It’s a painstakingly constructed, slightly mischievous, and occasionally provocative/chaotic mosaic of many other people’s thoughts, memories, and experiences. I have not lived in the nineteenth century. I have never met Sri Ramakrishna. I am not a practicing Hindu. I have never visited Calcutta. If I had, I probably could not have written this book. I wouldn’t have been stupid, arrogant, brave, naughty—and possibly even dispassionate—enough. This novel is a small (even pitiable) attempt to understand how faith works, how a legacy develops, how a spiritual history is written. I have been fascinated by Sri Ramakrishna for much of my life. He’s such a perplexing and joyous character. And I felt that his story might benefit from being told again—shared, enjoyed, celebrated (especially now)—but from a slightly new (and, yes, vaguely warped) perspective. As a ten-year-old child in South Africa I was given a free album about Krishna Consciousness by an eccentric (even magical) stranger in Fordsburg’s controversial Oriental Plaza.
