Great Stories

World's End

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South of Calcutta, in one of the dim curves of the Hugli River, before inserting its dense wet arms into the clay sand, several children played with innocent joy as they dipped their tiny bodies in one of the nearby public fountains.   

The old city looked cut off by the warm gray air that cut out the profiles of its distant buildings. The afternoon progressed, heavy, as if wanting to glimpse its presence in an indisputable appointment with the night, still distant waiting for her in its warm and dark arms.  

A little later, in one of the almost invisible edges of Garden Reach, was a scattered rustic hamlet; its alleyways of humid earth, let escape a strange smell, that at times seemed to flee from the earth and to gather with the dirty puddles, which abounded for those days of spring.  

Women, dressed in rustic, light-colored saris, emerged for moments in the courtyards, barely divided by a few boards and cartons. Going up the most imperceptible alley and after passing by the edge of the hill, you could see a ramshackle and chaotic hut.  

It was difficult to perceive the entrance of the place and, the closer one came to it, the doubt persisted.

There was a little smoke coming from one of the natural holes in the ceiling; a side window, seemed to let in a portion of the wild sunlight that was breaking in that place.

Two goats and chickens roamed about in their surroundings, with a contagious childhood joy. The entrance path was paved with blue and pink stones, sunk among the untidy weeds. They hung on a thin rope, decorated with two flimsy sticks, rags that it was hard to notice. They simply moved slightly, like festive and tired banners.

In that hut lived a lonely old man named Pasher Khan. His neighbors and nearby inhabitants could not tell when he had arrived, or if he had always stayed there, even before any of them lived there.  

He enjoyed the respect of all and, it was not peculiar that strange visitors and outsiders came to him. He was considered a bakhti, a sage linked "to all the good things on earth and in heaven." That's what they said about him.

From before dawn he was seen sitting, near some large stones, meditating, silent, and abstracted from everything. His face, despite the evident old age of the skin, maintained a strange white smoothness; it was like fresh fruit streaked by wrinkles, thin and deep that drew his features.  

His long white hair and abundant beard looked like shaggy and disorganized vegetation that framed his face and gave him a full aspect of peace. The old man was short, with a long nose and small ears that did not prevent him from enjoying an extraordinary hearing.

His dark eyes stood out from the fleshy eyelids with an expression of inevitable depth. They moved with slow and forceful movements. It seemed that he established control over everything around him and beyond.  

He was frequently visited by all the nearby inhabitants and others who came to him, he lived on those presents and food that always appeared at his door.

He felt special preference for the visit of the children, who arrived in droves in the mornings. They talked animatedly with him and everyone loved him. They called him with a special and affectionate diminutive, like any of them: Pashi.

Men and women of the region came to ask him questions and ask him for advice about their daily worries, their dreams, and their miseries. His affable and broad smile reflected peace at the appreciation of everyone. There were even some who literally adored him.

The complex rhythm of life in Calcutta passed unchanged in that forgotten part of the city.  

One day, as it could have been any other of the wet spring, his friend Sharoukh appeared in his hut. It was not the usual time to appear, but he was there, a little dazed and with a nervous expression.  

He offered him a small basket of naan´s bread - he knew that its taste pleased the old man- he put it down near a small table and came over to greet him, effusively. He sat on an old frayed rug. Pashi looked at him smiling. He appreciated his visits and the stories he told him in his raids like culí in the markets of Masjid.  

He used to talk endlessly, always affable and funny; he was rogue and generous. His many anecdotes of work included hours of pleasant conversation with his dear friend. Pashi always listened attentively, smiling while stroking his beard.  

He knew even the minute details of his childhood soul and his daily miseries. But, this time, he was worried, with a sad air. Pashar took one of the fresh rolls that Sharouk had brought him and, as he split it, said a few warm welcome words. Something was worrying his friend...

- Pasher! My friend! I have a question for you, but ... -

But what?  The sage replied.

- Well, he continued. - What I wanted to tell you is that last night, last night (hesitated) I suffered a lack of erection when I wanted to make love to my wife ... that depressed me fatally.

He bowed his head, the outburst of sincerity crossed with the natural shyness of the culi.   

- So that's your problem ... -the wise man chuckled.

- You have not seen the river move along its channel with such joy or the hummingbirds drink from the flowers ... You love your wife and you have given her several children, why can’t you love her, simply? I think you were not there with her, but your mind wandered by who knows what things.

- But, I was there. I wanted her intensely, I caressed her skin as always, I kissed her lips softly, as she likes, and when I tried to make love to her, I simply could not ...

- You were far from her. Your soul wandered elsewhere. The kama is something that is there, where there is love and then the moksa arrives promptly. Weren’t you lost in some alley running after some rickshaw? Or, perhaps, stopped in the folds of the saree of some merchant?

He was thoughtful, without reaching to raise his face. He tried to remember something, but he could not specify.

-But, won´t you prescribe me anything for this evil that torments me? Sharoukh asked desperately.

- I'm just going to recommend that you try to relax, and try to concentrate on everything you do. Leave your worries outside where you can take them back. Burn some green incense close to your bed and, if you want to calm your anxiety and return to love mix the cardamom with a little ginger and cinnamon.

The conversation took another course, and the next few minutes he told hilariously what happened that morning while guiding a couple of Englishmen by the Howrah Bridge, near the central market. There were moments when I could not contain the laughter when I remembered his discomfort when buying some fabrics that they thought were sacred. His companion Rabin, recently arrived from Bihar, had confused some streets and appeared near the Marble Palace. The stories were trivial and foolish, but the festive way of narrating them from the culí, drew laughter from the elderly Pashar.  

The night was already falling and Sharoukh said goodbye contentedly and hurriedly. His gestures reflected happiness similar to those of a girl who has just received an unexpected gift from her parents. Meanwhile, the wise man was stunned watching his friend's childhood joy. How little does it cost to make people happy! The wise man thought aloud.  

Despite the pleasure of the visit, the old man felt tired. He took another of the naan rolls and started eating slowly. The radiant, scorching sun had given its heat to the night that traded its dark blues with the oranges of twilight.

The night slowly settled.  

Suddenly he heard some firm footsteps approaching the ground, different from those that used to approach his dwelling. He recognized those steps and felt a strange echo in those footsteps: it was another of his friends: Gran Chah. He felt insistent knuckles banging on his door.  

- Come in Chah, I'm waiting for you, he said loudly.

Gran Chah was an official of the Indian Museum, one of the gardeners who worked in the back gardens of the old building. He had brought him a jug of milk.  

Before receiving the usual greeting, Pashar began to recite a loud and with his eyes closed the fifth siddhacharia to Vishnu, his