The Cauliflower by Nicola Barker Page A

] ‘ Hey! Hey you! Hello! ’ If you call me like this, then I will know that I am being called.”
    Autumn 1881
    Whilst engaged in conversation with a new devotee, Sri Ramakrishna falls momentarily silent (apparently lost in deep spiritual contemplation) and then suddenly, perking up, he exclaims:
    â€œIt’s both sweet and sour,
    Made with lemons, and it fizzes.
    Bring some next time, please.”
    Ah. Lemonade. The Paramahamsa wants lemonade.
    Spring 1857, at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple (six miles north of Calcutta)
    Uncle says it is almost impossible to eliminate the ego completely. He is very fond of using the example of a bowl which has been used for the purpose of storing chopped onions. Even when all of the onions have been removed, Uncle says, no matter how carefully you clean out that bowl, some trace of the smell will always remain. The ego is like that. You think it is gone but something always stays behind. A slight smell or a taint. And it will pop up and startle you when you least expect it to.
    Of course, extremely holy men, after years of intense austerity and renunciation, can sometimes reach a state which we Hindus call nirvikalpa samadhi . If, during a divine vision, you finally get to see Brahman —or God—face-to-face, then your body will not manage to survive the experience. After only a short while you will be dead. It is as though the ego is burned away by the light of God and then the body shrivels up like an empty seed pod. Spiritual pursuits are very good for your soul, but they can certainly be harmful to your health.
    Look at Uncle. Who can deny that Uncle is blessed? That he is special? Uncle can bring such joy to people. He is full of love. There is an intensity and an honesty and a childlike innocence. There is an intoxicating attraction. I have heard people call it a charisma. Uncle could live a charmed life. And all the Chatterjees and the Mukherjees could live this life right alongside Uncle. But there is a perversity in Uncle. And this is his longing for God, which is almost like a sickness. It is very nearly a madness.
    Just one year after the inauguration of the Kali Temple Uncle’s beloved brother, Ramkumar, tragically passed away. Thank God I was here with Uncle to offer him support through this difficult time. How would he have managed otherwise? Ramkumar was Uncle’s rock. He was one of the few people to whom Uncle showed any deference. So then, when Ramkumar died, Uncle lost all hope. Uncle’s world turned black. He felt such bleakness—such a disaffection with all worldly interests and pursuits, as if there was nothing of any value left for him on this whole, broad earth. Poor Uncle suffered most dreadfully.
    Before his early death, Ramkumar had been involved in many conversations with the Rani’s son-in-law, Mathur Baba, on the subject of Uncle. Mathur Baba had noticed Uncle around the place and had been charmed and captivated by his obviously spiritual nature. It is hard not to be struck by Uncle’s natural intelligence and his simplicity and his deep sincerity. Uncle has a kind of perfection. How might one possibly hope to explain it? It is simply his very essence.
    Ramkumar had slowly persuaded Uncle over many months (inch by gradual inch) to help him with the Kali worship. But the rituals of Kali worship are very onerous and complicated. So Ramkumar made Uncle receive some formal training from an experienced guru . Uncle raised no particular objection to this process. And things went ahead swimmingly, or so it seemed, until during the initiation ritual the guru leaned forward and whispered Kali’s holy mantram into Uncle’s ear and Uncle unleashed a most dreadful cry—a cry so loud and so terrible as to strike pity and fear into the very hardest of human hearts—and then fell into an impenetrable trance. We were all greatly perplexed. What new mischief was this? But after a short while Ramkumar just slowly shook