I can clearly see everything. There, the curtain is drifting in the wind and preparations are being made to set off on a journey of destruction. That tiny flash of red ribbon peeping from the masses of dark hair, washed and cleaned: it’s the greedy tongue of the nor’wester, scarlet with the secret zeal of lust! I can clearly perceive the heat off that slight gesture of the sari-border, the little hint of the blouse.Yet, all this groundwork is taking place in a clandestine matter, unknown even to the one who is doing it.
Why doesn’t she know? Because, man has destroyed with his own hands the capacity to know and understand reality fully, by always covering it up. Man is ashamed of reality. Hence, it has to work surreptitiously, from beneath the piles and swathes of wrapping that man has constructed; that’s why we never come to know of its workings and then when it comes upon us suddenly, there is no way of denying it. Man wanted to evict it and called it Satan, which is why it entered Eden masquerading as a snake and made woman rebel by just whispering into her ears and opening her eyes to the Truth. Since then, there has been no time to rest, there has been only death and nothing else!
I am materialistic. The naked reality has broken free of the prison of sentimentality today and come into the open. My joy stalks every footstep. Whatever I desire should come very close to me, I’ll receive it fully, I’ll hold it tight and not let it go at all; all that comes in-between will shatter into little pieces, roll in the dust, flutter in the wind—this is joy, this is pleasure, this is the destructive-dance of reality; after this life and death, good and bad, joy and sorrow, all is vain—mere trifles! Trifles!
My Queen Bee is walking in a trance and she doesn’t know which way she’s headed. It wouldn’t be safe to let her know and wake her suddenly, before the time is right. It’s better to let her feel that I haven’t noticed anything at all. The other day as I was eating, Queen Bee stared at my face fixedly, totally unaware of what that look can possibly imply. When I looked up suddenly and met her eyes, she blushed and looked away. I said, ‘You must be really surprised by the way I eat. I can conceal many traits, this greed isn’t one of them. But look here, since I am not ashamed of myself, please don’t feel embarrassed for my sake.’
She turned her head, blushed some more and began to say, ‘No, oh no, you—’
I said, ‘I know women adore greedy people because that’s the way they win their hearts. I am a glutton and that’s why, I’ve always received so much care from women that today I am in this state, where I don’t feel the least bit of shame. So , please feel free to stare your eyes out as I am eating; it doesn’t bother me one bit. I will chew up every one of these drumsticks and leave nothing to them—that’s my nature.’
A few days ago I was reading a contemporary English book, which contained explicit details of the union between a man and a woman. I’d left it behind in the drawing room. One afternoon I walked into the room for some reason and found Queen Bee reading the book; as she heard footsteps she covered it with another book and stood up. The book she used to cover the first one was a collection of Longfellow’s poems.
I said, ‘Look here, it beats me why you feel embarrassed about reading poetry. It should be the men who feel shy because some of us are lawyers and some engineers. If we must read poetry, it has to be late at night behind closed doors. You, women, are the closest to poetry. The God who created you is the poet of all poets and it is at His feet that Jaidev has composed his Lalitalabangalata.’
The Queen Bee didn’t reply; she just laughed and blushed and made as if to leave. I said, ‘No, no, that won’t do. Please sit and read. I’d left behind a book; I’ll just take that and clear out.’
I picked up my book off the table and said, ‘Thank goodness this book didn’t fall into your hands, or you might have beaten me up.’
The Bee asked, ‘Why?’
I replied, ‘Because, this isn’t poetry. What this contains is the most basic facts about human beings, spoken quite bluntly too, without any artifice. I really wanted Nikhil to read this book.’
With a slight frown, the Bee asked, ‘And why is that?’
I said, ‘Since he is a man and he’s one of us. He loves to see this raw world through a blur and that’s why he and I argue so often. You can see, that’s the reason why he has taken our swadeshi issue to be like Longfellow’s poetry—he’d rather we tread gently on the rhythm for every little topic. We are more prosaic than prose, we’re the destroyers of rhythm.’
