The Collector of Time
by Pravan Omprakash
part 1
Ever since I was little, I’ve dreamt of visiting the holy city of Varanasi. My grandmother used to tell me stories about her trips there. I care little about temples in populated cities, and I don’t even remember what she told me, but the feeling of awe remained over the years. It became one of those things I had to just do because I spent so much of my childhood thinking about it.
As fate would have it, when my dear grandmother’s soul departed, my mother informed us that she had wanted her ashes spread in the Ganges. My mother was unable to do it herself, so I volunteered. It seemed the perfect opportunity to take a trip to Varanasi.
I embarked on my journey by train, carrying a small, grey suitcase and my grandmother’s remains. The trip didn’t start well. The ticket conductor informed me that there had been a mix-up with the seating arrangements, and I found myself surrounded by a large group of devotees, all travelling from Delhi. They were followers of the great Sancharan Baba of Benares, a figure I had never even heard of and certainly had no interest in.
I had hoped to get some sleep on the train but, after a lengthy discussion with the conductor, it became clear that I had no choice but to accept my assigned seat. Reluctantly, I made my way through the dense crowd of men and women who were eagerly trying to catch a glimpse of the Baba before he left Delhi. The crowd was overwhelming, and it was quite a struggle to reach my seat.
Once there, I noticed a devotee; dressed in a blue kurta and pants, with sacred ash on his forehead. He was diligently cleaning the seat, picking out tiny bits of food left by previous passengers and wiping the seat down with scented water. Next to him, other devotees were carefully arranging fruits on the table. I found all this rather bothersome.
“I’d like to keep this here,” I said, holding my grandmother’s ashes. The devotee, who was busy selecting fruits from a bag, glanced up and offered a warm smile. “Of course. Sunanda, please take this gentleman’s belongings and store them safely,” he instructed, turning to a middle-aged woman beside him. Before I knew it, both my suitcase and the pot of ashes had been swiftly moved to the next compartment.
“Hey, where are you taking that? You better not steal from me!” I protested, standing up to follow this Sunanda.
“Don’t worry, sir. You are our guest,” the man replied with another smile, which only irritated me more.
“No, I want to change my seat. I’m going somewhere else,” I declared, getting up so abruptly that I knocked the fruit from his hand. I braced myself for a confrontation, but instead, he calmly picked up the apple and gently wiped it with a cloth from his shoulder.
“Not everyone gets the chance to sit with Guruji. You must be quite fortunate,” he said in a soothing tone, placing a hand on my shoulder.
I quickly shrugged it off and snapped, “Don’t touch me. I’m going to call the conductor!”
“What seems to be the problem?” a calm, steady voice asked from behind the devotee.
I heard murmurs around me, “Guruji, Guruji.”
The crowd of devotees parted, revealing their leader: the great Sancharan Baba from Benares. Having never seen him before, I had conjured an image in my mind of what he might look like; a long beard, uncut hair, brightly colored robes, and his body covered in ash. But the man before me defied those expectations. He was dressed in a simple striped T-shirt and jeans. His beard was somewhat scruffy but not long, and his hair was neatly oiled and combed. Had it not been for the reverence of his followers, I would never have guessed he was a holy man.
He walked over and gracefully took a seat on the spot that the devotee had meticulously cleaned, facing me with an expression devoid of any emotion. “Are you being troubled by them?” he inquired.
“No,” I replied almost instinctively, surprised by my response. A strange force, perhaps curiosity, seemed to anchor me to my spot.
“Then please, sit down,” he said, maintaining his steady tone. I found myself complying without hesitation.
He then turned to his devotees and flashed a radiant smile. “Thank you. You may take your seats now. I’ll call if I need anything.” They dispersed quietly, leaving just me and Sancharan Baba alone together.
“I am Sancharan,” he introduced himself politely, without a trace of arrogance.
“Don’t you have a surname?” I blurted out, immediately regretting my lack of manners.
“My name is sufficient for identification. And you are?” he responded, his calm demeanor unshaken by my abrupt question.
“Pramod,” I replied tersely, leaning back in my seat. The train began to move, its whistle echoing in the distance.
Sancharan Baba chuckled lightly and remarked, “Touché.”
I managed a weak smile and turned my head away, feeling a bit awkward.
“Are you heading to Varanasi?” he asked casually, picking up an apple and taking a bite.
