The Cauliflower by Nicola Barker

rising to the … I’m just a little bit—a little bit overwhelmed by it all … flustered.… Just to be—to be held by the hand of … well, of—of God . To be held by this hand … but before everything … at the start of that great journey … years, even decades , before it would all coalesce into …
    Oh my, oh my, oh my.
    Hup ! Eh? Hang on! What now? We seem to be—we’re suddenly moving toward the … very rapidly … we’re … Good Heavens! Is he—? Are we being—? Is he planning to—? Is he tossing us into the—? Throwing us into the holy Ganga? Into the river? Giving us a sacred burial? Before we’ve even had a chance to retrieve the technology?! Is he—?
    Plop!
    Aaargh! Into the water … but we’re supposed to be—we’re meant to be waterproofed at—at—at—at some level? Aren’t we?
    Have we become detached from the circa-1855 recently deceased swift? Are we alone? Are we sinking? If you press the yellow button on your remote you’ll be able to see how—tell exactly how … how deep  …
    Oooh . It’s very murky down here.… Did he do that on purpose? Just throw us—? Did he not understand—not recognize…? Did he not want us to be a part of—to see his … to bear witness to his … to his phenomenal…?
    Is that a … a giant catfish? Swimming toward us? No! No! No! Please don’t! Please don’t! Aaaargh! It swallowed us! We’ve been swallowed by a giant catfish! And this is—this is its throat … and now this is its upper intestine. I’m not sure if we can … the signal … I’m not sure if it will—if it will carry on for too … for too much … for too … for too … for …
    Hmm . Seventy-six percent of the total budget up in smoke. The Cauliflower ™ is now officially in ruins. Seventy-six percent! And that’s from a total budget of … uh … um  … of nothing.
    So how much does that add up to, exactly? You do the math.
    What ?! In pounds sterling?!
    Oh! Oh thank goodness! In rupees  …
    In 1856, Gadadhar Chatterjee, who will one day become Sri Ramakrishna (although we don’t know quite how), is perched, stark naked, on the steps of the main ghat at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple holding a fistful of dirt in one hand and a fistful of coins in the other, repeating, under his breath, with an extraordinary level of concentration and intensity, seemingly ad infinitum:
    â€œ Rupee is dirt, dirt is rupee . Rupee is dirt, dirt is rupee . Rupee is dirt, dirt is rupee .…”
    In the not-too-distant future, such will be Sri Ramakrishna’s profound abhorrence for money that even the slightest touch of a coin to his sensitive fingertips will leave unsightly singe marks on his delicate skin. So powerful will become his state of divine non-attachment that he will prove incapable of engaging in financial transactions of any kind. He will not spend money. He will not save money. He will not use money. He will own nothing. Nothing . Other people—devotees, helpers, generous benefactors—will now need to support his every whim.
    Of course, this is an immense blessing. Because the privilege of supporting a great saint financially is an honor of almost inconceivable magnitude. Imagine the joy of purchasing a prayer mat for Mohammed, a bathing cloth for Buddha, or a sandal for Jesus. Imagine the simple joy of service as worship.
    March 1885, early afternoon. The cynical brother of a disciple inquires:
    Cynical Brother ( in the hope of provoking the saint into a show of ego ): “Sir, what do I call you, please? What is your name?”
    Sri Ramakrishna ( smiling, while gently massaging the cynical brother’s back ): “Names? Do we have names? [ waving his hand genially