“Then?”

“Then? Then came a long line of buffoons. But yes, our wives were good wives. Not too many that were fairy-like and fine, one or two at most, mainly elephantine. But them I’ll show you another day.”

Suddenly, Lambodar leapt down before Harbart—nothing to him but a behemoth belly. Harbart reverently flung himself to the ground again.

“Want to be free? Harbart! Loser! Lose your soul! Pray to Shyama or Dakshina Kalika. Kring kring kring hu hu hring hring—”

“Cut the crap,” said Sridhar, “The only one to pray to is the Adyakali, the original and only Kali, no one else. Haru, dear, dear Haradhan …”

Hring kring kring parameshwari swaha!

Harbart’s head was reeling. Kring kring hail the secret Kali, kring dring sri the funeral Kali, Om Kali, only Kali, frightful-figured, engrossed-and-enflamed-eyed Kali, impatient-for-the-taste-of-flesh-and-blood Kali. The adopted son, the throat-slit Jhulanlal, dances on, dances on, headless and heedless, his bottom still sticky with shit. Suddenly suit-clad long-late Lalitkumar appears, shouting, “Light! Light!” while downstairs never-late Girishkumar shrieks the hour with “Peeyu kahaan, peeyu kahaan!” and by the time this episode draws to a close Dhui the sky-skimmer is shrinking from miniature to minuscule until he is no more than a molecule yet his voice keeps growing and boom-booming until it is far beyond the decibels that the human ear can endure: “Harbart, you’ll burn on a wood pyre … Harbart, you’ll burn on a wood fire … Harbart, you’ll burn on a wood pyre … Harbart, you’ll burn on a wood fire …”

*

May 17, 1992. A letter arrived for Harbart. A letter typed on white paper. A letter that read thus:

Dear Sir,

From both the press and public reports, we have come to know of your “supernatural” prowess—hence, this letter from us to you. We, the members of the Rationalist Association, have for quite a few years now been exposing the people-fooling fraudulent feats of many saints and sages, many astrologers and godmen. We are not interested in how well you know our activities in this regard. But what we wish to avow, as far as you are concerned, is that establishing contact with dead souls is also nothing but fraud. The business you are conducting—exploiting the weakness of people—is a sham. On May 25, my colleagues and I will visit your office around 2 in the afternoon. Reporters from the two newspapers that have carried reports about you will also be present. If within three days of receiving this letter, you do not contact our offices with the promise of ceasing this trickery immediately and do not submit a written confession that your “supernatural” activities are in truth merely a charade, then we will be forced to assume that you have accepted our challenge.

Yours truly,

Pranab Ghosh

General Secretary, West Bengal Rationalist Association

Harbart flung the letter aside.

“Illi! Fucking willy! So many big people—lawyers—doctors—everyone—believed but now all of a sudden blam, it’s a sham! Some strand of pubic hair from somewhere—and I have to go to him and confess. Why? I am a monkey and you’re my uncle? Carbuncle! Who are you? Over the nest a fuck-you flew. Come, come you shit-eaters you, such a tale I’ll tell you that your balls’ll ring like bells. Not making any trouble, not stepping out, not needling anyone, just got a dream, and set up shop—and those bastards are burning up inside! This is why the Bengalis are going to hell. Good, let them!”