The Bee asked, ‘How is this linked to swadeshi?’
I said, ‘You’ll know if you read it. Whether it’s swadeshi or any other matter, Nikhil would rather go with illusory views; hence, at every step he collides with human nature and then he resorts to calling nature all sorts of names. He refuses to accept that long before views and opinions, our natures were created and they will continue to be, long after all beliefs die.’
The Bee was silent for a while; then she asked solemnly, ‘Isn’t it in our nature to want to rise above our innate nature?’
I laughed to myself and thought, ‘Oh princess, dear one, this isn’t you speaking. You’ve learnt this from Nikhilesh. You are a hale and hearty person, bursting with the juices of Nature; the moment you’ve heard the clarion call of Nature, your flesh and blood has responded to it—why would the illusory web of all that they’ve preached to you be enough to hold you back? Don’t I know that your veins are alive with the powers of life’s fire? How much longer can the wet towel of moral lectures keep you cold?’
I said, ‘In this world, there are more weak people than strong; in order to save their lives, they chant those refrains into the ears of the world and drive the strong ones crazy. Only those who have been deprived by Nature and weakened, tend towards enervating other people’s nature.’
The Bee said, ‘We, the women, are weak too. So we should join the conspiracy of the weak.’
I laughed and said, ‘Who says you’re weak? Men have cajoled you into thinking that you are helpless and weakened you with shame. I believe that you are the strongest. I can give it to you in writing that women will break free of the fort of chants, take on a devastating form and gain their freedom. Men only show off their strength, but deep down they are caged beings. Until today they have bound themselves by writing their own commandments. They’ve huffed and puffed and turned womankind into golden chains and wrapped themselves within and without. If man didn’t have this amazing capacity to trap himself with his own snares, he’d be far ahead today. The traps built by his own hands are the biggest deities for him. Man has adorned them variously, painted them in different hues and worshipped them with varied names. But women? You have desired reality in this world with your heart, soul and body, given birth to reality and nurtured it.’
The Bee was an educated woman and she didn’t give up easily. She said, ‘If that were the truth, would it be possible for man to love woman?’
I said, ‘Women are well aware of that; they know that men, by nature, appreciate deceit. Hence they borrow words from men, mask themselves and try to entice men. They know that the naturally inebriated menfolk are more inclined towards drink than food; hence, through devious means and tricks and gestures, they try to pass themselves off as liquor and desperately hide the fact that they are actually victuals. Women are materialists and they do not need any accessory illusions; those are set out only for the benefit of men. Women have become enchantresses under duress,’
The Bee said, ‘Then why do you wish to shatter the illusion?’
I said, ‘Because, I want freedom. I want freedom for my country as well as for relationships between human beings. My nation is very real to me and hence I simply cannot look at her through the misty veils of moral ethics. I am very real to me, you are very real to me and hence I do not condone the business of making two people mysterious and enigmatic to one another simply by scattering a few words between us.’
I had to keep in mind that startling a sleepwalker suddenly wasn’t desirable. But my nature is so aggressive
that it was impossible to tread softly. I know that my words that day were a little too strong; I know that the first impact of those words could be a little harsh. But women welcome the brave. Men love the ethereal; women adore the tangible. That’s why men rush to worship the avatars of their own Idea and women gather their heart’s prayers at the feet of the powerful.
Just as our conversation showed signs of warming up, Nikhil’s childhood teacher Chandranathbabu came into the room. On the whole, the world was a fairly nice place but the havoc caused by these teachers made one want to quit it. People like Nikhilesh would rather his world remained a school till the end of his life. We were old enough, and yet the school has to tag along; even when we’ve started living adult lives, the school won’t let us go. It’d be quite right to drag the teacher to the pyre with us when we die. That day, the symbol of school interrupted our conversation at an ill-timed juncture. I suppose there’s a student-mentality embedded deep inside all of us. Bold as I am, even I was a little taken aback. And our Bee—from her face it was apparent that in an instant she’d turned into the best student in the class and solemnly taken her place in the front bench. It’s as if she had remembered suddenly that she had a responsibility to do well in her exams. Some people sit by the roadside like the points-men of the railways; they switch the train of thoughts from one track to another for no good reason whatsoever.
