Free The Temple-goers by Aatish Taseer

the prayers, clean the idols. Even before serving her husband, she would serve my great-grandfather. And so people in the village began talking.
    ‘Then one day, her husband died. But despite this she went that morning to the temple. So you can imagine, the village went wild with talk. A crowd gathered outside the temple, chanting, “Abolish these corrupt priests.” My great-grandfather heard their cries and appeared outside. Though he was heartbroken, he didn’t say anything. He just told the woman to make sure that the following day her husband’s funeral procession should pass by the temple before it went to the cremation grounds. Then he went back into the temple. The crowd was enraged, but they agreed to wait until the next day before acting.
    ‘The following day, as he had asked, the dead army officer’s funeral procession passed in front of the temple.’
    ‘Aakash, when did all of this happen?’
    He looked blank, as if I had asked him a childish question. ‘Fifty to a hundred years, maybe two hundred,’ he replied, ‘maybe more.’
    ‘More? But he’s your great-grandfather, right? Your father’s grandfather? Were the British here?’
    ‘Yes, yes,’ Aakash said, ‘it was definitely the time of the British Raj. So anyway. When the procession comes by the temple, my great-grandfather appears outside, and addressing the corpse of the dead army officer, says, “Your death has disgraced your village and your community. And so I, as your priest, give you my remaining years. Rise now. I have renounced my life.” ’
    The light in the flat had diminished. Aakash had smoked and drunk continuously. I stood up and turned on a few lamps. Aakash looked sombre, too moved by his own story to speak. I avoided his gaze, unsure of what to make of this afternoon visit. His conversation had included tales of forced blow jobs, social mobility and now magic. And though he himself had a hazy idea of time, his family’s history in roughly three generations mapped perfectly on to the country’s transitions: from its old religious life and priesthood, to socialism and his father’s work as an auditor, to now and Aakash.
    He lay back on the sofa, still in his grey vest, his wide arms sprawling behind him.
    ‘Did he come back to life?’ I said in the lamp-lit softness of the room.
    ‘That evening!’ Aakash replied. ‘That evening he rose as if from a deep sleep, and when the people went to the temple, they found that my great-grandfather was gone.’
    I wanted to ask any number of questions that would expose the story as untrue, but before I could he abruptly said, ‘You know I’m telling you all this for a reason?’
    ‘What reason?’
    ‘I want you to come somewhere with me. My family go every year to the village where all this happened. We take food and offerings. People come from all over. I want you to come with us.’
    ‘Why me?’ I asked.
    Aakash smiled, and draining his glass, said, ‘Because I think it’ll be good for you.’
    And those words felt like reason enough. Aakash had broken into my afternoon with a gesture of friendship, made possible by its spontaneity; and from its success seemed to come this second invitation, now given rather than taken. Like the first, it was an acknowledgement of the mutual appeal our lives held for each other. But because it was instinctive, and inarticulate, and because behind that appeal I sensed some vague contest for power, it had to be taken for now – like certain childhood friendships – on trust.
    I accepted his invitation and he gave me a date a few weeks later on which to be ready. Then looking round for his T-shirt, he rose to leave.
    He had put his arms in as far as the sleeves when he stopped. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It’s been so peaceful here this afternoon. I really needed it.’
    When he had gone, I felt that he had come with one intention and realized another. I went home smelling of beer and cigarettes. And that night, on Sanyogita’s garden