stairs going up to the rooftop. Even though the stairs were too steep for a little boy like me, I would not let my father help me. I’m sure it took a lot of patience, but he watched as I slowly mounted the stairs, sitting on one step and pulling myself up to the next – one by one, all by myself.

When we reached the roof, we saw about a dozen men singing. We took off our shoes and sat cross-legged beside them. The men were singing in Bengali, the native language of eastern India. Our family was Punjabi, from the north, so it was a foreign language to a small child like me. Very soon, I became bored. I snuggled up close to my dad and asked if we could go home.

With a nod of his head, he advised patience. He whispered that the beauty of the occasion was not in the words but in the people’s devotion. I did not know what devotion was, so I looked again at the men, this time with curiosity.

Balbir in rabbit costume handmade by his mother

They were singing at the top of their voices. The night was warm and sultry, and their faces were dark burgundy with effort, perspiration running freely. Their eyes were closed, and their bodies swayed. I watched intently, staring as only a child can do.

They were chanting in Hindi now: “Muthi bandhe aye theye, hath pasare jain gay.” This was a language I knew, but I did not understand the relationship of these words in the context of the song.

I asked my father, “What does it mean?”

He bent toward me and whispered, “When we are born, our fists are closed; when we die, our hands are open.”

“What does that mean?” I asked again.

“It means that when we are born, we bring all the gifts given to us by God, and when we die, we leave empty-handed.”

As I think back, I realize I had no idea what it meant to be born or to die. Those words were not yet in my vocabulary. However, I must have liked the sound, the rhythm, the beat of that particular couplet. I do not remember any other part of that song, nor any other song from that evening. But, that one couplet stuck with me.

In those days, practically every Hindu home in India had a small family “temple” where we would offer thanks in worship. It would be a small corner in the busy house, but that corner was sacred, and each family member would offer their individual prayers there.

The morning ritual was universal: prayers were said after bathing and before breakfast. After the family had been fed and the men had departed for work, women often spent longer times in prayer. During the rest of the day, anyone could go to this spot and offer their obeisance at any time.

In our house, that place was at the top of the stairs that led down to the street. Each time we passed that place of prayer, we would bow with folded hands.

After that night on the neighbors’ rooftop, I liked to sit in that corner temple and sing that couplet over and over again. I would imitate those men, sitting cross-legged with eyes closed, swaying side to side and singing with all my emotion. Today I look at other toddlers and can imagine how comical and animated I must have seemed. So, it was no wonder that my elder relatives would ask me to perform for them. I became identified with that song.

My father had spoken of the “devotion” in those singers. I remembered the men singing with their eyes closed, bodies swaying, their lungs filled, and sound coming out with full power and intensity. So for me, the word “devotion” became synonymous with integrity between our inner feelings and our outward actions. As a child, I was merely imitating the singing. Over the years, devotion turned into intentional practice, and then experience.

Some 40 years later, I had an experience of coming face-to-face with death. In that split second, I realized all the material goods of the world had no meaning. I could not take anything with me. Everything on this earth was to be left behind, even name and fame. The song I sang as a child came alive for me. It became a powerful beam of light that has guided the rest of my life.

On that hot summer evening when I was three years old, I had no idea I would acquire my life’s theme song.

Stealing a Cake

I first became aware of poverty at the age of three.

My family had recently moved to the city of Allahabad, in Uttar Pradesh, India, and my father ran a restaurant near the university. My mother would dress me in the morning and send me to the restaurant, where I would play with the children of other shopkeepers on that street.

One day I strayed into an alley and saw two boys. I stopped in my tracks. Instinctively, I could see the difference between them and me. While I was clean and well-dressed, they had only cotton shorts on and their bodies were dark with dust, as if they had walked out of a chimney.

They, too, were surprised. From a distance, they tried to assure me they meant no harm. For some reason, I was not afraid, just startled. They begged me for some food. I stared at their faces in disbelief. I could not imagine anyone being hungry.

“Just wait,” the words tumbled out of me. I walked back to my father’s restaurant and entered through the rear kitchen door to see if I could find any food for the boys.

The first thing I saw was a white cake on the counter. I had never seen a cake before, as cakes were not made in India at that time. Little did I know that my father had gone to great lengths to make it as a rare delicacy. I only knew that it was beautiful.

I carefully lifted the cake on its cardboard base. It was heavy. The cooks were swamped with breakfast orders and didn’t pay any attention to me.

As I stepped out the door, I heard the head cook on the other side of the kitchen holler, “Hey, where are you taking that cake?” I thought I had gone undetected, but–darn it!–somebody had seen me. I took off running down the street.

The head cook crossed the long kitchen to the door, expecting to see me there. When he saw me running, he shouted “Stop! Stop! Where are you going?” He came after me, with another cook right behind him.

I soon realized that two “giants” were chasing me–and I was losing my lead! Sensing danger, my body shifted into high gear. I became aware of my little penguin-like legs running as fast as they could while I balanced the cake. I was deadly focused on getting to those boys before the giants could catch me.

I heard swift footsteps behind me getting closer and closer. Fortunately, I had just enough of a lead to get across the road and reach the alley where the boys were waiting.

As one of the giants grabbed my left arm, I threw the cake with my right. It landed right in the lap of one of the boys. They grabbed chunks of cake as fast as their little hands could move, and the beautiful cake was destroyed in a split second.

The cook sternly dragged me back to the restaurant, where my father was waiting for me. By this time, I realized I had done something seriously wrong.

I expected a thrashing. Instead, my father gently patted me on the head and calmly explained that the next time I wanted to feed someone, I should just ask him. Then he asked one of the staff members to take me home. I did not tell my mother why I was sent home early.

My experience with those two boys is one of my earliest memories. Its deep imprint shaped the rest of my life.

Balbir and his father, Umrao Singh, in 1938

Shaped by Upheavals

I was born in India in 1935. The British had occupied the country for 200 years. From all outward appearances, British rule in India—the “crown jewel of the British Empire”—was at its zenith.

