Chapter 23

Alas the sense of community that a common faith brings to a people spelled trouble for me. In time, my religious doings went from the notice of those to whom it didn't matter and only amused, to that of those to whom it did matter - and they were not amused.

"What is your son doing going to temple?" asked the priest.

"Your son was seen in church crossing himself," said the imam.

"Your son has gone Muslim," said the pandit.

Yes, it was all forcefully brought to the attention of my bemused parents. You see, they didn't know. They didn't know that I was a practising Hindu, Christian and Muslim. Teenagers always hide a few things from their parents, isn't that so? All sixteen-year-olds have secrets, don't they? But fate decided that my parents and I and the three wise men, as I shall call them, should meet one day on the Goubert Salai seaside esplanade and that my secret should be outed. It was a lovely, breezy, hot Sunday afternoon and the Bay of Bengal glittered under a blue sky. Townspeople were out for a stroll. Children screamed and laughed. Coloured balloons floated in the air. Ice cream sales were brisk. Why think of business on such a day, I ask? Why couldn't they have just walked by with a nod and a smile? It was not to be. We were to meet not just one wise man but all three, and not one after another but at the same time, and each would decide upon seeing us that right then was the golden occasion to meet that Pondicherry notable, the zoo director, he of the model devout son. When I saw the first, I smiled; by the time I had laid eyes on the third, my smile had frozen into a mask of horror. When it was clear that all three were converging on us, my heart jumped before sinking very low.

The wise men seemed annoyed when they realized that all three of them were approaching the same people. Each must have assumed that the others were there for some business other than pastoral and had rudely chosen that moment to deal with it Glances of displeasure were exchanged.

My parents looked puzzled to have their way gently blocked by three broadly smiling religious strangers. I should explain that my family was anything but orthodox. Father saw himself as part of the New India - rich, modern and as secular as ice cream. He didn't have a religious bone in his body. He was a businessman, pronounced busynessman in his case, a hardworking, earthbound professional, more concerned with inbreeding among the lions than any overarching moral or existential scheme. It's true that he had all new animals blessed by a priest and there were two small shrines at the zoo, one to Lord Ganesha and one to Hanuman, gods likely to please a zoo director, what with the first having the head of an elephant and the second being a monkey, but Father's calculation was that this was good for business, not good for his soul, a matter of public relations rather than personal salvation. Spiritual worry was alien to him; it was financial worry that rocked his being. "One epidemic in the collection," he used to say, "and we'll end up in a road crew breaking up stones." Mother was mum, bored and neutral on the subject. A Hindu upbringing and a Baptist education had precisely cancelled each other out as far as religion was concerned and had left her serenely impious. I suspect she suspected that I had a different take on the matter, but she never said anything when as a child I devoured the comic books of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata and an illustrated children's Bible and other stories of the gods. She herself was a big reader. She was pleased to see me with my nose buried in a book, any book, so long as it wasn't naughty. As for Ravi, if Lord Krishna had held a cricket bat rather than a flute, if Christ had appeared more plainly to him as an umpire, if the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, had shown some notions of bowling, he might have lifted a religious eyelid, but they didn't, and so he slumbered.

After the "Hellos" and the "Good days," there was an awkward silence. The priest broke it when he said, with pride in his voice, "Piscine is a good Christian boy. I hope to see him join our choir soon."

My parents, the pandit and the imam looked surprised.

"You must be mistaken. He's a good Muslim boy. He comes without fail to Friday prayer, and his knowledge of the Holy Qur'an is coming along nicely." So said the imam.

My parents, the priest and the pandit looked incredulous.

The pandit spoke. "You're both wrong. He's a good Hindu boy. l see him all the time at the temple coming for darshan and performing puja."

My parents, the imam and the priest looked astounded.

"There is no mistake," said the priest. "I know this boy. He is Piscine Molitor Patel and he's a Christian."

"I know him too, and I tell you he's a Muslim," asserted the imam.

