THE MESSIAH

It was a very cold night when the man died.

Later the police and the Press would weave a thousand different theories to explain the sudden appearance of a corpse in front of the Parliament. Some politicians saw behind it a sinister Opposition ploy to destabilize the Government. Some imaginative journalists wove a tale of passion and scandal behind the man's death, involving top politicians.

The man had died from multiple stab wounds, and had his throat slit. He had died a most painful death, bleeding to death in the icy cold night, yet unable to call out for help, his vocal cord having been nearly severed. The story made the front pages of most magazines and papers, leading some cynics to comment that the unfortunate man had found in death a fame he had probably never known in life.

When a week later the police announced they had caught the killer- a petty robber who had killed the man for money, the excitement collapsed. As such things go, the hype died down after a week or two. Life returned to its own monotonous daily rhythm, which had temporarily been perturbed by the man's death. The front pages were once again full of scandals, scams and scorecards. People's minds once again occupied with the latest cricket score, the son's report card, the electricity bill, the irritating boss and other such things which made up the humdrum existence of the mass of humanity.

The man was cremated without much ceremony in a remote corner of the capital. The episode escaped the attention of much of the world, not being reported much outside India, except a small column in Newsweek.

The man himself was a fairly ordinary specimen of humankind- about twenty-two, thin, tall, with a scraggy beard on his face. Not many people knew who he was. Later, his parents, in a small village in Bengal, would be among the few to mourn his death. The foolish boy, his relatives would say, leaving his fields to go to the big city. Since childhood, Bankul had been an odd boy- a precocious learner, but always aloof from others. At about the age of twelve, he began demonstrating a great interest in world history and politics. His father, a poor farmer, encouraged him, but began to worry when, a few years later, the boy began to talk of changing the world. Of just how wrong things were. He refused to take up an ordinary job and set off for the capital, announcing to his parents that soon something wonderful would happen when the new Millennium arrived. Now nobody would ever know what Bankul meant.

***

Some five kilometres from the spot where the man died a ten year old boy got into bed with his grandmother. The old woman smiled a toothless smile as she indulgently watched her grandson clamber onto the bed.

"Tell me a story, Naani. Please.."

And the grandmother told an episode from the Mahabharata, the great epic so well known to all Indians. She recited some verses from the Bhagvad Gita, translating into Hindi for the child's benefit. The child sat transfixed at this tale of war and courage, as children everywhere are.

"But, Naani, does that mean Krishna will return. You say he will come back whenever the world needs him".

"Krishna is but an avatar of the almighty. We find such people in all religions. Ordinary men, living among us, but yet apart- Buddha, Christ, Moses, Krishna. They all came at different points of time and changed the world for the better. All religions say that God's avatar will return to the Earth. Who knows, perhaps then we will be rid of all our problems of war and disease"

"But, Naani, how will we recognize him when he does come back?"

"Now, go to sleep. Enough questions for one night. You have a math test tomorrow".

The old woman shut off the lights. Her grandson's innocent question came back to her as she drifted off to sleep:   "But, Naani, how will we recognize him when he does come back?"