Cock-a-doodle-doo

Night had fallen over the city and the three-day conference of the Indian non-believers was winding to a close at the Intellectual Centre on the outskirts.1

Mandakini sat in the front row with the delegates scribbling on a notepad on her lap. Michael Chesterton from the British Isles, acclaimed guru of the non-believing movement and writer of several books bristling with logic on why there is no God, stood at the mike evaluating the Indian situation.2

He kept his listeners spellbound for forty-five minutes with his erudite observations. His beaked nose and the stuttering way he threw up his head as he issued his exhortations brought up the image of a well-fed rooster sounding the wake-up call from a rooftop.3

“You sure have a daunting challenge here,” he said, summing up his impression of the situation in India. “This is the country of fakirs and wonderworkers. The country also of large sections mired deep in illiteracy and superstitions. But the future of the movement is in safe hands.”4

He turned his head towards the ladies and gentlemen on the dais, all leading lights of the movement, and bowed, acknowledging the good work they were doing. The men stroked their scholarly beards and the women lifted their chins and adjusted their spectacles.5

“Such resoluteness of purpose, such focused attention to the fundamentals… You are doing a great job,” he said.6

He beamed straight at Mandakini in the front row and added, “I am impressed.” She smiled back at him.7

Mr. Chesterton had flown in from Britain as the chief guest of the conference. His presence lent the event an altogether different dimension. As the organizers had said in their invitation e-mailed to him three months ago, the non-believers everywhere drew their inspiration from his authoritative books on the subject. They considered his writings their Bible.8

He had taken exception to the comparison they had made between the Holy Bible and his treatises on the irrationality of believing in the existence of God. Ludicrous, he had written back. Nonetheless, he had accepted the invitation and he did not regret the decision. Mandakini had sat by his side throughout the conference, briefing him when local experts spoke in Indian languages.9

Thunderous applause greeted him as he finished his speech. He analyzed the Indian realities and identified the “social, psychological and historical factors governing the behavioral incongruities of the believers in India.”10

“The only way to force open their eyes,” he said, “is to go out into the world and expose their stupidity. A Hindu black magician who can make a roasted rooster fly? Blow me to smithereens, I say, if I can’t do it myself. Dig out the trickery involved. Expose them. Put an end to the whole nonsense.”11

He paused a moment before delivering the final punch.12

“Walk on fire, if you must,” he said, holding up his fist and shaking it like a tuning fork.13

Mr. Chesterton walked to the front row of the auditorium to take the vacant seat next to Mandakini. “Great speech,” she told him.14

“Not really,” he said. He was pleased.15

“And, now for the big show,” she said. “The tricks fakirs and wonderworkers do here to overwhelm people with the awe of God and the supernatural. Your advice promptly executed.”16

“That’s great. Superb.”17

A lean young man, his torso bare and dhoti folded back between his legs as when performing Hindu religious rites, climbed on to the stage and took a deep bow. He had with him two silver spikes, each a foot in length.18

He delicately pierced one spike through his cheeks, all the way in and out through the other side. He stuck out his tongue and subjected it to a similar treatment with the other spike. The delegates clapped their hands as he dangled his spiked tongue under the spotlights.19

“How was it?”20

“Great,” Mr. Chesterton said.21

Another young man, similarly dressed, entered the stage. A drum backstage went on a rumble beat. He spread his legs and slowly sank to a sitting posture, holding his trunk straight and monk-like, his eyes half closed. An oracle wearing a red silk dhoti, holding a torch instead of his customary sword, began a wild dance around him.22

The oracle trembled all over in a shivering fit and set his head spinning like a top. Mr. Chesterton clutched his belly and chuckled.23

“We call him ‘velicchapadu,’” Mandakini said. “Does all sort of wonderful things when the supreme deity takes possession of his body. Splits his head with his sword.”24

“Does he, really,” Mr. Chesterton said.25

The oracle whirled commotion all over the stage. He did not split his head, however. He stomped to a halt in front of the meditating squatter and touched his outstretched hands with the torch. The palms went up in flames, sending the aroma of burning camphor all around. The rumble of the drum now climbed to a crescendo. The oracle left.26

The squatter rose to his feet and spread his hands with the slow flourish of a ballet dancer. His shadow leaped and danced on the back curtain. The drumbeats rolled down and disappeared.27

Suddenly, the performer flicked the flame into his mouth, his fiery gulp bumping into a lusty beat of the drum. He stood nonchalantly there on the stage, smiling with watery eyes. Mr. Chesterton clapped his hands.28

“Wonderful job,” he said. He knew Mandakini had choreographed the whole show. Great girl. 29

She took his hand and led him floating out of the auditorium into the night. A bonfire had just died out in the backyard leaving behind smoldering embers. About a dozen volunteers stood around the spot. The delegates formed a ring behind them.30

Three young men from the group of volunteers stepped forward. One by one, they took bare-footed flickering steps over the fire. They did it twice, thrice and, as the mood caught on, more men from the group joined them over the fire, chanting a pagan song.31

“Daring, isn’t it?” ventured Mandakini, her eyebrows executing a reverse somersault, like gymnasts performing a rhythmic act.32

He liked those eyebrow tricks of hers.33

He watched the men dancing on the fire. She raised her hands to tie her flowing hair into a knot behind her neck. The heady fragrance of sandalwood hit him with a thud. She did not use perfume, she had told him the previous day. She furled the fold of her saree over her shoulder and tucked its end to her waist. The firewalkers scooped burning coal with their hands. Sheer ecstasy radiated from them as they danced and sang.34

Someone blew fistfuls of vermillion power into the air. Mandakini had scarlet stains on her face when the cloud cleared. Beads of sweat sparkled on her face. She clapped her hands to the tune of the dancers’ rowdy song and rocked on her feet.35

She smiled up at Mr. Chesterton, her eyes waltzing. “The mystic India for you,” she laughed. 36

Mr. Chesterton bent down and removed his shoes and stockings. He took off his spectacles and put them in his coat pocket. He rolled up the legs of his trousers...37

The firewalkers stopped their dance and a hush fell on the congregation. They watched Mr. Chesterton walk to the edge of the fire bed.38

“The deity smiles from the heavens. There goes Her favourite son,” cried the lady.39

The fire crackled and sizzled and bathed him in its glow. His beaked nose looked more beak-like than ever before as he stood there in a trance. A fluffy tuft of hair flared up on his head like the all-bloom crest of a rooster. He gave himself a huddling shake and threw his head up in that stuttering way of his. He sprouted feathers.40

One, two, three…41

Beaks set tight, head held high, chest thrust out, he stepped over the fire, a saintly glaze in his eyes. He paused a split-second at the fourth step. The glaze in his eyes shifted to a sudden glint. With a burst of flapping, he threw up his head and shattered the quiet of the night with the call of a giant rooster...42

As Mandakini wrote in the Indian journal of non-believers subsequently, “the call heralded the dawn of a bold new era in the history of the non-believing movement.”43

“Cock-a-doodle-doo,” he called. “Cock-a-doodle-doo.” 44

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