Skip to main content

The Ashram

Paras felt sick again and rushed to the washroom retching.

Adarsh had been watching it for quite a few days now. Whenever the Holy Baba's voice rose from the lecture hall, Paras would turn pale and then the retching would begin.

Both Paras and Adarsh were inmates of the Baba's Ashram.  Their duty was to look after the accounts. Paras was disconcerted with the fraudulent accounts. Money was being siphoned off to the accounts of two women who took turns to worship the Holy Baba in the night. The women, Paras learnt, had bought palatial houses. They came nowadays to the Ashram in luxurious chauffeur-driven cars. Their houses and cars were all bought with the money donated by naive devotees.

Paras wretched again. He was in the bedroom shared by the two of them. This was new: this retching on hearing the sound of the woman's chauffeur-driven car.

"Where are you going?" Adarsh asked when Paras started packing his bag, having returned from the washroom.

"I'm quitting," he said.

"What?"

"I can't stand this anymore," he said. "I have to save myself from this gigantic fraud we're perpetrating on ourselves and others."

"But you can't quit, Paras. You've already been blacklisted. You know too much. They won't ever let you go past the gate."

Paras didn't care. He was past caring.

Slinging his bag over his back, he walked out into the lurid light of glaring LED lamps outside.

Adarsh was stunned. He knew there would soon arise a stifling sound in the woods yonder, the part of the reserved forest acquired by the Ashram recently with the help of a politician-devotee. One more grave would be dug there in the darkness of the night. He shuddered.



Indian Bloggers




Comments

  1. The charm of being under a Baba's guidance becomes more when that Baba starts speaking in English. I have seen one becoming a rockstar to appeal the younger ones.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. There are many rock star Babas now. There's one Punjab-based guy who appears to his Indian bhakts in immaculate white kurta-pyjama but dons jeans and tees while abroad. He has a few thousand acres of land in various places... Swindler par excellence with top guns as devotees.

      Delete
  2. There is a Baba in the western TN whose pastime is grabbing forest lands. This holy man visits Himalayas every year with a retinue of women.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Forest lands are given to these 'holy' men by politicians. It's a nexus; both parties benefit one way or another.

      Delete
  3. It's almost aggravating to see men of seemingly normal intelligence being taken for a ride by these babas. Thousands of them. It is off their money that these babas feed off. We make them popular hence the politicians kneel before them for endorsement.

    Arghh!!!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Many people follow them for personal aggrandizement and not for anything related to spirituality. Where there is power, there lie benefits too. As simple as that.

      Delete
  4. Volumes of nefarious activities of babas and their ashrams wonderfully contained in this short story..but do we understand? There's no dearth of these flourishing babas and their miracle expecting followers:(

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. That's why, Amit ji, I have become fully convinced that the Babas are doing something other than religion.

      Delete
  5. Sir I just read this and understand this is India and its inhabitants

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Adventures of Toto as a comic strip

  'The Adventures of Toto' is an amusing story by Ruskin Bond. It is prescribed as a lesson in CBSE's English course for class 9. Maggie asked her students to do a project on some of the lessons and Femi George's work is what I would like to present here. Femi converted the story into a beautiful comic strip. Her work will speak for itself and let me present it below.  Femi George Student of Carmel Public School, Vazhakulam, Kerala Similar post: The Little Girl

Sanjay and other loyalists

AI-generated illustration Some people, especially those in politics, behave as if they are too great to have any contact with the ordinary folk. And they can get on with whoever comes to power on top irrespective of their ideologies and principles. Sanjay was one such person. He occupied some high places in Sawan school [see previous posts, especially P and Q ] merely because he knew how to play his cards more dexterously than ordinary politicians. Whoever came as principal, Sanjay would be there in the elite circle. He seemed to hold most people in contempt. His respect was reserved for the gentry. I belonged to the margins of Sawan society, in Sanjay’s assessment. So we hardly talked to each other. Looking back, I find it quite ludicrous to realise that Sanjay and I lived on the same campus 24x7 for a decade and a half without ever talking to each other except for official purposes.      Towards the end of our coexistence, Sawan had become a veritable hell. Power supply to the

Thomas the Saint

AI-generated image His full name was Thomas Augustine. He was a Catholic priest. I knew him for a rather short period of my life. When I lived one whole year in the same institution with him, I was just 15 years old. I was a trainee for priesthood and he was many years my senior. We both lived in Don Bosco school and seminary at a place called Tirupattur in Tamil Nadu. He was in charge of a group of boys like me. Thomas had little to do with me directly as I was under the care of another in-charge. But his self-effacing ways and angelic smile drew me to him. He was a living saint all the years I knew him later. When he became a priest and was in charge of a section of a Don Bosco institution in Kochi, I met him again and his ways hadn’t changed an iota. You’d think he was a reincarnation of Jesus if you met him personally. You won’t be able to meet him anymore. He passed away a few years ago. One of the persons whom I won’t ever forget, can’t forget as long as the neurons continu

William and the autumn of life

William and I were together only for one year, but our friendship has grown stronger year after year. The duration of that friendship is going to hit half a century. In the meanwhile both he and I changed many places. William was in Kerala when I was in Shillong. He was in Ireland when I was in Delhi. Now I am in Kerala where William is planning to migrate back. We were both novices of a religious congregation for one year at Kotagiri in Tamil Nadu. He was older than me by a few years and far more mature too. But we shared a cordial rapport which kept us in touch though we went in unexpected directions later. William’s conversations had the same pattern back then and now too. I’d call it Socratic. He questions a lot of things that you say with the intention of getting to the depth of the matter. The last conversation I had with him was when I decided to stop teaching. I mention this as an example of my conversations with William. “You are a good teacher. Why do you want to stop

Uriel the gargoyle-maker

Uriel was a multifaceted personality. He could stab with words, sting like Mike Tyson, and distort reality charmingly with the precision of a gifted cartoonist. He was sedate now and passionate the next moment. He could don the mantle of a carpenter, a plumber, or a mechanic, as situation demanded. He ran a school in Shillong in those days when I was there. That’s how I landed in the magic circle of his friendship. He made me a gargoyle. Gradually. When the refined side of human civilisation shaped magnificent castles and cathedrals, the darker side of the same homo sapiens gave birth to gargoyles. These grotesque shapes were erected on those beautiful works of architecture as if to prove that there is no human genius without a dash of perversion. In many parts of India, some such repulsive shape is placed in a prominent place of great edifices with the intention of warding off evil or, more commonly, the evil eye. I was Uriel’s gargoyle for warding off the evil eye from his sc