"Nonsense!" cried the pandit. "Piscine was born a Hindu, lives a Hindu and will die a Hindu!"

The three wise men stared at each other, breathless and disbelieving.

Lord, avert their eyes from me, I whispered in my soul.

All eyes fell upon me.

"Piscine, can this be true?" asked the imam earnestly. "Hindus and Christians are idolaters. They have many gods."

"And Muslims have many wives," responded the pandit.

The priest looked askance at both of them. "Piscine," he nearly whispered, "there is salvation only in Jesus."

"Balderdash! Christians know nothing about religion," said the pandit.

"They strayed long ago from God's path," said the imam.

"Where's God in your religion?" snapped the priest. "You don't have a single miracle to show for it. What kind of religion is that, without miracles?"

"It isn't a circus with dead people jumping out of tombs all the time, that's what! We Muslims stick to the essential miracle of existence. Birds flying, rain falling, crops growing - these are miracles enough for us."

"Feathers and rain are all very nice, but we like to know that God is truly with us."

"Is that so? Well, a whole lot of good it did God to be with you - you tried to kill him! You banged him to a cross with great big nails. Is that a civilized way to treat a prophet? The prophet Muhammad - peace be upon him - brought us the word of God without any undignified nonsense and died at a ripe old age."

"The word of God? To that illiterate merchant of yours in the middle of the desert? Those were drooling epileptic fits brought on by the swaying of his camel, not divine revelation. That, or the sun frying his brains!"

"If the Prophet - p.b.u.h. - were alive, he would have choice words for you," replied the imam, with narrowed eyes.

"Well, he's not! Christ is alive, while your old 'p.b.u.h.' is dead, dead, dead!"

The pandit interrupted them quietly. In Tamil he said, "The real question is, why is Piscine dallying with these foreign religions?"

The eyes of the priest and the imam properly popped out of their heads. They were both native Tamils.

"God is universal," spluttered the priest.

The imam nodded strong approval. "There is only one God."

"And with their one god Muslims are always causing troubles and provoking riots. The proof of how bad Islam is, is how uncivilized Muslims are," pronounced the pandit.

"Says the slave-driver of the caste system," huffed the imam. "Hindus enslave people and worship dressed-up dolls."

"They are golden calf lovers. They kneel before cows," the priest chimed in.

"While Christians kneel before a white man! They are the flunkies of a foreign god. They are the nightmare of all non-white people."

"And they eat pigs and are cannibals," added the imam for good measure.

"What it comes down to," the priest put out with cool rage, "is whether Piscine wants real religion - or myths from a cartoon strip."

"God - or idols," intoned the imam gravely.

"Our gods - or colonial gods," hissed the pandit.

It was hard to tell whose face was more inflamed. It looked as if might come to blows.

Father raised his hands. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!" he interjected. "I would like to remind you there is freedom of practice in this country."

Three apoplectic faces turned to him.

"Yes! Practice - singular!" the wise men screamed in unison. Three index fingers, like punctuation marks, jumped to attention in the air to emphasize their point.

They were not pleased at the unintended choral effect or the spontaneous unity of their gestures. Their fingers came down quickly, and they sighed and groaned each on his own. Father and Mother stared on, at a loss for words.

The pandit spoke first. "Mr. Patel, Piscine's piety is admirable. In these troubled times it's good to see a boy so keen on God. We all agree on that." The imam and the priest nodded. "But he can't be a Hindu, a Christian and a Muslim. It's impossible. He must choose."

"I don't think it's a crime, but I suppose you're right," Father replied.

The three murmured agreement and looked heavenward, as did Father, whence they felt the decision must come. Mother looked at me.

A silence fell heavily on my shoulders.

"Hmmm, Piscine?" Mother nudged me. "How do you feel about the question?"

"Bapu Gandhi said, 'All religions are true.' I just want to love God," I blurted out, and looked down, red in the face.