However, several issues came to a head at that time, some that were totally new and others that had lain dormant for centuries during the British occupation. The movement for Indian independence was gaining momentum under Mahatma Gandhi’s leadership, creating internal pressure. Before I celebrated my fourth birthday, the Second World War began, bringing external pressure.

These combined pressures opened a Pandora’s box of complex forces which converged to overwhelm the mighty British Empire. As a result, the last contingent of British soldiers paraded off Indian soil and boarded a fleet of ships in 1947, just before my twelfth birthday.

Thus, my formative years were fraught with political, economic, social, religious, and military upheavals. That time period was like a stormy night with the sky constantly pierced by bolts of lightning. Lightning strikes in the distance seem gentle, while those nearby are accompanied by crashes of thunder that shake the earth. Even though more thunderbolts are expected, still each one is startling.

Balbir Mathur during his formative years

During such a storm, an infant might not realize what is happening even as they lie awake and alert. Similarly, although I was not fully aware of what exactly was taking place, I could not help but be affected by what was happening around me. Even today, when I read or see a film clip about events from that time, I find that I have memories about what happened. No doubt those powerful events that were reshaping the world were also shaping my psyche.

Looking back, I can also see that in my early childhood there were two times when I experienced significant psychological transformations. The first one occurred at the age of four. That is when I became distinctly aware of my surroundings. It was almost as if I had been living in a black-and-white movie and all of a sudden it became Technicolor. The world around me came to vibrant life.

At the age of six and a half, another transformation seems to have taken place. At that time I became aware of myself. I was no longer a child; I was a boy who had become aware of his body, of his own being. I was.

I also became more aware of my relationship with my surroundings. It was at that time that I became aware that the British were occupiers of my country, and I did not like it. In fact, I was horrified at the thought. I could not understand why a foreign power could occupy our land. In an embryonic way, it was the start of my political awareness.

I share this cultural, historical, and personal background because it has bearings on the stories I am about to relate.

The Spark – Part 4: The Barber

It rained and rained all night and most of the next day, drenching the millions of pilgrims who had gathered on this cold winter day at the Kumbh Mela. All the planning and arrangements broke down. Crowds of people were slipping in the mud. Ambulances were stuck and could not reach the disabled. New problems arose that no one had even imagined. Thousands of families were separated. I saw a desperate woman whose three children were lost. Later, I saw a small child, barely four years old, lost, dazed, and trudging through calf-deep, slippery slush.

All the suffering confirmed my revulsion for religion.

That afternoon, I interviewed an itinerant barber. He and his customer were squatting in the slush, drenched. With his tools beside him in a tin pail, he was oblivious to the commotion around him, doing his job of shaving pilgrims’ heads for one or two rupees.

“How much money had you expected to earn today?” I inquired. He told me he had expected to earn 125 rupees, but because of the rain he had earned only about 20 rupees. For a poor barber like him, it must have been a financial disaster.

“Did God do good or bad by sending this rain today?” I inquired condescendingly.

Without missing a beat or even looking at me, he patiently answered that rain was simply a happening. “We can choose what we wish to perceive in it,” he said. “Could we, with our limited perception, judge an act of God? Everything in the overall perspective happens for the best, even though it may not be evident to us at that time.”

The words of that barber were neither new to me nor very profound, but their impact on me was stunning. I stood there, speechless.

I grew up with the understanding that everything happens for the best. It was something I believed. It was an “article of faith” for a little child, just like knowing the sun will rise or that my mother loved me. It was not based on any intellectual understanding. It just was.

But later, during the partition of 1947, when British India was divided into the two independent states of India and Pakistan, hundreds of thousands of people were killed—all in the name of God. That horrible experience did not match my belief that everything happens for the best. How could killing in the name of God be good? How could injustices, cruelties, or crimes be good?

I concluded that the belief that everything happens for the best must be an “opiate of the masses.” As long as such notions persisted, there was no hope for human beings. As I started to explore my horizons, I could not find any intellectual support for my childhood belief.

Now, after this one statement by that barber, I stood frozen, transfixed. I felt like any movement on my part would bring attention to my utter nakedness. It was as if something within me had been whittled down over time, and with the barber’s statement, it broke. After a few moments, I slowly moved on. The barber did not glance at me nor utter another word.

Soon after that, I left for New Delhi on my way back to the USA. I spent a couple days in Delhi with my aunt and uncle.

The night before I was to depart from New Delhi, I went to bed early so I could get up and catch my 4 a.m. flight. After only two or three hours of sleep, I awoke and found myself engulfed in a powerful, yet subtle feeling, a beautiful ambiance. There was something familiar about it. And then, in my half-awake, half-asleep state, the flower appeared.

In my memory, I was transported back to when I was six years old, and my family was on vacation in the mountains. As I was walking down a narrow trail one day, I bent over to admire a tiny flower. From a distance, the flower looked solid blue. But when I looked closer, it was an amalgamation of several shades of blue, intermingling in a joyful mood—and I could see tiny veins in its petals. I stood there in awe, enchanted.

Then, with the innocence and tenderness available only to the very young at unguarded moments, I asked, “Can you tell me the meaning of life?” I spoke to the flower as if I were talking to a newborn baby. I dared not touch the tiny miracle in front of me, for fear of hurting it. The wonder I beheld was precious, priceless.

Perhaps, as a little child, I identified with that little flower. Because at that moment, I realized my own smallness and vulnerability. For a child who had been coddled as if he were the center of the universe, one would think such an experience would be disconcerting, or even threatening. The effect was quite different.

I remember a gentle feeling dawning upon me, a feeling of lightness. I recall walking home with a big smile, as if I were walking on clouds.

