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Their eyes wide with what they had seen, important in the news they were carrying, the devotees drove back into Shahkot.

There was a man up in the guava tree, a remarkable man. He had known all sorts of things. The dacoits were blackmailing poor Mr Singh. An evil spirit had established itself
in Mrs Chopra’s stomach. Ratan Sinha had been using a special hair oil to no effect.

Clearly, there was more to this post-office clerk than to ordinary mortals. In his eyes they had detected a rare spirit.

‘Post-office clerk climbs tree,’
Mr Chawla read to his astounded family a little later in the week when the story had reached even the local news bureau and been deemed worthy of attention.
‘Fleeing duties at the Shahkot post office, a clerk has been reported to have settled in a large guava tree. According to popular speculation, he is one of an unusual spiritual nature, his child-like ways being coupled with unfathomable wisdom.’

There it was – a modest column introducing Sampath to the world, along with news of a scarcity of groundnuts, an epidemic of tree frogs and the rumour that Coca-Cola might soon be arriving in India.

It was at this point in time that Mr Chawla had a realization – all of a sudden, with a tumble and rush of understanding – a realization so quick and so incredible in nature that his heart began to pound. Sampath might make his family’s fortune. They could be rich! How many hermits were secretly wealthy? How many holy men were not at all the beggars they appeared to be? How many men of unfathomable wisdom possessed unfathomable bank accounts? What an opportunity had arisen out of nowhere! Already there was a change in the way people looked at Sampath: no longer did they snigger and smirk or make sympathetic noises with their tongues. He, Mr Chawla, must move as quickly as he could to claim these possibilities for his family, possibilities that stretched, he was sure, well beyond his sight’s furthest horizon. He dropped his plans to return to Shahkot as soon as possible, Sampath in tow, and began to think of the old watchman’s shed the family was camping in as a permanent residence. He kept his thoughts close to his chest, however, and didn’t say a word to anyone, but in a sudden turnabout of policy that both surprised and pleased his wife and mother, who were already settling into the orchard as if it were their own long-lost home, he stopped berating Sampath for having climbed up the tree, and turned his attention to other matters.

In his attempt to make Sampath more comfortable so that he might greet visitors in a style that matched his father’s vision of the future, Mr Chawla recruited the help of Pinky, Ammaji and Kulfi. They considered the problem with due seriousness and spent many hours discussing the practicalities of the matter while sipping endless glasses of milky tea. Would it be nice for him to have a hammock? A length of cloth strung between branches? No, that would not be grand enough. Besides, Sampath would be forever horizontal and, after all, he was young and healthy, so surely he should not be allowed such indulgences. How about a platform? ‘Perhaps later,’ said Mr Chawla, ‘when we can afford some wood and get a carpenter. Constructing a platform is beyond us.’ They could not construct a tree house either. Anyway: ‘Nothing doing,’ interjected Sampath at this point in their conversation. ‘I am not going to live in a house after all this effort to run away from houses.’ In the end they decided that for now they would settle for a string cot in the branches upon which Sampath might recline. They raised the cot up to where Sampath sat, Ammaji and Kulfi handing it up to Mr Chawla and Pinky, who climbed all about Sampath.

Less fussy than they were in attempting to ascertain the best position for his new bed and eager for them to leave his domain, Sampath waited impatiently until the cot was wedged into place and anchored with rope; then he settled on to it with great relief, for he had found it uncomfortable to sleep upon a hard trunk. It had left his bones tender, his skin bruised, his muscles pulled in all the wrong directions, arms and legs and various parts of his body falling asleep and then filling him with a painful thrumming when he happened to move again. He adjusted himself constantly and once, to his shame, descended from the tree to sleep
upon the grass, scuttling back up just before his family emerged from where they were cosily buried under quilts in the watchman’s shed.

One day, on a trip to the bazaar, Mr Chawla spotted a large striped garden umbrella that had been discarded by the Club for Previous Members of the Court. It had been picked up by the umbrella repair man, who was about to use it for parts, when Mr Chawla persuaded him to clean it, patch it and repair the spokes. After it had been spruced up a little, it too was raised into the guava tree. Although it was a bit shabby, it was big enough to shield Sampath and his entire cot from sun and rain. And though it was faded, its yellow and green stripes and scalloped trim still possessed a jaunty air.

