Here, at the paanwala’s counter, the first public-intellectual emerged, for the paanwala knew who was to be held responsible for the famine in Bengal, the plague in Bombay and the drought in Bihar. It was here that knowledge was made independent, cosmopolitan, universal, and through this ‘paanversity’, the spirit of India was born. Here the first critique of Marx was articulated not just in word but in deed. The paanwala was both a capitalist and a worker. What was a paanshop if not a microcosm of a factory floor, with its floor plan, assembly line, noise and speed, and yet, not alienating but retaining its creativity? If only Marx was a paan-chewer.

‘These are very important questions,’ the professor said, ‘so let me not misguide you. Do you see that swami approaching the hall? He is the real authority. I am just starting out, a dilettante.’ He pointed to a guru in saffron robes who had just stepped out of the toilet. A dozen or so persons lay prostrate before him.

‘He sure is busy,’ said Young.

‘When he sees you, he won’t be.’

‘I’ll let you know if I need you again.’

When Young appeared on the swami’s radar, the swami glanced at his bevy of white-robed disciples, and then scanned the room.

‘Nahin, nahin, sirf bhagwaan ke dwar par mattha teko, wahi antaryami hai, sabka swami hai (No, no, one should only prostrate oneself before God, only He is all knowing, only He is the master of all),’ the swami protested, placing his hand on Young’s shoulder in a familiar manner.

‘I didn’t intend to,’ Young said.

‘Koi baat nahin, ham sabko maante hain—Ram, Allah, Wahe-Guru, Jesus, Rab. Koi bhedbhav nahin. Kaise aana hua? (Never mind, I believe in all the gods—Ram, Allah, Wahe-Guru, Jesus, Rab. No discrimination. What brings you here?)’ He didn’t look at Young as he spoke, but instead continued scanning the public.

‘What is it?’ one of the disciples asked the officer.

‘Sir has some questions for Swamiji,’ replied the officer.

‘Is it spiritual? Why doesn’t he ask Swamiji directly?’

‘Sir doesn’t know the language?’

‘He is private, isn’t he?’ the disciple asked.

‘Yes.’

‘No connection with the government, I hope? Is it a big company?’

‘It is—BCC. There is also a small donation for the temple,’ responded the officer.

‘He doesn’t care much for donations.’

The disciple whispered something in the swami’s ears.

‘Mere mitr, hum jaroor tumhari madat karenge, mere paas duniya bhar se log aate hain, kisne bheja tumhe, Mr Smith? (My friend, of course I will help you. People come to me from all over the world. Who sent you, Mr Smith?)’ Young did not understand much except for the ‘Mr Smith’.

‘Young—’