Now I had that same feeling as I lay in bed in New Delhi. In my half-awake state, I could see the beautiful blue intermingling colors of that flower. It was as if the flower had come back to remind me of something. It had not answered my question. But somehow, in that moment I had discovered a slant, a perspective, an approach to life. The flower’s life would be so brief. Each moment was precious, a treasure, a miracle. In that light, how do I respond to this universe? The flower had not told me the meaning of life. It had given me a handle on life.

I thought of the barber at the Kumbh Mela. What was it that allowed him to remain so calm, even though he had suffered such a financial loss? And, it wasn’t just him. It was the crowd of millions of people who had remained calm in the middle of such chaos. What was their secret?

It suddenly struck me—I had focused on all the outer events of the Mela, how it was organized, the masses of people, the food, the bathrooms and so on. But I had missed the central point! I had missed the essence of it. The barber was extremely poor, from a village, with no education and no philosophical training. Yet there was something in him, something deep within the DNA of the culture itself—an unseen treasure. That is what I was supposed to learn, but I had missed it. I had not done my job as a reporter, and I would not be able to do justice to my intended article.

Immediately I got up, canceled my flight, left a note for my uncle and aunt, and caught a train back to Allahabad.

Pilgrims at the Kumbh Mela / Photo by Balbir Mathur

There was no time to waste. I went right to work. I was no longer interested in hobnobbing with the VIPs. This time I wanted to talk with the common people, the ones who had walked countless miles, often barefoot, just to be there and walk on the sands by the Ganges.

I realized that, having grown up with a Western education, I had never known the core values of the common people. As I spoke with them now, I was no longer wearing blue jeans, and I was no longer impatient with them. I interviewed 63 people, by count.

Everyone I spoke with gave me practically the same answer as the barber. Their perspective that everything happens for the best was deeply rooted, a part of their very being. From that simple acceptance of “life as it is” seemed to flow a great strength, peace, and wisdom, a deep understanding of life. Irrespective of their lack of education, their superstition or poverty, they could dance with life. It was not dependent on any outside circumstances.

I was humbled. It became a matter of pride for me that I shared the same primordial DNA as these people.

In fact, I found my own perspective starting to shift. I was no longer seeing the Mela as a journalist. I was there to reconnect to my roots. I was no longer trying to understand it all intellectually. I wanted to experience it. I was like a child who has their first taste of sugar and just wants more and more. I was now a seeker.

Just as quickly as the multitudes of people had appeared for the main bathing day, they left. In a couple of days, only the very dedicated pilgrims remained. They would stay there for most or all of the 40 days of the Mela.

Pilgrims bathe in the Ganges River / Photo by R.K. Varshney

I never even saw the photographer sent by National Geographic. I was told he came on the day of the Mauni Amavasya and left the next day. Because of the rain, his photographs did not meet the standards of National Geographic, and they scrapped the idea of the story before I could even start writing.

When I received the call from the magazine telling me the story wouldn’t run, the only thought going through my mind was, How did that “350-year-old man” know? To the person who called me, I just said, “I understand.” Because now I knew that I had not gone there to write an article after all.

Little did I know that on that rainy day, in the midst of an unforgettable human drama, a humble barber would change my life.

The Spark – Part 3: Just Around the Corner

The biggest news at the Mela was the presence of a saint reputed to be 350 years old. Even though the name of Devraha Baba was on everyone’s lips, I simply refused to give him any credence. When I needed to be polite to people, I simply ignored the topic and walked away. To others, I was curt. With some, like my mother, I would question their sanity. But the brunt of my anger was reserved for a monk I met on the night of January 18.

It had been a long day. I had gotten up at four in the morning at the behest of a Dutch photojournalist who told me the best photographs are taken at dawn, even before the first sun rays hit the ground. That night, I was exhausted as I walked back to my tent hotel room. The hotel office was near the gate, and I peeked inside.

That was my undoing.

A Hindu monk was sitting there, literally twiddling his thumbs, as if waiting for someone. The way he had wrapped his long, cotton, ochre-colored dhoti (a type of sarong) suggested he was from the state of Gujarat in western India. He engaged me in conversation regarding the Mela, which was of interest to me. I found out he was called Shanti Bhai (shanti means “peace,” and bhai means “brother”). He asked why I was at the Mela, and then asked more questions about National Geographic.

After several minutes of such talk, I begged leave of Shanti and started toward my tent. He followed and politely stayed outside, but continued to talk.

I told him I had had a long day, and I reminded him that tomorrow was the biggest day of the Mela and I needed some precious rest. I would be glad to see him some other day. But, skillfully, he kept me engaged in conversation.

Somewhat sternly, I told him again to come back the next day. He said the next day was Mauni Amavasya, so this may be our only opportunity. “This sanjog (coincidence of the stars) may never appear again,” he told me. “Have you met Devraha Baba, the 350-year-old saint?”

That did it. I unleashed all my pent-up anger on him. My diatribe was sprinkled with profanity. I asserted that scientists in the U.S. had done all sorts of studies on longevity, and if there was anyone of that age they would have studied him a thousand times over. I guaranteed that there was no one in the world who was that old. The very notion of someone being 350 years old was absolutely preposterous. I blamed Hindus like him who circulated this type of nonsense. It made a mockery of the religion and only spread illiteracy and ignorance.

“India is underdeveloped and poor because of people like you!” I concluded. I wanted the intruder out of there.

The calm smile never left Shanti’s face, which made me even angrier. “What type of journalist are you?” he asked. “This is the biggest news of the Mela, and you have discarded the information without even checking it. Rejection without investigation.”

That statement touched a raw nerve and stopped my harangue. I needed to cool down. I took a short walk around the campsite, while he stayed outside my tent.

This man is right, I thought. I am not a journalist. I am a businessman acting like a journalist. What would I say about the presence of this allegedly 350-year-old man in my article? Would I simply ignore the whole thing? Would I say that even though tens of thousands of devotees flocked to be in his presence, I never investigated it? Am I being objective, or am I just bogged down with my own prejudices? Am I doing justice to my assignment, or am I a phony who gets by doing the very minimum?