Thus Sampath was gradually provided with all sorts of comforts and, the more elaborate his living arrangements, the happier he was. He made a lovely picture, seated there amidst the greenery, reclining upon his cot at a slight angle to the world; propped against numerous cushions; tucked up, during chilly evenings, in a glamorous satin quilt covered with leopard-skin spots, chosen by Ammaji in the bazaar. On his head, he sported a tea-cosy-like red woollen hat, also given to him by Ammaji, who had knitted it and raised it to him on a stick. He was particularly fond of this hat, for it kept his head snug and warm at night when the breeze was chilly, and it kept the night rustlings, the crawling of little black beetles, ants and moths, out of his ears as well.

‘I’m comfortable,’ he announced to his family with a wave of his hand, as if dismissing them now that he found everything to his satisfaction. This left them bewildered for a minute, since they were yet to get used to this reversal in their relationship. How they had scolded him once upon a
time for every little thing he had done. Now here he was waving at them as if he were a raja wishing to be left alone. When they were needed again, he summoned them with shouts, starting at dawn, when he desired his morning tea, and then a little later, when he was ready for his bath, which required elaborate arrangements to be made by the whole family, who were, after all, willing to do quite a bit of work in this regard, for they had always been a clean family. Yes, whatever other faults they might have had, nobody could have called them dirty, and they were determined that nobody should have cause to do so now, even if Sampath was in the guava tree.

It took an hour or more before preparations for his bath were finished. Clothed in his striped pair of undershorts, Sampath would sit on his string cot, the quilts and cushions hanging on far branches to air, while Ammaji heated up an enormous pot of water over the fire. Bucketfuls were then raised to Sampath via a rope levering system designed especially for this purpose by his father. Up and down the family ran, with Mr Chawla shouting orders that nobody paid attention to. ‘Don’t let the fire go out. Rub yourself with oil before you soap yourself. Soap well, Sampath.’ The bucket would tilt at the pull of a string from down below, and the water would pour down, a steaming shower that caught the early-morning light and came down like molten lava. Then, enjoying his leisure, Sampath would sit wrapped in a blanket and dry his hair in the strengthening sun while his breakfast was being seen to.

When it came to his meals, all Pinky’s efforts in climbing up with bowls and dishes had ended more often in accidents than success, with his dinner either in the grass or, worse, splattered and scalding, over the poor bearer of food. ‘Oh no,’ Sampath would say sadly as his growling
stomach echoed his distress. It took several tries before he was able to eat anything at all. Anxiously, the family would watch as Pinky hoisted herself from branch to branch, holding aloft a pot of dal, a bit of naan between her teeth. ‘Careful, beti, careful,’ but – splash! – by the time Pinky reached Sampath, there wouldn’t be more than a puddle at the bottom of the pot and the naan would be hard and cold with a few bites taken out of it, for, after all, Pinky had needed a little something to keep her going.

‘This is absurd,’ said Mr Chawla. ‘This isn’t working.’ And made the journey himself one time. ‘Stupid naan,’ he cursed when it fell from his lips. ‘Stupid dal,’ he said as a bit sloshed over his fingers, but when the dal pot overturned altogether and landed, boiling hot, upon his tender foot, he erupted in anger. The next day he attached an old wooden crate to the same elementary pulley system used to deliver Sampath’s bath water and thereafter Sampath’s meals were given to him simply by pulling on a rope and raising the crate. As the fluffy chapattis and naans were made down below, they were proffered to him speared atop a bamboo stick, as were slices of pickle, bits of fruit and other tasty titbits.

Every now and then another crate was attached to the pulley system containing earthenware pots with the help of which Sampath answered the call of nature in as convenient and hygienic a way possible without having to visit the outhouse Mr Chawla had constructed. This worked well, for the pots were disposable, of course, and Sampath was able to pull his umbrella down as a shield so he might sit on them in peace. For a nominal fee, the potter began to deliver batches of new ones at regular intervals.

