Ramdev as fiction of popular variety: Observe him closely and you will know what he's about



Have a mid-morning flight to Bhubaneswar, and driving me to the airport is my trusted cabbie, Jiwanji.



Jiwanji is in a talkative mood; he is bubbling with curiosity.



He thinks that I'm the right person to give him a crash course in the history of aviation.







'Who made the aeroplane?' 'Where are aeroplanes manufactured nowadays?' 'What happens if the air con system in the plane conks out? Does it get hot?'



I have no answers.



Jiwanji sees the light. He says, planes have been modelled on the cheel; when a plane lands, it looks exactly like a kite swooping down on its prey.



At this point, Jiwanji lets go of the steering. He uses his hands to illustrate the swooping motion.



The car veers dangerously to the left, slides off the road. I'm convinced we're going to crash into a boundary wall.



The screeching of brakes. 'Let me take a quick piddle,' says Jiwanji cheerfully, and puts the boundary wall to good use.



I'm going to Bhubaneswar to attend a literary festival. Also attending is Baba Ramdev.



This is one session I don't want to miss. I am an atheist, I'm not into spiritual gurus either, but Babaji is different.



He's always been a bit of an anarchic rockstar, a consummate body surfer. Remember the time he jumped off the stage during the Ramlila Maidan agitation, and tried to give the police the slip by dressing up in women's clothes?



That's our man. Also, he's 41 and I'm 37. He's my generation. Think about it-like me, Babaji is a Butterfly; I feel a generational kinship with him.



I want to get a seat as up front as possible, so I can get a close look. I go early to the convention hall where the festival is taking place.



I ask the girls at the reception, and they point me to a room where a cookery demo is on.



Baba Ramdev is slated to speak next.



The auditorium looks more like a ballroom. In the middle of this opulent ballroom stands a man cooking chicken on a hot plate.



The front rows are occupied by middle-aged women in starched saris; at the back, a smattering of students.



A couple of old men look on intently. The MC is a pretty Oriya girl wearing a green sari.



She keeps emphasising that food stylist Michael Swamy uses no oil in his concoctions.

Today Michael is making tea-infused chicken. He promises it will be ready in six minutes.



When six minutes are over, Michael takes a bite. Two photographers and a cameraman rush in to take close-ups.

Unfortunately the chicken isn't ready yet. Michael asks for a couple more minutes.



Who would like the first bite? A lady in the front row volunteers. She says she can taste tulsi but not tea in the chicken. Michael looks disappointed. He explains about subtle flavours.



The lady isn't convinced. It's an impasse. MC Green Sari flashes a brilliant smile and asks everyone to give Mike a big hand. It's past the designated hour, and there's no sign of Babaji.



Only the aroma of tea-infused chicken. Alarm bells. I go back to the girls at the reception, 'Are you sure Babaji will speak in this auditorium?'



One of them points to the staircase, 'First floor.' I'm furious. 'But you told me…'.



I walk into a packed hall. MC Green Sari is already on the stage, having made her way through a secret doorway.



'I can feel the anticipation! He will be here any minute!' I'm a participating writer. I pull strings.

I manage to get a seat right at the front. The stage is set. The table seems to be propped up on leather-bound law tomes, the kind used as a backdrop by Manish Tiwari when he's speaking to NDTV.



The chair is no ordinary chair but a throne draped in white. Thunderous applause. Babaji is finally here.



He moves slowly down the aisle. People seek his blessings. When he passes me, I too prostrate myself at his feet. He blesses me perfunctorily and ascends the stage.



The chandelier hanging above his head looks like an inverted spider. Ramdev is a class eight drop out but today he's the fount of wisdom.

'I was always top of my class. I quit because I disagreed with the Western education system. I immersed myself in the Vedas and the Upanishads, and the six schools of Indian philosophy.'



He jumps from one subject to the next.



One sentence randomly follows another, with no connecting thread. It is evident that Babaji relies on free association to make his point.

It's another matter that the exact point is lost in all the free-associating.



But, maybe, that's not the point of Baba Ramdev at all.



Here's an example: 'Vedic literature is the most ancient literature in the world…the basis of society is economic power and military power…genetic tests on Asians have shown that 18 per cent have Mongol blood…the Soviet Union claimed that there's no Jesus…I believe in swastha manoranjan, healthy entertainment'.

One minute, he's reminded of a Chaturvediji who didn't know the names of the four Vedas, the next he's talking about dinosaurs.



'Did you know that a dinosaur could pick up an elephant and fling him down, just like that?



'Did you know that the dinosaur is descended from the crocodile? Humans were much taller in earlier centuries. How do you think they carried two-ton stones up the hillside to make a temple?'



Ramdev is also a nativist.

'We are told that all that's good-nation, nationality, politics, the Enlightenment, comes from Europe.



'But this is not true. They don't understand our philosophical texts. The English language has no gambhirta.'

He thumps his chest, breathes in, breathes out, then realises that he's not at a yoga dem but a lit fest. He gets back to discoursing.



He attacks the Congress and Robert Vadra ('they open accounts in foreign banks in the names of their dogs and cats'), obscene (i.e Western) literature, FDI, MNCs and inflation.



'Banks, bankers and mega-capitalists are the biggest enemies of India.' Ten thousand 'mool shlokas', and our religious epics have been 'adulterated'.



He doesn't say who's responsible for this 'milavat' but there's a reference to 'foreign invaders'.



He makes a wisecrack about his own medicines that were found to be adulterated.



Synapses snap again. He's taken off his robe. 'When a heroine takes her clothes off, she's paid crores. When I do the same, I get nothing!'



The audience is unsure how to respond to this. Then the child-like Babaji rocks back in his chair, stomps his feet, pinches his thighs, and begins to giggle.



The audience erupts in laughter. Babaji is so tickled by his own joke that he repeats it again.



He has tears in his eyes. He closes the session on a note of optimism.



'If Orissa protects its natural resources and gives royalties to the local inhabitants, then it will be more powerful than America.'



More applause. On the way out to his waiting car, he's mobbed repeatedly. Ramdev is a vending machine for quotes and everyone's putting a coin into the slot.



He switches effortlessly between giving rapidfire advice to his followers on personal matters, and quipping on matters of national importance.



He is a curious mix of innocence and cunning, like a five-year-old son who's aware of his power and knows how to deploy it.



Slogans pierce the night air, 'Vande Mataram', 'Bharat Mata ki Jai'. The slamming of car doors.



And then, in the blink of a fluttering eye, Baba Ramdev is gone. He's not present at the author's dinner later that night.



He has more important things on his mind.



The writer is the author of The Butterfly Generation