I felt as if I were in a boxing match and had been winning every round until my opponent knocked me out with one punch in the last round. This punch was below the belt.

Upon my return, I apologized to Shanti and asked where Devraha Baba was camped.

“Just around the corner, only a few minutes’ walk,” he replied. “You will be back in no time.”

I corrected him, because I knew this was not true. Devraha Baba was in Jhusi, across the river and several miles from where we were located.

“Yes, that is where he was earlier, but he moved to be near the Mela tomorrow,” he assured me. “His new location has naturally not been made public. I know where he is, and I can take you to him.”

“But it is too late,” I protested.

“No, not at all,” he asserted. “Most of his devotees come to visit him only at night. That is when he gives his darshan (the blessing of seeing a holy person).” I was not convinced, so I looked straight into his eyes. He did not even blink.

I grabbed my camera and left with him to find Devraha Baba.

Shanti was in his early 30s, lean, and of slight build. He was a brisk walker and invariably stayed about ten steps ahead of me. While I was dressed in multiple layers of warm clothing, including my topcoat, Shanti was dressed only in his dhoti.

Every half mile or so, I would stop and bark, “Where in the hell is this damn place?!”

He would turn around, smile, and say, “Just around the corner,” and then promptly race forward again.

A few times, he looked back to make sure I was still following him. That gave me the notion of just giving him the slip—it would teach him a lesson! But what if the Baba was indeed nearby now? I tried to engage the monk in conversation, but he kept moving, avoiding any verbal contact. I was getting angrier by the minute.

As we started to cross the Ganges River on a pontoon bridge, it became evident that, indeed, we were going to Jhusi. It was too late for me to turn around. Even after crossing the river, it was a long walk farther. The lights and humdrum noise of the Mela receded behind us.

This long walk in the dark took me back a few years to an incident when I fell into the clutches of a con man in Rome, Italy. It was the same pattern. A stranger takes you into their confidence. You are invited to go to a nearby destination, which turns into a long distance. Your inquiries are met with statements like “just around the corner.” In the end, you find yourself in a dark, isolated place where you are helpless.

My sense of adventure had kicked in once again to override good judgment. In Rome, it had taken all my presence of mind and all my wits to come out of the trap alive and in one piece.

I would soon learn that on this trip, my wits would be of no value.

We finally reached Devraha Baba’s hut, which turned out to be on the shore of the Ganges and built on top of four wooden stilts at least ten feet tall. The top half of the tower was covered with mist floating over the banks of the river. It looked surreal in the glimmering moonlight. Adding to the effect was the warm glow of the festival lights on the distant horizon. I felt like I was lightyears away from the Mela, on a different planet.

We approached the tower slowly and cautiously, with the monk leading the way. There was one person sitting on the ground between the stilts under the hut. We had not been able to make him out there in the shadows from a distance, but he had been able to see all of our movements.

The whole setup surprised me. I had expected a big encampment with dozens of tents full of people surrounding the Baba, along with the necessary security arrangements. Here, the most renowned personality of the Mela was practically by himself.

The man sitting under the hut turned out to be a well-known chemistry professor at the University of Allahabad. Even I recognized his name after all these years, having earned my Master’s degree there in 1956. With prayer beads in his right hand, he was keeping warm under a solitary blanket. In a gentle whisper, Shanti introduced me as “the great Indian journalist from America representing National Geographic.”

The professor recognized the name of National Geographic, but his eyebrows went up at hearing that I was a great Indian journalist. Of course he had never heard of me.

He put a finger to his lips to make sure we would not wake up Baba. In a soft whisper intermingled with gestures, he conveyed that Baba was resting, and we would need to come back during the day.

“But this man is a devotee of Baba who has come all this way solely to have his darshan and to write about him,” Shanti asserted.

The professor was not impressed.

“He is leaving in the morning!” the monk lied once again. “That is why we are here at this late hour.”

With sternness, the professor motioned for us to leave.

The ease with which Shanti doled out his brazen lies disgusted and embarrassed me. I did not want any part of it. It was not my idea to see the old man. I was not a devotee. I was not leaving in the morning. Angry, I stood a few feet away with my head half-turned away from them.

Shanti looked at me and shrugged his shoulders in resignation, as if to say, “Well, we did our best.”

That would teach this SOB a lesson, I thought. I felt an ironic sense of justice.

Just as we started to walk away, a voice came from the hut above. “Who is there? What is going on?”

It was the Baba.

Shanti rushed to reply before the professor could intervene. “There is a journalist from National Geographic who would like to write about you, Baba!” he shouted quickly.

“National Geographic…” Baba replied in a loud voice. “National Geographic is not going to print the article. This man is here for something totally different. I will see him,” Baba’s voice seemed to boom in an otherwise silent and still space.

Is he predicting that my article will not be printed? I did not want to even hear such a thought. I regretted being there. I felt as if someone had hit me in the pit of my stomach.

Another doubt arose in me. His voice was loud, clear, and authoritative—even youthful. He sounded like an 18-year-old. Never having heard a 350-year-old man speak, I did not know what to expect, but this was positively not it. It seemed to me the con game was thickening. The image of Dorothy’s Wizard crossed my mind.

Shanti’s gratitude burst forth: “He is your devotee, Baba! Just a few minutes will do.”

Oh, I wish he had not said that, I thought. I am not one of Baba’s devotees!

The professor, who was now standing outside the stilts, turned towards me. A wide and knowing smile covered his face, and he nodded gently. He seemed to acknowledge that something significant must be taking place if Baba would actually come out in the middle of the night, and that he was fortunate to be there to witness it. His eyes were dancing.

There was a rustle inside Baba’s hut on top of the tower and then some brief chatter as his assistant helped him get up. Baba’s body was unsteady as he came out, like a 90-year-old man who had been awakened from a deep slumber. He was short, and had long, matted hair. He was not wearing any clothes at all in that cold air.

