The Travels Of Masamune

It is cold. That is my first thought as my head ducks under the waters of the Bay of Bengal. And blue. I open my eyes and the water is such a deep, rich blue that I can barely see my hand, waving less than six inches from my face. I hold my breath for as long as possible before surfacing. As cold as the water is, the crisp January wind is more so. My towel does little to hold it off and I retreat to a small copse of trees and take a seat on some steps overlooking the quiet calm of the Bay of Bengal.

“How does it feel to bathe in water birthed from a god’s feet?”

The voice startles me and I turn to see two women making their way down to me, pots and bed linens in tow. “Well, how does it feel?”        

Cold, I respond, not quite understanding the question. What do you mean?

“Well, “begins one woman, “one myth has that the goddess Ganga was born from the feet of the god Vishnu. As Shiva played his flute, Vishnu was so entranced that his feet began to melt. This gave birth to Ganga, the mother deity of the river Ganges. Ganga is also known as Vishnu-padi, or she who was born out of Vishnu’s feet. And, as you know, the Ganges empties into the Bay not a half a mile from this spot.”

And how does it feel to wash your bed linens in this same water? I ask.

The women only laugh and go back to their chore. They talk very little as they work. The only sounds they make come from the splashing of their sheets and the clinging of their pots. I turn back to the water and lose myself in thought. There is magic here, in the deep blue that stretches to the horizon. Too much for one man to understand.

The women bid me farewell a little later and I am left alone. I wait for the sun to fall and watch as the water’s blue goes black and the moon creates a column of silver shards on its surface.

The Bengali Pastry Shop and Snack Bar sits on the lone paved street in the town of Vishnupur. It has been in business for nearly 63 years and, for each and every one of those years, the store has been family owned. The present proprietors, Mr. Tuva Rathjiv and his wife, Halafa, are quick to let any patron know this if there are requests to see a manager.               

                “I have run the business for ten years now, taking over after my father and his father before him and his father before him, and I reserve the right to refuse service to anybody! Anybody!” Tuva pounds his chest proudly as he makes this statement and more than one patron wonders if he will be the next to be temporarily expelled.

                Most oustings are temporary. Usually Halafa brings her husband and the jilted customer together to reach a more diplomatic end. “Once,” she says, “a customer had to bring in the egg he wanted added to his two egg omelette. My husband agreed to add the egg, you see, but it would not be one of his eggs.”        

                If customers have learned anything during Tuva’s years as owner, it is not to disturb him as he sings. Tuva often belts out a hearty tune in his deep voice as he cooks, usually improvising the words as he goes along. “I was once kicked out for a month for trying to sing along,” remarks one patron, “until Halafa smoothed everything over.”

And Halafa’s influence has done more than return customers to the bustling business. “You see,” she whispers, adding a sly wink, “the place was known as just The Bengali Snack Bar before Tuva and I were married. I had the Pastry Shop added 6 years ago. Even had the pastry shop part put before the snack bar part.”              

                Tuva begrudgingly admits that the addition of the pastry shop has only helped business. “At the time, it almost broke our arranged marriage apart. Now, I see it has done more to bring us together than any matchmaker ever could,” he laughs.

                As his laughter trails off, Tuva’s eyes make their way across the small dining room to his wife, who is busily kneading dough. Perhaps sensing his gaze upon her, Halafa looks up at him, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead, leaving a line of flour on her brow. She returns his smile with one of her own. A customer’s voice shatters the moment, asking Tuva for his usual. Tuva barks a reply and begins a new song in his baritone voice. It soon grows too loud to ask any further questions, but there are really no more questions to ask.

 “And I don’t want to see you ever again!” Rashna Krimpur presses the off button on his Motorola cell phone with Sprint service and mutters something about the difficulties managing a home business while being enlightened. “I have reached Nirvana, “he says, “but am only able to increase my client base 3% annually. It ain’t right."

                I met Rashna Krimpur on a train ride from Culcutta to Vishnupur. The man stood out. His thick white hair and bushy beard paired with his bright robes made him a target for scrutinizatrion on a train full of dingy lower middle class dam workers. His voice was melodic, echoing clearly as he chattered wildly over the murmur of disgruntled men forced to spend their days holding back a lake. I was curious and approached the man, asking him what he was about.

                “You know, I can recite every sutra and mantra the Buddha wrote,” he told me then, his shoulders slumped in despair “but, for the life of me, I can’t increase weekend sales.”

                Rasha Krimpur represents a new breed of man, a man on a mission to break the borders holding two worlds apart. Having mastered the spiritual world, he is now turning to the business world. And he is undertaking the task with all the knowledge of Nirvana.

                “If I have learned anything from my long hours of meditation, it is to be patient. I have yet to turn a profit, but, be certain my smart friend, it is only a matter of time.”

                The venerable master runs a small business buying and then refurbishing copper products for resell. A number of products sit on his store’s shelves, varying from spittoons to bedpans. Rupees exchange hands frequently in the shop. December is a big buying month for Rashna.

                “The next few months will be slow. Copper is not needed as much as blankets during the late winter months. But come April, this old man will be smiling with more than the joy of understanding life’s truths.” His elbow connects with my side and his eyes shimmer with hope.

                Any regrets? I ask. “Only one, he replies, “the constant pressures of my new life have made me start smoking again. But if the business don’t work, I can stop the smoking and go back to mocking the unenlightened.”