Warnings: AU in that Holmes had visited India during his hiatus. Also, there is a discussion of the Aghori sect and death rituals (somewhat graphic) and there is also an unfavourable view of Buddhism.
Translator's Notes:this is NOT my story. It was originally written in Russian for a fest "Our Birthday Present for Mr Brett" for Nov. 3, 2011 in the 221b comm on . I liked the story and asked the author for permission to translate into English and post on English-language fanfic comms and here , which the author kindly granted.
My comrade, who was also an Army doctor but had served in India (it was he to whom I referred in the conversation with Holmes) met me in front of my house, which I was going to leave the next day to move back to Baker Street.
"Watson! I'm so glad we didn't cross each other on the way!" he exclaimed happily, extending his hand as he walked towards me. "Listen, I must tell you that Thurston is expecting you at the club tonight to play a game of billiards with him and also so that he can tell you about something you might find of interest."
"And what is that something?"
"I don't know, but I suppose that it is about some papers in which he invested money and now he is trying to convince everyone else to do the same. Are you going to come? I will be going there myself."
"I'm afraid not. I'm busy tonight."
"Ah, that's really too bad. Oh well…"
"Wait a moment! Perhaps you could come in if you're not in a hurry? We could have tea or perhaps something stronger. A glass of whisky in this weather wouldn't go amiss."
"With pleasure!" We entered the house.
My comrade was a well-educated man who was interested in many things not directly relevant to medicine. When in India, he took notes describing the traditions and everyday life of local residents and he even tried to publish these notes when he returned to England. However, his idea was not met enthusiastically by the editors, because the market was quite saturated with literature of that kind already, and also because the thoughts he expressed in those notes regarding the politics of the British government towards the local population were rather seditious.
We were already savouring our second glass of brandy, reminiscing about events which had happened during our service away from our homeland. And even though these stories have been told more than once, we did not tire of them. At least for me, they were always, although painful, but memories of my youth and the time when life, despite the surrounding danger, seems so full thanks to the variety of sensations which each day makes you feel. I remembered how, after a strenuous day's work in the Army hospital amid the blood, pain, and groans, I would step outside to get some air, and looking with weary eyes at the angry blood-red sun hanging over the mountains, I would suddenly hear a song in a foreign language, which a woman in the yard nearby started to sing as she worked, stopping now and then to raise her voice at the children who were getting too rowdy.
My friend moved on to the story about the murder of a prominent Indian official, whose body he was called to examine. I knew that story quite well and, therefore, was listening with likely less than my full attention, being distracted by my own thoughts, until I caught a familiar name in the narrative.
"Have you been to Benares?" I interrupted my friend not very politely, and he stared at me.
"Of course, Watson. I had to escort the body of that unfortunate individual there, to the place of the funeral rites. I was even invited to the ceremony, but I declined as politely as I could. You know that…"
"And have you heard anything about the Aghori?" I interrupted him again, having no desire to listen for the second time to the details of funeral rites on the shores of the Ganges. My comrade winced.
"Good heavens, Watson! Why is it that from all topics about India, you must choose the most unpleasant? Would you like me to tell you about the cult of the goddess Kali? That is also rather unpleasant, but at least…"
"Tell me about the Aghori," I requested. "I really need to know."
He looked at me curiously but forbore to ask why I needed such information.
"You know, it's all rather complicated. Just like everything in India. That religion of theirs, those spiritual practices of the holy hermits, aiming at achieving some vague state, when, supposedly, the differences between life and death vanish, everything stands still and no one thing is different from another…Being fully at one with the world. Roughly speaking, everyone's goal is the same. The Aghori are saints in reverse. They also seek to be at one with the world, but they go about it in such horrible ways that I don't even want to speak of it."
"What is it they do that is so horrible? Do they kill people and devour the corpses?"
"Not quite. But their entire way of life is connected with death in some manner or other. They are smeared with ash from the funeral fires. They wear shrouds they'd taken off the dead bodies and jewelry made from human bones. And those are the most inoffensive among their actions. There is no need for them to kill anyone. Believe me, in India, and especially in Benares, corpses are plentiful. But regarding devouring…"
My friend did actually dislike speaking of it at first. But then the observant portrayer of ordinary life prevailed, and he, having gotten engrossed in the topic, imparted several sinister stories about those strange hermits, who fish corpses out of the river and conduct loathsome rituals over them, which supposedly help them acquire power over the dead person's spirit.
"The Aghori are revered as much as other saints. In some places, even more. Some representatives of the higher castes consider it an honour to serve them at one of their rituals."
"But can it possibly make any sense? I don't see how one could reach not even being at one with the world, but even a spiritual equilibrium."
My comrade shrugged his shoulders.
"As I had told you, it's rather complicated. If by spiritual equilibrium you mean a sense of inner satisfaction, when your financial affairs are in order, your practice is flourishing, and all your near and dear are alive and well, then one certainly cannot count on achieving such a state by following any of the Indian practices. I think that agori, by so insistently surrounding themselves with death, turn it into their life, thus making the differences between these two phenomena vanish. But that is only my opinion. Some people think that agori don't exist at all. That it's all just scary stories…"
But I knew that wasn't the case.
My friend couldn't tell me much about the meaning of certain ideas in the Eastern philosophy called Buddhism. This doctrine was not especially popular in India at present, although that country had been, according to him, the homeland of the Siddhartha Gautama, who was later given the name of Buddha because, after subjecting himself and his mind to various trials, he suddenly received an epiphany and conveyed to his associates the original thought that the entire world is merely an ever-changing illusion. However, this doctrine has spread far beyond the borders of India, and in many countries was taken very seriously. And I could not understand why. That doctrine with its boundless fatalism made a person give up at the slightest attempt to change anything at all in his fate, and as a doubtful consolation it offered immersing oneself in the same incomprehensible state of being at one with the universe that the Aghori sought to achieve.
All this seemed rather odd to me. I could not discern the reason because of which if some Indian prince grew disappointed in life, having met in the same day an old man, a sick man, and a funeral procession, everybody else should follow him and do the same thing. No doubt, perhaps that was too many experiences for one day, especially if one takes into consideration the effeminate character of that youth, but I could not find anything unusual in those experiences. I wondered what would have happened to him had he worked a month or two in a military hospital. And how could he not know about death if he himself came from the warrior caste and, most likely, practiced martial arts? Didn't he guess why he might need these arts? In all this I saw only the confirmation of something I had known about long ago—how unreasonably some parents act when they too diligently guard their child from unpleasant experiences and difficulties of life.
I must admit, however, that some of the stories and parables composed by the Buddhist philosophers, which my friend quoted to me, seemed interesting and even not devoid of the sense of humour. Especially those that were written outside India—in the Far East, in the country lying upon four islands and which has only relatively recently opened itself to interaction with the rest of the world. Although my friend's and my opinion somewhat differed on the subject of the usefulness of teachers' practice of beating their students on the head with the bamboo stick on the way to enlightenment.
Having seen my comrade off, I fell to thinking. The thought that Holmes was left alone in the flat on Baker Street, and that, perhaps, this very minute he was sitting in his armchair, staring at the accursed bust, thinking of the hermits who insistently surround themselves with death, and trying to make sense of an Eastern doctrine which enervates a man with its pessimism, troubled me a great deal. I can't convey how much I disliked this newfound tendency of his. I had to distract my friend from the gloomy experiences he picked up at Benares and from the strange ideas impressed upon him in Tibet. I was glancing around the room, and suddenly I thought that I had found a way.