My camera was ready, and I immediately started to shoot pictures. Even though the camera flashes were piercing, Baba just stood there gracefully, holding onto the railing of the platform, without protest. A few times he tried to protect his eyes with his skinny hands. I kept shooting.

After I had shot a dozen or so photos, the professor said, “That’s enough.” But I kept shooting.

After a few minutes, Shanti cried out, “Mr. Mathur, please, stop!” But I ignored him and still kept shooting, until my whole roll of 36 slides was emptied.

“Is it over now?” Baba asked.

“Yes, Baba. Thank you,” I replied, standing in front of him under the tower.

Baba went inside and then called out to the professor, “Give the child some prasad (holy food, similar to communion).” The professor got a small bowl made of leaves and started putting food in it for me.

Baba’s voice came again: “Make sure you also give him charnamrit (blessed water).” The professor brought me a small earthen cup.

Exhausted from our long walk, I sat down on the cold sand facing Baba’s hut. Shanti joined me, and we sat there in silence, each lost in our own world.

I was trying to digest what had just taken place. Baba’s youthful voice and the smooth, firm skin of his face belied even the seeming age of his 90-year-old-looking body. Granted, he could be 90 years old, but there was no way he could be 350 years old—or even half that age! What had I come all the way here for?

Then remorse hit me. It was not appropriate for me to shoot that many flashes at any man in the middle of the night without his permission—not to speak of an elderly man like him. Why had I been so rude? What had come over me?

A drop of cold water landed on my forehead, right between my eyebrows, and brought me to my senses. It felt like coming back from some distant land where I had been lost. I felt drowsy. I must have dozed off, I thought.

I became aware that my hands were absent-mindedly sifting through the cold sand at my sides. I pulled one hand free to look at my wristwatch. It was exactly midnight. It was now January 19—the auspicious moment of the start of the Mauni Amavasya.

Then I looked up to find the source of that falling droplet. A bird, perhaps? I wondered.

What I saw sent a shiver through my spine.

The sky was covered with thick, dark clouds. They were rolling in fast, like a well-trained army moving silently and swiftly to besiege a town under cover of darkness. The clouds had already gobbled up the full moon that had provided such a luminous ambiance only a little while ago.

Did I doze off for a long time, or did those clouds appear in an instant? I wondered. I could not remember seeing a single cloud all day long. Then I realized that it had been pitch-dark as we were walking up to the Baba’s camp. The moon must have come out of the clouds only for a few moments when we arrived.

For the huge masses of people gathered at the Mela with little or no shelter, rain would be a disaster. “Oh, God, no,” I said out loud. “Millions of your children are camped out in the cold. Spare them, please! They have come to experience You. They may be stupid, but they are your children. You are called merciful, so show your mercy! God, forgive these children of yours. They do not know what they are doing, but they mean well.”

I was praying in earnest, and I did not know what to think of that. I did not even believe in God. If I had heard these words from someone else, I would have been ready to argue and chastise them. And yet, here I was praying and using such words. It was preposterous.

The Spark – Part 2: Arriving at the Mela

My being at the Mela caused a stir among the foreign journalists.

I should have guessed that representing National Geographic called for being held in special esteem. It made me feel like an imposter. I was neither a journalist nor a photographer. My insecurities also were fed by the fact that I knew very little about the Mela.

For that reason, I reached the Mela grounds a couple of weeks ahead of Mauni Amavasya, the main event scheduled for January 19, 1977, when millions of people were expected to bathe at the confluence of two rivers, the Ganges and Yamuna.

India was the country where I was born and grew up, a country that I once loved and for whose freedom I fought in my own ways. It was also a country I had left in 1958 at the age of almost 23 to discover the ways of the West. As I blended into the throngs of incoming pilgrims, I started to pity those poor, ignorant people who could not adequately feed themselves. What I saw around me fed my intolerance for religions, the breeding ground of superstition and inefficiency.

I had made reservations at a campsite hotel established primarily for foreigners, including journalists from several countries. It was conveniently located and adequate. Each tent was divided into two small rooms and had a toilet and running water. There was a restaurant under a larger tent, which also served as the lobby for guests to get acquainted and hold meetings.

My mother, who lived in Allahabad, also came to the Mela. It was an opportunity of a lifetime for her. She would not have been able to attend the festival if I were not there. She brought her maid servant, primarily to cook, and I hired a young man as an assistant to help me carry photographic equipment. We took two rooms at the campsite.

The campsite was practically empty when we reached it, and some finishing touches were still being added. As the date of the main event approached, foreign journalists began to arrive. I noticed a pattern. At first, they would ignore me as “one of those natives,” a stranger. Gradually, they would find out that National Geographic was covering the event, and that I was their representative, and their attitudes would change. Whenever I was in the restaurant, they would gradually drift over to my table and linger.

One evening, a young new guest appeared. He was having a meal with another American journalist. The journalist spoke to him in a hushed voice, but when I started to see stolen glances and stares from the newcomer, I knew the journalist was telling him about me. Soon, the two walked over to my table, and the young newcomer introduced himself. He was an American freelance photographer.

“This is a bummer. I was hoping to sell my photographs to National Geographic, and now you are here!” he said, unable to hold back his disappointment.

I tried to reassure him that I was a businessman who was randomly assigned by the magazine to be their eyes and ears at the festival. I was certainly not a photographer.

“What about that stuff? Camouflage?” he said sarcastically, pointing to my camera and bag full of lenses and film. My smile was not convincing.

Also in attendance was a Norwegian writer who had several books on Eastern philosophy to his credit. He was well-versed in English and sought me out as a friend. But I spent little time at the campsite. I was at the Mela on a mission, and time was precious.

My workday started early in the morning and continued late into the night. Early on, I would stop by my tent a few times each day to check on my mother, but she quickly developed her own circle of friends.