Thus ensconced in his orchard bower, still not quite able to
believe the serendipitous way things had turned out, Sampath gave what came to be known as The Sermon in the Guava Tree, where he responded to people’s queries with such charm and wit they were to be his trademark for ever after. They were a mysterious charm and wit, of course, but they were apparent to all those who arrived in growing numbers to see him, making their way down the narrow path to stare with amazement at this skinny, long-legged apparition amidst the leaves.

Among the first to make this trip were Miss Jyotsna and Mr Gupta.

‘He must have gone through a thorough and complete transformation,’ said Miss Jyotsna. ‘Look how his face is so different now.’

Certainly it was a happier, calmer face. ‘Namasteji,’ said Sampath, greeting them cheerfully from his cot in the trees, his new position of power. Really, he thought, he was quite fond of them. They had always meant well, unlike many others he could name.

‘Hello, Sampath,’ said Mr Gupta. ‘Why did you not take me with you? I could have had a little rest from this one here.’ He pointed at Miss Jyotsna with a comic expression upon his face.

‘Any time you want a rest from her you should send her to the sari and salwar kameez shop,’ laughed Sampath. ‘You know how much this lady loves clothes … Oh, but maybe that is not such a good idea. Already she owes the Ladies’ Fashion Shop 152 rupees and eighty paisa.’

Once when Miss Jyotsna had been summoned to Mr D. P. S.’s office, Sampath had had the chance to examine the contents of her purse: the lipstick and comb, the embroidered handkerchief, the receipts and safety pins, the toffees and small vials of homoeopathic medicine …

Miss Jyotsna raised a trembling hand to her mouth. The blood rushed to her face. She had kept her debt to the sari shop a strict secret. What else could Sampath say about her? She had heard of the way he had stunned the devotees of the Krishna temple with his clairvoyance; now he had used his powers to examine her.

She nudged Mr Gupta with her elbow. ‘Treat him with some respect,’ she said, surprising him with the new note of reverence in her voice. She was apparently awe-struck by what she saw. And even the paan-shop man, who had also come to visit, thinking that maybe he would sell a few paans while satisfying his curiosity, turned to give Mr Gupta a dirty look and said, ‘It seems you are unversed in spiritual matters.’

‘But it is only Sampath,’ protested Mr Gupta.

But clearly it was not only Sampath. It was Sampath of unfathomable wisdom, sitting in his tree abode.

The sweet-shop man joined them after work, then two college students skipping a lecture, the washerman on his bicycle and a pregnant lady who wished to know if her baby would be a boy or a girl. ‘Ah yes,’ she said with satisfaction to those standing about the tree with her, ‘he has the same expression as the Tajewala sage in samadhi. Perhaps you have seen the photographs?’

‘My son is keeping bad company,’ interrupted a distressed but spirited relative of Lakshmiji’s dressed in a canary-yellow sari. ‘What can I do?’

‘Add lemons to milk and it will grow sour,’ answered Sampath in an exceptionally sociable and happy temper, mimicking the old men of Shahkot, who liked to sit at their gates on winter afternoons, basking in their socks and hats, while they lectured passers-by. ‘But add some sugar, madam, and Wah! how good that milk will taste. These are
things I do not have to tell you. You yourself know you behaved just like your son when you were young.’

He impressed himself by how many details he had stowed away while reading in the post office. Why, he could just pull them out of some secret compartment in his brain the way a magician pulls rabbits from a hat. How admiringly the people below the tree were looking at him! Never before had he felt the sweet and unique pleasure of giving advice that now suffused his being and shone about his face.

‘By this do you mean I should remove him from the presence of these undesirable characters?’ Lakshmiji’s relative asked.

‘If you put a chicken on the fire and leave it, in a little while it will no longer be a chicken, but ash and bones. Leave a kettle on the flames, the water will grow hot and then, if someone does not lift it off, it will all boil away until there is nothing left. If your child is playing with a dead smelly mouse, you will not debate: “Should I let him be, should I let him play?” No, you will throw away the mouse and take your child indoors to wash his hands.’

Mr Chawla and Pinky, who had just arrived from a trip to the market in time to hear this last sentence, looked at each other in disbelief when they saw how closely people listened to Sampath.

‘Did you hear?’ Mr Chawla asked Pinky.

‘Dead smelly mouse?’ said Pinky, incredulous.