‘Come! Come to me, my disciple. You have faithfully done your duty. You’re the epitome of steadfastness, not agitated by suffering, not agitated by anger. You have pursued action, not inaction. You have realized, like the wise, that each one of us is responsible for his own fate. You have realized that you and I, you and they, are all the same. Those who perish in the plague are you, those who perish on the streets in hunger are you, those who live in palatial houses are also you, and they are all me.’

Meanwhile, the Parsees, lacking theological access to such unity of being, began weighing their own life in a balance.

‘Haven’t we been charitable, Adi?’

‘Yes, we have.’

‘I have doubts, Adi.’

‘Have no doubt. There is no Parsee on the streets. The poor, the weak, the orphans, the disabled, all live in care. All have a roof. All have food, education and health.’

‘Yes, they all have jobs as well.’

‘Yes. We’ve tried, haven’t we?’

‘We have relieved the poor. Let us sing the Ashem Vohu together.’

‘Ashem vohû vahishtem astî

ushtâ astî ushtâ ahmâi

hyat ashâi vahishtâi ashem.’

They sang although they were not in harmony.

‘Now the Yatha—’

‘In the entire scheme of things, this will not matter. The universe is just a string of beads around Krishna’s neck. Krishna is manifest in my acts and I, in his. Here I come. Here I come for you, Krishna. Take me in your arms.’

Dhansukhlal appeared to have attained a sort of spontaneous nirvana. With his arms outstretched, he ran towards the window and through it, out; down, down, down he went, eluding all the dualities; his mind fixed on Krishna, his mouth chanting Om, Om, Om, he transcended life and death, became deathless; only his soulless body, his materiality, hit the earth with a loud shattering thud, and split into a million billion pieces.

28

At the British Chewing Gum Company, the employees were in an expressive spirit rarely observed in the office.

‘This is from all of us. A small gift. Please accept,’ they said.

Thompson lifted the red muslin cloth, and beneath it, in a glass case, cast in white marble, was his sculpted form, sitting on a bull. He was a matador, brave, handsome, invincible . . . and then, before the second ran out, he recovered his imagination from Europe where it had its natural destination, to the new centre of his world, and the Spanish matador and Europe, became instantly provincialized and transformed into the idiosyncratic. It was a cow. Sacred, yes, but for him it was still a cow. It was a privilege, yes, but for him it was still a cow. They clapped. He could not find pride within him. He searched for humour. He arrived at patronizing indulgence. They know not. He smiled meekly and allowed his new moustache to provide the remaining emotional response—it had to serve some function.

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