I reminded myself that, being a novice, I needed to work twice as hard as the professional journalists. It didn’t take long for me to realize that Lady Luck was also smiling on me.

There was a large police force, more than 15,000 strong. This force was being commanded by three elite, high-ranking officers. One of them turned out to be a distant cousin with the same last name as me. The second was an old classmate of mine from Allahabad University. They introduced me to the third officer, who was their boss. He turned out to be an intellectual who admired National Geographic and lamented that, in India, he could not be a subscriber. Like me, he was also an early riser. On several occasions, we had our morning chai together while sitting in the sun.

With the help of these three officers, I was able to put together a list of people I should meet and places I should cover. I was given proper introductions, and sometimes police-driven vehicles would take me to my intended appointments. I now not only had an inside track, but I was also hobnobbing with the VIPs and receiving salutes at police checkpoints. My circle of freshly-minted friends kept multiplying. For them, a man from National Geographic was a good “show and tell” exhibit.

It was evident that an undercurrent of nervousness pervaded the administration. In practically all the press conferences I attended, one question invariably came up: “Record crowds are expected. What is being done to prevent a disaster like the one in 1954?” That was the year my college friends and I attended, when several hundred people were trampled to death and thousands more injured in the stampede. Everyone was still fighting that previous battle. The members of the administration were taking this fight personally.

The 15,000 police were being helped by at least that many volunteers. Army units were on alert in case of emergency. There was a sophisticated control room, commanded by a senior officer with considerable experience in crowd control. Three walls of a hall were covered with blackboards, and police officers on mobile ladders were constantly updating the traffic reports with colored chalk. Information on trains and bus traffic poured in from all parts of the state. Several times, traffic had to be delayed at the outskirts of Allahabad. Days before the start of the Mela, the control room predicted a crowd larger than what was originally anticipated.

The administration had done a mammoth job of laying out the infrastructure for a temporary tent city covering several square miles. The main tents were already erected, along with roads and fresh running water in each area. Plots were laid out for large groups who had rented space to set up their tent complexes, and other areas were designated for pilgrims to set up campsites. The Army Corps of Engineers had erected dozens of pontoon bridges for people to cross the river at convenient points. The whole area was being sprayed for mosquitoes twice a day. For miles around, roads were being sprinkled with insecticides.

As people started flooding into the Mela grounds, a new hubbub began. The campsites started filling with smaller tents. The main streets were soon dotted with restaurants and shops selling traditional souvenirs. There were gaudy neon lights, and loud music blared from many of the shops.

Specific measures had been taken to prevent the previous disaster. On the day of the Mauni Amavasya, pilgrims would be contained in a series of cattle pens. They were to be released from one pen to the next in orderly fashion. Pilgrims would have to go through a snake-like, winding path for several hours before they could reach the bathing grounds.

Hundreds of tall police towers with loudspeakers were erected at fixed distances to monitor any untoward happening. Messages could be communicated to the crowds at specific locations or to the entire body of millions of people at once. Several lost-and-found centers were established where people could be reunited. Announcements were being made constantly.

The administration was well-prepared. There was to be no stampede this time.

The Spark – Part 1: Assignment for National Geographic

October 1976

I woke up to a message.

For several minutes I sat with half-opened eyes, trying to comprehend the message. I got up and walked down the narrow aisle of the Boeing 747 en route from New Delhi to London. The hostess at the back of the plane checked her wristwatch and told me we were still three hours from landing.

Perhaps for the first time in my life, I was glad we were not yet at our destination. I needed time to process the newly-emerged thought.

While visiting my mother in Allahabad, India, I had seen a large tent city being constructed to host the Kumbh Mela, one of the most ancient Hindu religious festivals. Millions of Hindus gather every 12 years in Allahabad. For 40 days, throngs of people camp out on the banks of the Ganges River to worship or meditate many hours a day, visit various shrines, attend discourses by religious leaders, eat meagerly, and go for immersion in the holy river three times a day. Some people save their money for years in order to be able to attend the festival once in their lifetime.

Something—a voice—within me was urging me to go to Washington, D.C. and inform National Geographic magazine of this extraordinary event. But, no sooner had the idea emerged than the doubts kicked in: Most likely they already knew about it. After all, they are National Geographic! I would look like a fool.

I vaguely knew one person at the magazine, and what if he was not there or was busy and could not see me? Going to Washington without an appointment was risky. All I had to do was simply inform them in a letter from Wichita. If they had any questions, they could call me. Changing my schedule midway would be expensive. And my schedule was already loaded. Could I afford to crowd in one additional delay?

The idea was tender in its newness. But the doubts were strong and powerful, fully tested in prior battles—their long shadows like dark shrouds ready to smother the newborn idea. Like a baby, the fragile idea was holding tight to the only protection it knew—my trust in hunches from years of experience.

Just before landing, I made a decision. It would be like the toss of a coin. If it was meant to be, a schedule change would be feasible in London, and I would go on to Washington. Otherwise, I would continue to New York as scheduled.

The head was praying for New York, and the heart was rooting for Washington.

The heart won. The gentle lady at the Pan Am counter in London rerouted my flights through Washington and from there on to Wichita, where I lived. “Ah, the last seat!” she exclaimed victoriously. The die was cast, and I immediately felt relieved.

The next morning at 10:00, I was in the lobby of National Geographic asking to see Ken Weaver, the science editor. My heart was in my hands. As luck would have it, Mr. Weaver was in his office.

“I am the son-in-law of Everett Brown,” I told him over the lobby phone. “I met you a few years ago at McPherson College.” Silence. I felt my heart skip a beat. The wait seemed interminable. I realized that Mr. Weaver was trying to make the connection. After a long pause, he said he would come down to the lobby to meet me.

Ken was a third cousin of my father-in-law, and they had attended McPherson College together in Kansas. I had met him when my wife, Treva, and I had attended a dinner at one of my father-in-law’s class reunions.