“Yes. And you?” I inquired, curious despite myself.
“Yes, I am returning home,” he replied, offering me an apple, which I declined.
“I have blessed this apple; it will grant you a long life,” he said with a laugh, placing the fruit back on the table. As the train gained speed, I realized there was no escaping this unusual encounter, so I decided to engage in the conversation.
“I don’t believe in all that,” I admitted.
“Fair enough,” he responded simply.
His lack of defense surprised me. Was he a fraud who didn’t even bother to hide it?
“I see you’re not a religious man,” Sancharan Baba observed, noting my troubled expression. It was almost as if he could read my thoughts.
“Not really,” I confessed.
“Then may I ask why you’re going to Varanasi?”
“I need to immerse my grandmother’s ashes. It was her last wish.”
“I am sorry for your loss. Her soul will find peace,” he said, closing his eyes briefly. I offered a weak smile again. He was a strange man; I didn’t know how to react around him.
“Why didn’t you defend yourself?” I asked bluntly, my curiosity getting the better of me.
Sancharan Baba’s laughter rang out again, and he took another bite of his apple. “You said you’re not a religious person, so what more is there for me to say?”
“But, bu...” I stammered, struggling to respond.
“Why don’t you believe in religion and God?” he asked quickly.
“Because I’ve never seen God, nor have I felt any higher power,” I replied.
He took a large bite of the apple and then slapped the seat with enthusiasm. “Exactly! I can’t show you God. So, what’s the point in defending religion now?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me to have faith?” I inquired.
“Have you needed faith in your life so far?” he countered.
“Not really. I’ve needed to have faith in people, though.”
“That’s not my area of expertise. How can I sell you something that you don’t want? That would make me a foolish salesman.”
His argument left me speechless. I turned to gaze out the window, watching the blur of greenery as we moved beyond the outskirts of Delhi.
“You didn’t expect that, did you?” he asked, his eyes twinkling playfully.
I looked at him, momentarily lost for words, then burst into laughter, with him joining in.
“You’re different from the others I’ve met,” I remarked.
“Thank you, I consider that a compliment,” he replied.
“Why aren’t you dressed like your devotees?” I inquired.
“They follow what they believe in, and I don’t interfere. For a train journey, I prefer pants,” he explained.
“I see. And where are you coming from?”
“I was at the annual conference on Hinduism in Delhi.”
“Interesting. What was the topic?” I asked, surprising myself by engaging in such a conversation.
Sancharan Baba shook his head, amused. “This is like a man who’s scared of ghosts and wants to hear a horror story.”
“I’m not scared; I just don’t believe in it,” I clarified.
“Even worse,” he quipped.
An awkward silence ensued before I ventured, “So, you’re not going to try to change my mind?”
“I already have enough trouble handling these devotees; I don’t need another one,” he said with a laugh.
I found myself increasingly fascinated by this unusual man. Why did he have such a large following? Why were people so devoted to him when he seemed so indifferent?
“I can see you’re interested in me,” Sancharan Baba observed.
“Immensely. May I ask you bluntly, why are you famous?”
His laughter at my question was so loud it startled me. A devotee peeked in to check if everything was alright, but he waved her away before responding, “You know, nobody has asked me that question in the last ten years.”
“Then I really want to know the answer.”
“You could look it up on the Internet. Why ask me?”
“I want to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“I can predict people’s past and future, and my words have never gone wrong,” he explained.
“Astrology?” I asked, trying to understand.
“No, it’s not that.”
“Then? How did people discover this ability of yours?”
“I used to make small predictions for people I knew. Word spread, and before I knew it, they had turned me into a Baba, attributing great powers to me.”
His openness puzzled me. Wasn’t he worried I might expose him? But then again, what did I really know? My mind was buzzing with questions when the conductor entered our compartment to check tickets. The Baba’s devotees promptly showed theirs. I began searching my pocket for mine, but the conductor stopped me.
“Weren’t you the one who didn’t want to sit here? I remember you, it’s okay,” he said, recognizing me. I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Sancharan Baba watching me, that mischievous smile playing on his lips.
The conductor then turned to Sancharan Baba, bowing slightly. “Please bless me,” he requested.
“God will bless you,” the Baba replied with a gentle smile.
The conductor left happily. I looked on with amazement. “But you told him, ‘God will bless you.’ That is always true, even if I say that. God will bless anybody.”
