God should be sought, I reflected,
only within the soul.
I left the temple without genuflection and walked briskly toward
the outlying village of Ranbajpur. My appeal to a passer-by for
guidance caused him to sink into long cogitation.
"When you come to a crossroad, turn right and keep going," he
finally pronounced oracularly.
Obeying the directions, I wended my way alongside the banks of
a canal. Darkness fell; the outskirts of the jungle village were
alive with winking fireflies and the howls of near-by jackals. The
moonlight was too faint to supply any reassurance; I stumbled on
for two hours.
Welcome clang of a cowbell! My repeated shouts eventually brought
a peasant to my side.
"I am looking for Ram Gopal Babu."
"No such person lives in our village." The man's tone was surly.
"You are probably a lying detective."
Hoping to allay suspicion in his politically troubled mind,
I touchingly explained my predicament. He took me to his home and
offered a hospitable welcome.
"Ranbajpur is far from here," he remarked. "At the crossroad, you
should have turned left, not right."
My earlier informant, I thought sadly, was a distinct menace to
travelers. After a relishable meal of coarse rice, lentil-DHAL,
and curry of potatoes with raw bananas, I retired to a small hut
adjoining the courtyard. In the distance, villagers were singing
to the loud accompaniment of MRIDANGAS {FN13-1} and cymbals.
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