The swami remembered a report in a Hindi newspaper about Englishmen striking odd conversations with unsuspecting Hindus and then writing anecdotes to amuse magazine readers in London. News travelled fast in this town. Reporters were no longer brought to Bombay. It was a saturated market. Instead, they were taken north, even beyond Delhi, to the foothills of the Himalayas. The true devotees, those who treated their body as a site of worship, those who had truly pushed themselves to the edge and beyond, those who began the day with deep absorption, followed by surya namaskar, pranayama, tridosha asanas, bandhas and then meditation, visualization and finally, at night, laughed alongside others, loved and levitated, these practitioners had long vanished, made themselves invisible, transformed themselves into air, water, and the mountain. What remained was industriousness. These new entrepreneurs would get their hands on the juiciest performer. In the good old days, it was generally someone’s uncle. The uncle would be placed on an elaborately decorated pedestal. A sandalwood incense stick would be placed next to him. He would be given some opium. Finally, he would recite some obtuse statements.

In the past few years, the business had become competitive. The physical demands of the profession were rising by the week. Recently, someone had set up a training school. Then there was the Kumbh Mela. Here, new trends were discovered. Regional flavours were uncovered. Kumbh was also a centre for invention; what better place than the banks of the Ganga. Until last year, three gurus could balance themselves on their penises—now nine in one village alone. The swami remembered the time when a reporter had turned up with a large camera and the babas, who earlier wore a loin cloth, took to walking in the nude. The performative requirements were high; head-shaking, body-shaking, some pierced themselves in public. One baba had begun vibrating like he was having an epileptic stroke. He claimed that the Goddess Kali had entered his body. He continued writhing for a full twenty minutes, complete with froth and the works. His eyeballs seemed swollen and a red fluid dripped from his mouth. It wasn’t paan.

‘Outstanding, such an authentic performance,’ said his disciples in awe from behind the curtain. In the next five minutes, however, a massive cardiac arrest wrenched life out of him. His eyes were bloodshot. He had bitten off his tongue and had choked on it. Some of the experienced members of the group got together. They agreed that things had been taken too far. The newcomers in the profession were not even from the neighbouring regions—a drought occurred somewhere and new ascetics materialized here. Week after week, the police were being brought in because some tourist would have their wallets stolen, or worse, their camera transformed into a mouse by the powers of Bholenath. The mouse was returned to the owner. No one knew how to transform it back into a camera.

‘What did he look like?’