My embarrassment was contagious. No one said anything. It happened that we were not far from the statue of Gandhi on the esplanade. Stick in hand, an impish smile on his lips, a twinkle in his eyes, the Mahatma walked. I fancy that he heard our conversation, but that he paid even greater attention to my heart. Father cleared his throat and said in a half-voice, "I suppose that's what we're all trying to do - love God."

I thought it very funny that he should say that, he who hadn't stepped into a temple with a serious intent since I had had the faculty of memory. But it seemed to do the trick. You can't reprimand a boy for wanting to love God. The three wise men pulled away with stiff, grudging smiles on their faces.

Father looked at me for a second, as if to speak, then thought better, said, "Ice cream, anyone?" and headed for the closest ice cream wallah before we could answer. Mother gazed at me a little longer, with an expression that was both tender and perplexed.

That was my introduction to interfaith dialogue. Father bought three ice cream sandwiches. We ate them in unusual silence as we continued on our Sunday walk.

  第二十三章

    哎，给一个民族带来集体感的共同信仰却给我招来了麻烦。我的宗教行为开始只有一些与之无关、只是感到好笑的人注意到，后来终于被对他们来说关系重大的人注意到了——这些人并不感到好笑。

    “你儿子到庙宇去干什么？”神父问。

    “有人看见你儿子在教堂里画十字。”伊玛目说。

    “你的儿子成了一个穆斯林。”梵学家说。

    是的，我困惑不解的父母不得不注意到了这一切。你瞧，他们并不知道。他们不知道我是虔诚的印度教徒、基督教徒和穆斯林。青少年总有几件事瞒着父母，不是 吗？所有的16岁少年都有自己的秘密，不是吗？但是命运决定了我的父母和我和那三位智者，我就这样称呼他们吧，有一天会在古贝尔·萨莱海滨散步广场相遇， 我的秘密会暴露。那是一个可爱的微风轻拂、天气炎热的星期天下午，孟加拉湾在蓝天下波光闪烁。城里的人都出去散步了。孩子们大声叫着笑着。五颜六色的气球 在空中飘来飘去。冰淇淋卖得飞快。在这样的一天为什么要考虑工作上的事呢，我问？为什么他们不能点点头，笑一笑，就从我们身边走过去呢？事情没有这样发 生。我们遇到了不止一位智者，而是三位智者，不是一位接一位地遇到，而是三位同时遇到，每一位都在看到我仍的时候认定，那是见那位本地治里的名人、动物园 的园长、那位模范的虔诚的儿子的父亲的绝妙时机。看见第一位的时候，我微笑了一下；看见第三位的时候，我的微笑变得僵硬，成了一只恐怖面具。当我看清三位 都在朝我们走来的时候，我的心一下子跳了起来，然后慢慢沉了下去。

    当三位智者意识到他们三人都在朝同样的人走去时，似乎很不高兴。每一位一定都以为其他两位是为其他事，而不是为与传教有关的事到那儿去的，又都粗暴地选择了在那一刻来讨论这个问题。他们相互交换了不快的目光。

    父母被三位满脸微笑的陌生的宗教人士彬彬有礼地挡住了去路，感到很不解。我要解释一下，我的家庭绝不是一个正统的家庭。父亲认为自己是新印度——富有、现 代、像冰淇淋一样世俗的新印度的一部分。他根本没有宗教细胞。他是个商人，就他而言，显然是个忙碌的商人，一个工作勤奋、讲求实际的专业人员，对狮子的同 系交配比对任何包罗万象的道德或存在图式更加关心。的确，他请牧师来给所有新来的动物祝福，动物园里还有两座小神龛，一座供奉象头神，一座供奉神猴，两位 都是可能让动物园园长高兴的神，第一位长了一个大象脑袋，第二位是只猴子。但是父亲的打算是，这对生意有好处，而不是对他的灵魂有好处，这是公共关系问 题，而不是个人得救问题。精神上的担忧对他而言是件陌生的事情；让他身心苦恼的是经济上的担忧。“只要有一种疾病在这群动物当中流行，”他说，“我们就只 能做修路工去砸石头了。"在这个问题上，母亲感到厌烦，保持沉耿和中立的态度。印度教的家庭教育和浸礼会的尝校教育在宗教方面恰好相互抵消，让她成了一个 不信奉宗教的人，并且对此心安理得。我怀疑她已经怀疑到我对这件事有不同的反应，但是，当我小时候贪婪地阅读<罗摩衍那》和《麾呵婆罗多>的 连环漫画和插图本少儿<圣经》以及其他神的故事的时候，她从没有说过什么。她自己非常喜欢读书。她很高兴看见我埋头读书，任何书，只要不是下流的书 就行。至于拉维，如果克利须那手里拿的不是笛子而是板球球拍，如果耶稣在他看来更像一个裁判员，如果先知穆罕默德——愿他安息——表达过对保龄球的看法， 那么也许他会抬起虔诚的眼皮，但是他们没有，于是他睡了。