Fortunately, Ken recognized me, apologized for not remembering, and invited me to his office. “What brings you to Washington?” he asked.

I told Ken I was just returning from my hometown of Allahabad, India. I told him about the tent city being constructed to host the Kumbh Mela, and that six million pilgrims were expected to attend. The sheer number was mind-boggling—a record crowd. I had simply come to inform National Geographic of the event, in case they wished to cover the story.

That was all.

“Tell me about it,” Ken said, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair.

As soon as I finished my story, he abruptly got up, asked me to wait a few minutes, and walked out of his office. Ken was gone for what seemed like a long time—long enough for me to browse through some books and magazines on his bookshelf.

When Ken returned, his excitement filled the office. He was almost out of breath. He tried to calm himself as he told me he had gone to see Mr. Grosvenor, the editor of the magazine. Ken wanted him to hear my story. It was a tremendous stroke of luck that Mr. Grosvenor could see me for a few minutes, he said. Mr. Grosvenor was busy for the rest of the day and then would be out of town for several days.

Ken gave me a quick briefing on Mr. Grosvenor as we rushed up to his office. He was the grandson of the founder of the magazine, and the great-grandson of Alexander Graham Bell. Ken urged me to repeat the story exactly as I had told it to him, right from the beginning.

We were asked to wait in his secretary’s office, because Grosvenor had asked three of his associates to join the meeting. Ken winked at me to indicate that was a good omen. Soon the others joined us, and we went into a large office. Grosvenor got up from behind his desk and came to greet us. He was much shorter and younger than I had imagined him. His handshake was firm. We all sat in chairs arranged in a circle away from his desk.

Grosvenor opened the meeting with introductions. There was the director of photography, the business manager, and a senior editor.

“Ken tells me you have an interesting story to tell us,” he began. “I am eager to hear it,” Grosvenor’s voice was commanding, and yet his eyes were gentle and smiling, as if to make me feel at ease.

I gave a thumbnail sketch of the historical background of the Kumbh Mela, but mainly focused on my personal experiences with the festival starting at the age of six. And then, I told of the last time I had attended.

“As college students, two of my friends and I attended the festival in 1954. We went simply out of curiosity; we were not spiritual pilgrims by any stretch of the imagination.

“Crowds were walking towards the Ganges at a leisurely pace. Most of the pilgrims were walking in small groups, chanting spiritual songs as they walked. The three of us were talking to each other, paying very little attention to our surroundings, when suddenly the crowd in front of us abruptly stopped moving.

“Before we knew it, the crowds at the back slammed into us. It was as if a car in front of us had stopped, and as we crashed into that car all the cars behind us slammed into us, causing a huge collision. Only in this case, it was not a multi-car pile-up, but a crush of human beings.

“Within seconds, the crowd locked in place, with not an inch of space to spare. Everyone was being squeezed as if in a vise. It was hard to breathe. Even though it was a cold day, all of us were perspiring.

“Suddenly, there was a movement—not of individuals, but of the entire crowd as one body. A block of several thousand people—male and female, young and old, rich and poor—were swaying as if they were one block of Jell-O on a plate.

“I felt like a grape trapped in that Jell-O. The movement was like a human earthquake. We three friends were shouting at each other, ‘Hold on tight!’ With terror in our eyes, we held on to each other for dear life, but our grips started to weaken. People were screaming at the top of their lungs, and it seemed as if one single voice was being directed at the skies. At that moment, we were united not only as one body and one voice, but also with one thought. None of us knew if we would come out of that black hole alive.

“After a few minutes, the crushing movement suddenly stopped, though we were still locked in place for a long time, perhaps an hour. I realized that in the brief time of the ‘human earthquake,’ we had experienced a glimpse of eternity, filled with the cries of men, women and children.

“Finally, the grip of the crowd broke, and we started to walk—like stunned zombies. After walking for a few minutes, we found out that, during the movement we had felt, several hundred people had been trampled to death and thousands more injured in a stampede. We three remained in that area for hours, consoling people who had lost friends and relatives. The stunned expression on the pockmarked face of one man will always remain with me—he had lost 28 members of his extended family.

“For days, we marveled at the thought that not one of us would have survived had we been a mere 100 yards ahead. Only a few steps separated life from death. We had witnessed the fragility and value of life.”

As I told this story, there was pin-drop silence in the room. I was experiencing something most unusual. After almost a quarter of a century, this was the first time I had been able to share that experience with anyone. Now, unrehearsed, the words flowed out from somewhere deep within me. I felt almost as if I were in two places at once—I was narrating the story, and yet at the same time I was in the audience, listening with rapt attention.

When the story was over, there was a moment of silence. Finally, Mr. Grosvenor spoke. “We were not aware of this event and had not planned to cover it. Would you like to go back and cover it for us?”

“Look,” I protested, “I simply came here to inform you of the event. I am not a writer. I have never written anything before.”

Grosvenor crossed his arms, his right-hand fingers caressing his left elbow. He looked straight at me, steadied his gaze for a moment, then with a brush of his hand dismissed my objection. “We have all the writers we want. Your job would be to tell the story like you have just told us.” He had made his decision.

I looked at the rest, and each of the faces was in support of what the boss had said.

The business manager, a burly man of good size, took charge in his deep, resonating voice. He reassured me that they had writers who would love to work with me. “It will be your article. They will help you polish it. You will have nothing to worry about.”

“As far as I am concerned, there could not be a bigger honor,” I said. “But I really came here only to make sure the event would be covered.”

“We understand that,” the business manager said. He then moved directly to the nuts and bolts of the assignment. When would I leave? How long would I stay at the festival? What would be my out-of-pocket expenses? I gave them an estimate, and it was approved on the spot.

Grosvenor asked Robert Gilka, the director of photography, which photographer he might assign to cover this event. Gilka suggested Raghubir Singh, who happened to be in Paris at that time. “Wonderful,” Grosvenor approved.

