In matters of religion, the city of Varanasi attracted comparisons in the superlative. If there was a priest somewhere who had married a woman to a tree, in Varanasi, there were priests who specialized in tree horoscopes. If there was a priest somewhere who could perform a six-hour wedding recital by rote, in Varanasi there were priests who could undo weddings by conducting the same recital in reverse, word by word. If there was a priest somewhere who could conduct an exorcism, in Varanasi there were priests who could transform a human, usually a woman, into a ghost, or clouds, or free-floating atoms, or whatever else, depending on the scientific disposition of the client, along with her jewellery. One entrepreneurial priest transformed a devout cow profiteer’s gold necklace into sound waves that travelled to heaven and retransformed to gold on the neck of his client’s deceased grandmother. The profiteer had sold ten healthy cows to the local Muslim butcher much to the dismay of his bedridden grandmother. She passed away the next day.

‘A single cow will not appease her,’ the priest responded to the cow profiteer’s offer to sacrifice a cow. ‘She calls out for her gold necklace.’ The necklace was a family heirloom. The cow profiteer sought a second opinion.

‘Who ever heard of an old grandmother call out from heaven?’ advised the reformed Hindu preacher.

‘Ignore him. What can you expect from a Brahmo? He won’t hear even if God calls,’ the priest retaliated.

The matter was finally taken to a senior priest in Varanasi, who, with substantial effort—two full days and three assistants—accomplished the feat. The gold necklace was transmigrated. The profiteer wondered, in private, whether heaven was the right address for his grandmother. The old woman had given up many norms of propriety and sobriety in her last few years. Her language was interspersed with invented and classical abuses. She had accumulated a substantial debt with the local bootlegger. It began with tobacco. The doctor recommended that she rub it on her inflamed gums. It worked too well. The pain subsided in a week. As a preventive measure, she continued her treatment. A few weeks later, she had doubled the dosage and added some country liquor. This cocktail persisted with her until her last day. In the afternoons she would shout at the young boys playing in the compound, ‘Madarchodoon, apni lund apni gand mein dalo  . ya meri le lo (You motherfuckers, shove your dicks in your arse  . or take mine).’ She was surely going to hell, he thought. He did not take it up with the priest. The journey to hell would have cost a lot more. Hell was in the deep recesses of the earth. It would require substantial digging. Money was not the only issue. When the Mughal Emperor Akbar invited Birbal, then Mahesh Das, to be a part of his royal court, a noble courtier objected.

‘Test him,’ Akbar said.