Sancharan Baba’s eyes twinkled with a hint of amusement. “Maybe not anybody, but I see your point. Why don’t you try saying it, then?”
I was puzzled by his confidence in me. “I don’t understand. Why are you being so open with me?” I asked, picking up the apple from the table and taking a bite.
As I chewed, he watched me closely, then answered, “You don’t strike me as someone who would reveal secrets.”
His observation irked me, mainly because it was accurate. I had indeed contemplated this while he spoke. Revealing him as a fraud, even if he admitted it himself, seemed futile. His devotees would never believe me, and I can’t handle a mob. Besides, what proof did I have? So, driven only by curiosity, I pressed on.
“So, are you... a fake?” I asked. The question hanging in the air between us.
Sancharan’s face grew serious, and he remained silent for a moment, causing me to regret my blunt inquiry. But then, his face softened into a smile, and he leaned in, whispering, “I really can see into the past and the future.”
“How can I trust that you’re telling the truth?” I asked, looking for some kind of confirmation.
He turned his gaze towards the window, where the darkness of the evening was rapidly enveloping the landscape. Then he spoke in a hushed tone. “I think I can tell you.”
I leaned in closer, eager to catch every word. “Not now, not now. The night is still young. For now, you can believe me.”
I settled back into my seat, feeling a mix of disappointment and intense curiosity. I had become so engrossed in this mystery that everything else seemed to fade away. Sancharan seemed to understand my impatience and remarked, “Patience is a virtue.”
“Why haven’t any of your devotees asked how you do it?”
He sighed softly. “That’s a question I often ponder. Over the years, I’ve realized that most people put things they can’t explain into two boxes.”
“And what are those?” I asked, intrigued.
“Magic and Divinity,” he replied.
His words resonated with me. Yet, part of me was still troubled by the idea that he might be exploiting these beliefs. As if reading my thoughts, Sancharan said, “Honestly, my predictions will come true. I help people. It’s not as if I’m doing anything harmful. If that’s the case, then a magician should also be criticized for entertaining people.”
“But you have devotees, people who have abandoned their lives for you. The station was crowded with people eager to see you. Isn’t that wrong?” I pressed.
“Is it more wrong than the countless frauds out there who truly have no abilities? My power might not be divine, but it is a power, nonetheless,” he stated. Without knowing the source of his power, I couldn’t argue further.
“Then what about all this involvement in the conference on Hinduism?” I asked, still trying to piece together the puzzle of this man.
“Ah, I had to learn all that over the years. I’ve done a lot of reading and have learned from the masters themselves. So, you could say I’m an expert in that area.”
I found myself inclined to believe every word he said, but a part of me resisted, suspecting that this might be his real talent: the ability to make people believe.
“So, if it’s not divinity, is it magic?” I queried, finishing the last bit of the apple.
“No, it’s science,” he replied, a twinkle in his eye.
His answer sent my mind racing with wild theories. Time travel? An alien in disguise? The thoughts were outlandish, and I felt silly even thinking about these things. I decided to set these thoughts aside and wait patiently for more answers.
“Tell me, have you lived in Delhi all your life?” Sancharan asked me.
“Yes. Born and brought up.”
“How can you live in that place? Personally, I cannot stand the city.”
An attack on my hometown was not something that I would take silently. “Why do you say that? What has Delhi done to you?”
“There are a hundred reasons. The air, the people, the traffic.”
“That is in every city.”
Sancharan just smiled and kept quiet. I didn’t know what to make of this turn in the conversation and smiled back.
The rest of the journey passed in relative silence. Sancharan gazed out into the night, seemingly lost in thought, while I resorted to reading a book on my phone. We ate our dinner quietly, except for a few remarks about the quality of the chapati. After dinner, I continued reading, secretly grateful for this unique encounter and the unexpected comfort of an almost empty berth. I could stretch out my legs and use the upper berth for my bag. The universe did act in mysterious ways.
The gentle rocking of the train and the dullness of the book quickly lulled me into a deep sleep. The last thing I vaguely remembered was seeing Sancharan Baba pulling out a bag from under the seat and taking something from it, but then I drifted off completely.
A few times in the night, I felt my head becoming cold, like an ice pack being placed on it. It was a heavenly feeling, and I couldn’t bother waking myself up. I wanted to just keep sleeping till I couldn’t anymore.
* * *
Copyright © 2024 by Pravan Omprakash