Grosvenor then looked at the senior editor, who had been quiet up to this point, and said, “You will be working with him.”

She nodded and took charge: “National Geographic is very thorough about making sure all the facts are correct. At least two people will be checking all the facts you submit. Make sure you bring back any supporting documents that you can.”

“What type of supporting documents?” I inquired.

“Any press releases, newspaper articles, notes, names, dates, places, etc.”

I nodded my understanding and agreement.

Robert Gilka and Ken took me out for lunch. Gilka quizzed me about my photography interest and skills. He suggested that I take pictures also, independent of Raghubir Singh. Then I had the honor of receiving some tips on photography from Gilka—the maestro himself. He was a man of few words who could get straight to the heart of the matter.

Next I was taken to the executive viewing room, where the editor of photography, a gentleman from Egypt, was expecting me. He showed me some slides to demonstrate the elements of good photography. I was also loaned some specialized lenses for my Nikon camera.

I picked up my letter of assignment, and then I accepted Ken’s invitation to spend the night at his home and meet his wife, Modena. The next morning, I left for Wichita.

I had gone to National Geographic on a mere hunch, and I ended up being handed a major assignment to cover the Kumbh Mela. It seemed all the stars were in alignment. It was all so surreal.

Confession

“I have a confession to make.”

My mother’s statement startled me. I was in India visiting my mother, who was not in good health. She was perched on the side of her wooden bed, and her body was gently swaying forward and back. I looked up from where I was sitting and found her eyes focused directly on me.

I was startled because I had never heard any such words from her in all my 54 years. Before she could say anything more, my mind started racing, imagining what she might have to share. Was she suffering from some serious ailment? Had my father committed some grievous mistake? Had she been conned out of all her savings? Or, perhaps I was not my father’s child? Such fearful thoughts raced through my mind.

I was speechless, my lips pursed, wondering what Pandora’s box she was about to open. I looked up at her again and saw a twinkle in her eyes aimed at some distant place. I could not decipher the mystery of her expression.

Then, with a gentle smile, she began her story: “My first child, Sharda, died in my arms at the age of ten months.”

Another shock. This was the first time she had ever spoken to me about the death of her first child. Twice, when I was a boy, I had tried to ask her about it. Both times she had laughed it off, avoiding the question. I had figured that her feelings were too deep for her to bear speaking about it. Now I sat in stunned silence as she continued.

“It was pneumonia, and my baby’s chest was throbbing heavily as I held her to my breast. There was no treatment for pneumonia at that time. I sobbed helplessly as she took her last breath. A new mother at 22, I cried day and night for my precious child that I had wanted so desperately.

“I became extremely depressed, as I had lost the most important thing in my life—my very reason for living. Worried for me, my mother took me to a distant city to see an ascetic holy man who was known for helping women who wanted to have children.

“The elderly holy man was dressed only in a loincloth and was sitting on a small platform beneath a large tree in front of his straw hut. In front of him was a small fire that was almost burned out. There were about 50 people sitting in front of the man in total silence. My mother and I quietly sat down at the back of the group.

“After some time, the holy man beckoned me to come forward. As I stood before him, with folded hands, I bowed deeply. He took a pinch of cold ash and put it in my mouth as a blessing. Then he said, ‘Celebrate, because you will have a son. He will rise above worldly affairs.’

“I said to the holy man, ‘I will dedicate my son to you.’ Then, I reverently walked backward away from him until he was out of my sight.”

A slightly bemused expression came into her face: “I have no idea what moved me so much in that moment that I would dedicate you to him.” After a pause, she continued, “Not too long after that, you were born. When I first took you in my arms and looked at you, I was filled with a heavenly joy! But I was also reminded of the sacred vow I had made to that holy man. I was afraid if I took you back to him for dedication, you might also give up everything, including your own mother. I became terrified of losing you. I had already lost one child—I could not bear the thought of losing you also. I wanted you to grow up in our family, get married, and have children and grandchildren. I wanted to see you prosper, not become like that naked ascetic who had blessed me.”

“But I had made a sacred vow and knew that I had to keep it. I decided that, come what may, I would fulfill my obligation when you were one month old. But when that time came, I postponed it and said I would take you when you were one year old. At each of your birthdays, I was reminded of my vow, but still my fears were so strong that I postponed it until the next year, again and again.

“Now I am 78 years old, and this is my only unfulfilled promise. I want you to go and present yourself to that holy man for his blessing.”

A hushed silence fell over the two of us. Finally, I asked, “What was the name of this man?”

“I do not remember,” she said.

“Which city had you gone to?” I asked.

“Hoshiarpur,” she replied.

“Which part of Hoshiarpur did he live in?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” she said. “My mother took me. I just remember that we walked several miles from the railroad station.”

“Mom,” I responded in frustration, “that was 55 years ago, and you have no idea what his name was or where he lived in Hoshiarpur! Most likely that man has been gone for many years. How do you suppose I will be able to present myself to him?”

“Yes, I know!” she said, a smile crossing her lips. She must have realized how ludicrous her request sounded. “He will be gone, but there must be someone connected to him. Perhaps one of his disciples! Y-y-you know what I mean,” she stammered.

I held my bowed head with both hands. “Mom, it’s too late to do anything about it now,” I protested. “We have no name, no address, and no way to even start the search!”

Now she was laughing boisterously, and the mood had changed. But still she was insistent. “There will be someone.… one of your friends—and you have many. Ask Sinha!”

“Mom,” I said, “I would sound so silly!” My face was contorted in a grimace, and I shook my head vehemently.

“I beg you to try,” she said. Looking back now, that conversation with my mother feels a bit ironic. Neither of us realized it at that moment, but perhaps we both knew it on some level: my search had actually begun a long time before that. I had not been searching for that man, of course, because I did not know about him. But I had been searching, without knowing what I was looking for, or why.