    在问了“你好”，说了“天气不错”之后，是一阵尴尬的沉默。神父打破了沉默，他用充满自豪的声音说：“派西尼是个很好的基督教小伙子。我希望看见他很快就能参加我们的合唱。”

    我的父母、梵学家和伊玛目看上去吃了一惊。

    “你一定弄错了。他是个很好的穆斯林小伙子。他每个星期五都来祷告，他对神圣的<可兰经》的学习也进步得很快。”伊玛目这样说道。

    我的父母、神父和梵学家看上去难以置信。

    梵学家说话了：“你们俩都错了。他是个很好的印度教小伙子。我总是在庙宇里看见他来得福和做礼拜。”

    我的父母、伊玛目和神父看上去惊讶得目瞪口呆。

    “肯定没错，”神父说，“我认识这个小伙子。他是派西尼·莫利托·帕特尔，是个基督教徒。”

    “我也认识他，而且我要告诉你们他是个穆斯林。"伊玛目肯定地说。

    “荒唐！”梵学家叫道，“派西尼生下来是个印度教徒，活着是个印度教徒，死了也是印度教徒！”

    三位智者相互瞪着眼，气喘吁吁，满腹怀疑。

    主啊，让他们把目光从我身上移开吧，我在心亘低语。

    所有的目光都落到了我身上。

    “这是真的吗？”伊玛目急切地问道。“印度教徒和基督教徒都是偶像崇拜者。他们有很多神。”

    “而穆斯林则有很多老婆。"梵学家回敬道。

    神父轻蔑地看着他们俩。“派西尼，”他几乎是在耳语，“只有耶稣才能让我们得救。”

    “胡言乱语！基督教徒根本就不懂什么是宗教。"梵学家说。

    “他们很久以前就偏离了上帝的道路。"伊玛目说。

    “你们宗教里的上帝在哪里？”神父厉声问道。“你们连一个可以显示上帝存在的奇迹都没有。没有奇迹，那还算是什么宗教？”．

    “宗教不是马戏，总是有死人从坟墓里跳出来，不是的！我们穆斯林坚信最基本的生命奇迹。飞翔的小鸟，飘落的雨水，生长的庄稼——这些对我们来说就是奇迹。”

    “羽毛和雨水都非常好，但我们想知道上帝真正和我们在一起。”

    “是吗？啊，和你们在一起对上帝的好处可真不少啊——你们试图杀了他！你们用大钉子把他钉在十字架上。这是对待先知的文明方式吗？先知穆罕默德——愿他安息——给我们捎来了上帝的话，却没有受到任何有损尊严的荒唐对待，而是活到了高龄。”

    “上帝的话？捎给沙漠中间你们那群不识字的商人？那都是由于他的骆驼的摇摆而造成的癫痫发作之后的胡说八道，而不是神的启示。就是那样，要不就是太阳烤坏了他的脑子！”

    “如果先知——愿他安息——还活着，他会说出气愤的话的。"伊玛目眯缝着眼睛说。

    “哎，他没活着！耶稣还活着，而你们的老‘愿化安息’已经死了，死了，死了！”

