Son, on the other hand, who goes hungry, who suffers from thirst, who gets tired, who is sad, who is anxious, who is heckled and harassed, who has to put up with followers who don’t get it and opponents who don’t respect Him—what kind of a god is that? It’s a god on too human a scale, that’s what. There are miracles, yes, mostly of a medical nature, a few to satisfy hungry stomachs; at best a storm is tempered, water is briefly walked upon. If that is magic, it is minor magic, on the order of card tricks. Any Hindu god can do a hundred times better. This Son is a god who spent most of His time telling stories, talking. This Son is a god who walked, a pedestrian god—and in a hot place, at that—with a stride like any human stride, the sandal reaching just above the rocks along the way; and when He splurged on transportation, it was a regular donkey. This Son is a god who died in three hours, with moans, gasps and laments. What kind of a god is that? What is there to inspire in this Son?
Love, said Father Martin.
And this Son appears only once, long ago, far away? Among an obscure tribe in a backwater of West Asia on the confines of a long-vanished empire? Is done away with before He has a single grey hair on His head? Leaves not a single descendant, only scattered, partial testimony, His complete works doodles in the dirt? Wait a minute. This is more than Brahman with a serious case of stage fright. This is Brahman selfish. This is Brahman ungenerous and unfair. This is Brahman practically unmanifest. If Brahman is to have only one son, He must be as abundant as Krishna with the milkmaids, no? What could justify such divine stinginess?
Love, repeated Father Martin.
I’ll stick to my Krishna, thank you very much. I find his divinity utterly compelling. You can keep your sweaty, chatty Son to yourself.
That was how I met that troublesome rabbi of long ago: with disbelief and annoyance.
I had tea with Father Martin three days in a row. Each time, as teacup rattled against saucer, as spoon tinkled against edge of cup, I asked questions.
The answer was always the same.
He bothered me, this Son. Every day I burned with greater indignation against Him, found more flaws to Him.
He’s petulant! It’s morning in Bethany and God is hungry; God wants His breakfast. He comes to a fig tree. It’s not the season for figs, so the tree has no figs. God is peeved. The Son mutters, “May you never bear fruit again,” and instantly the fig tree withers. So says Matthew, backed up by Mark.
I ask you, is it the fig tree’s fault that it’s not the season for figs? What kind of a thing is that to do to an innocent fig tree, wither it instantly?
I couldn’t get Him out of my head. Still can’t. I spent three solid days thinking about Him. The more He bothered me, the less I could forget Him. And the more I learned about Him, the less I wanted to leave Him.
On our last day, a few hours before we were to leave Munnar, I hurried up the hill on the left. It strikes me now as a typically Christian scene. Christianity is a religion in a rush. Look at the world created in seven days. Even on a symbolic level, that’s creation in a frenzy. To one born in a religion where the battle for a single soul can be a relay race run over many centuries, with innumerable generations passing along the baton, the quick resolution of Christianity has a dizzying effect. If Hinduism flows placidly like the Ganges, then Christianity bustles like Toronto at rush hour. It is a religion as swift as a swallow, as urgent as an ambulance. It turns on a dime, expresses itself in the instant. In a moment you are lost or saved. Christianity stretches back through the ages, but in essence it exists only at one time: right now.
I booted up that hill. Though Father Martin was not IN—alas, his block was slid over—thank God he was in.
Short of breath I said, “Father, I would like to be a Christian, please.”
He smiled. “You already are, Piscine—in your heart. Whoever meets Christ in good faith is a Christian. Here in Munnar you met Christ.”
He patted me on the head. It was more of a thump, actually. His hand went BOOM BOOM BOOM on my head.
I thought I would explode with joy.
“When you come back, we’ll have tea again, my son.”
“Yes, Father.”
It was a good smile he gave me. The smile of Christ.
I entered the church, without fear this time, for it was now my house too. I offered prayers to Christ, who is alive. Then I raced down the hill on the left and raced up the hill on the right—to offer thanks to Lord Krishna for having put Jesus of Nazareth, whose humanity I found so compelling, in my way.
Islam followed right behind, hardly a year later. I was fifteen years old and I was exploring my hometown. The Muslim quarter wasn’t far from the zoo. A small, quiet neighbourhood with Arabic writing and crescent moons inscribed on the façades of the houses.
I came to Mullah Street. I had a peek at the Jamia Masjid, the Great Mosque, being careful to stay on the outside, of course. Islam had a reputation worse than Christianity’s—fewer gods, greater violence, and I had never heard anyone say good things about Muslim schools—so I wasn’t about to step in, empty though the place was. The building, clean and white except for various edges painted green, was an open construction unfolding around an empty central room. Long straw mats covered the floor everywhere. Above, two slim, fluted minarets rose in the air before a background of soaring coconut trees. There was nothing evidently religious or, for that matter, interesting about the place, but it was pleasant and quiet.
I moved on. Just beyond the mosque was a series of attached single-storey dwellings with small shaded porches. They were rundown and poor, their stucco walls a faded green. One of the dwellings was a small shop. I noticed a rack of dusty bottles of Thums Up and four transparent plastic jars half-full of candies. But the main ware was something else, something flat, roundish and white. I got close. It seemed to be some sort of unleavened bread. I poked at one. It flipped up stiffly. They looked like three-day-old nans. Who would eat these, I wondered. I picked one up and wagged it to see if it would break.
A voice said, “Would you like to taste one?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. It’s happened to all of us: there’s sunlight and shade, spots and patterns of colour, your mind is elsewhere—so you don’t make out what is right in front of you.
Not four feet away, sitting cross-legged before his breads, was a man. I was so startled my hands flew up and the bread went sailing halfway across the street. It landed on a pat of fresh cow dung.
“I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t see you!” I burst out. I was just about ready to run away.
“Don’t worry,” he said calmly. “It will feed a cow. Have another one.”
He tore one in two. We ate it together. It was tough and rubbery, real work for the teeth, but filling. I calmed down.
“So you make these,” I said, to make conversation.
“Yes. Here, let me show you how.” He got off his platform and waved me into his house.
It was a two-room hovel. The larger room, dominated by an oven, was the bakery,
