‘If thy Guru styles himself a holy man’, he taunted, ‘cannot he give his disciples a palmful of water?’ The disciple came back and collapsed at the Guru’s feet. The Guru patted him on the back and asked him to be of good cheer. When the disciple recovered, the Guru asked him to pick up a big stone which lay in front of them. The disciple did as he was told. And all at once water sprouted out of the ground, so that within a few minutes there was water all around them. Meanwhile the Dervish who had need of water went to his well and found it absolutely dry. He looked down and saw a flowing stream. He also saw the Guru and his disciple sitting beneath an acacia tree. In great anger the Dervish put his weight against a huge boulder and rolled it down the hill. The disciple saw the enormous boulder coming down and shrieked with terror, but the Guru remained clam and merely exhorted him to praise the Almighty, the Formless One. When the boulder came upon him, he calmly put his hand and stopped it with his palm. And to this day the rock bears the imprint of the hand of the Guru. Now at the site stands a temple known as the Temple of the Guru’s Palm and a whole town has grown about it. There is also a railway station called the ‘Holy Palm.”

I was thoroughly enjoying the tale. But when it came to the Guru holding back the boulder with his hand, it gave me a peculiar feeling. It was not possible; how could a man hold back a boulder the size of a hill? And how could the rock have received the imprint of his palm? I did not believe a word of it. “Someone must have carved it later on,” said I, and I argued with my mother for a long time. I was willing to believe that there was a spring beneath a stone; there were many scientific ways of locating underground seams of water. But for a human being to stop a mountain landslide, that I refused to believe.

My mother looked at me and fell silent.

“Can anyone stop an avalanche?” I would say with a snigger whenever I recalled the legend. Many times was the tale told in our village temple, but the business of holding back the boulder was too much for me to stomach; when they told us the same story at school, I protested and began to argue with the teacher.

“Nothing is impossible for men of faith,” replied my teacher and silenced me. I remained quiet but did not believe a word of what he had said. I wanted to yell at the top of my voice : “How can anyone stop a big boulder rolling down a hill with a palm of his hand?”

Not long afterwards I heard that an ‘incident’ had taken place at the Temple of the Guru’s Palm. Those days there were many ‘incidents’ taking place. And whenever there was an ‘incident’ no fires were lit in our home and we slept on the floor as during days of mourning. What the ‘incident’ was, I did not know.

Our village was not far from the Temple of the Guru’s Palm. As soon as the news came, my mother left the house. I went with her, and with me, my little sister. All the way my mother’s eyes were moist with tears . I wondered what the word ‘incident’ meant.

When we reached the Temple we heard a strange tale.

Far away in a distant city the white man had opened fire on an unarmed crowd of Indians and killed many of them. Amongst the dead were young men, old men, women and children. Those that remained had been bundled into a train and were being sent to a prison in another city. The prisoners were hungry and thirsty, but the order was that the train was to run through without stopping anywhere. When the news came to the Temple, every one who had heard this was aflame with anger. How could a train load of thirsty people pass by the Temple where the Guru had performed a miracle to quench the thirst of one disciple ! The train carried not only thirsty, but also hungry and wounded men and women. The inhabitants of the Holy Palm asked for the train to be stopped at their railway station. A written request was addressed to the Station Master. Long distance telephone calls were made and many telegrams sent. But the white man had ordained that the train was not to stop and he refused to change his orders. The people of Holy Palm decided otherwise. They piled the platform high with loaves of bread, curried lentils, sweet rice pudding and canisters of water.

The trains were known to come like the sudden storms of summer and vanish with the speed of hurricanes. How could anyone stop a train!

My mother’s friend told us the rest.

“The first one on the rail-track was the father of my children. Then his friends lay alongside him and alongside them were, their wives. The engine started whistling frantically from a long distance. It began to slow down. But all said and done it was made of steel and had to take its time to come to a standstill. The wheels of the locomotive ran over many men. But no one moved from his place. All along the track chanted. : “Praise be to the Almighty, the Formless One – praise be..the Formless One.” And the train stopped. “Praise be to the Almighty, the Formless One,” the chant went on in unison. And then the train went backwards. This time the men under it were cut up again. Streams of blood flowed on either side of the track right up to the brick built culvert near the bridge.”

I heard the story and was amazed. The whole day I did not utter a word.

When we were returning to our village that evening my mother began to tell my sister the story of the Temple of the Palm. She told her how the Guru came that way with his disciple ; how the disciple thirsted for water ; how the Guru sent him to the Dervish on top of the hill; how the Dervish turned him back three times; how the Guru asked his disciple to pick up a rock; how the spring burst forth from under it and the well of the Dervish dried up; how the Dervish had hurled the boulder and how the Guru had said : “Praise be to the Almighty, the Formless One,” and stopped it with the palm of his hand.

“But how can anyone hold back a big boulder?” interrupted my little sister.

“And why not,” I burst in. “If the train which comes like a storm can be held, why not a boulder down a mountain?”

And then tears came rolling down my mother’s cheeks.