    梵学家静静地打断了他们。他用泰米尔语说：“真正是，为什么派西尼轻率地对待这些外来的宗教？”

    神父和伊玛目的眼珠子这一下简直要从脑袋里蹦出来了。他们都是土生土长的泰米尔人。

    “上帝是无处不在的。”神父气急败坏地说。

    伊玛目点头表示完全赞同。“只有一个上帝。

    “只有一个上帝的穆斯林总是招惹麻烦，引起暴乱。伊斯兰教有多坏的证明，就是穆斯林有多么不文明。”梵学家宣布道。

    “种姓制度的奴隶监工在说话，”伊玛目愤怒地说，“印度教徒奴役人民，膜拜穿上衣服的玩偶。

    “他们热爱金色小牛犊。他们在牛面前下跪。”神父插话表示赞成。

    “而基督教徒却在一个白人面前下跪！他们是拍外来神马屁的势利小人。他们是所有非白色人种的噩梦。”

    “他们吃猪肉，是食肉生番。”伊玛目另外补充道。

    “归根结底，”神父抑制住愤怒，冷静地宣布说，“问题是派西尼是想要真正的宗教，还是要卡通连环画里的神话。”

    “是要上帝，还是偶像。”伊玛目拖长了声音严肃地说。

    “是要我们的神，还是要殖民地的神。”梵学家尖利地说。

    很难分清谁的脸更红。看样子他们可能要打起来了。

    父亲举起双手。“先生们，先生们，请不要这样！”他插话道。“我要提醒你们，这个国家有宗教信仰自由。”

    三张有中风迹象的脸转向了他。

    “是的！信仰，只能有一种！”三位智者不约而同地叫道。三根食指就像三个标点符号，一下子蹦到了空中，以吸引别人的注意力

    ，强调自己的观点。

    他们对这无意的异口同声的效果和不由自主的相同手势很不高兴。他们迅速把手指放下，叹了口气，各自发出不满的声音。父亲和母亲继续瞪着他们，不知道该说什么。

    梵学家第一个说话了。“帕特尔先生，派西尼的虔诚令人钦佩。在这动荡的年代，看到一个小伙子对上帝如此热心，这真是太好了。我们都同意这一点。"伊玛目和神父点点头。“但是他不可能同时做一个印度教徒，一个基督教徒和一个穆斯林。这是不可能的。他必须作出选择。”

    “我不认为这是件罪行，但我想你是对的。"父亲答道。

    那三位咕哝了几声表示同意，然后抬头看着天，父亲也一样，他们感到上天一定能作出决定。母亲看着我。

    一阵沉默重重地压在了我的肩上。

    “嗯，派西尼？”母亲用胳膊肘轻轻推了推我。“你对这个问题有什么感觉？

    “甘地老爹说，‘所有宗教都是真实的。’我只是想热爱上帝。”我脱口而出，然后低下头，脸红了。

    我的尴尬具有传染性。没有人说一句话。我们碰巧离海滨散步广场．卜的甘地塑像不远。这位圣雄正在行走，他手里拿着拐杖，嘴上挂着顽童似的微笑，眼里闪着 光。我想他听见了我们的谈话，但他更注意我的内心。父亲清了清嗓子，用压低了的声音说：“我想这是我们大家都在努力做的事——热爱上帝。”

    他这么说让我感到很滑稽，自从我有记忆力以来，他就从没有带着严肃的目的跨进寺庙过。但是这话似乎起了作用。依不能责备一个想要热爱上帝的小伙子。三位智者脸上带着僵硬的勉强的微笑离开了。

    父亲看了我一秒钟，似乎要说什么，却又改变了主意，说：“冰淇淋，谁想要？”我们还没有回答，他便朝最近的卖冰淇淋的小贩走去。母亲又盯着我看了一会儿，表情既温柔又困惑。

    那就是我对不同宗教间对话的入门。父亲买了三只冰淇淋三明治。我们一边非常安静地吃着冰淇淋，一边继续星期天的散步。