As soon as he entered the room, Chandranathbabu was embarrassed and was about to leave, ‘I’m sorry, I—.’ Even before he finished the sentence, the Bee knelt down and touched his feet and said, ‘Sir, please don’t leave; do have a seat.’ She spoke like she was drowning in mid-sea and needed his help. Coward! Or perhaps I am wrong. Maybe there was a ploy here—a way of increasing her worth. Perhaps the Bee wanted to let me know in an elaborate fashion that, ‘You may think you’ve overwhelmed me, but I have far greater respect for Chandranathbabu.’ So, go ahead. After all, one has to respect one’s teachers. I am not a teacher and so I do not want empty respect. I’ve already made it clear that unsubstantial things do not satiate me—I need matter.
Chandranathbabu brought up swadeshi. I decided I’d let him babble non-stop and not reply to a single comment. It’s good to let old people talk; it makes them feel that they’re running the world and the poor souls never find out how distanced they are from the actual running of the world. At first, I held my tongue; but even his worst enemies wouldn’t accuse Sandipchandra of being a patient man. When Chandranathbabu said, ‘Look, we have never done any farming and if we expect we’ll reap a harvest so soon after sowing the seeds, we—’
I couldn’t help it; I said, ‘We don’t want a harvest; we say, Ma phaleshu kadachana—work without expectation of the result.’
Chandranathbabu was stunned, ‘Then, what do you all want?’
I said, ‘Poisoned weeds—it costs nothing to grow them.’
The teacher said, ‘Poisoned weeds don’t just hinder others, it’s an encumbrance to itself too.’
I said, ‘That’s the moral value meant for schools. We’ re not writing out maxims on a board. Chalk in hand, our hearts are burning and for now that’s the most important thing. Right now we’ll scatter thorns on the path, keeping the soles of other people in mind. Later, when it’ll hurt our own feet, there’s enough time to repent at leisure. Is that too much? When we’re old enough to die, the fires will have died down and now that we’re young they’re burning furiously, as they should.’
Chandranathbabu laughed a little and said, ‘If you want to rave and rant, I guess you will. But please don’t pat yourself on the back saying that it’s the brave thing or the best thing to do. On this earth, only those civilizations have saved themselves that have worked hard—not the ones that have raved and ranted. Those who have always feared hard work like the devil are the only ones who wake up suddenly and believe that they’ll get somewhere through the blind alley of wrongdoings.’
I was just getting ready to furnish a severe reply when Nikhil entered. Chandranathbabu rose, looked at the Bee and said, ‘I’ll take leave today, Ma. I have work to do.’
After he left, I showed my English novel to Nikhil and said, ‘I was telling Queen Bee about this book.’
Ninety nine per cent of the people on this earth have to be fooled by lies, but this perpetual student of the schoolteacher is most easily fooled by the truth. He is best deceived when you do it openly, telling all. It’s better to play the game of truth with him.
Nikhil looked at the name of the book and kept quiet. I said, ‘Man has cluttered up this earth, where he lives, with many unwieldy words and thoughts. So, writers such as this one have set forth, broom in hand, to remove the cobwebs and clearly expose the substance beneath it all. So, I was telling the Bee that you should read this book.’
Nikhil said, ‘I have read it.’
I asked, ‘What do you think of it?’
Nikhil said, ‘For those who learn a lesson from such books, it’s good; for those who want to use it for escape, it’s like poison.’
I asked, ‘What does that mean?’
Nikhil said, ‘ ‘Look, in this day and age if someone says nobody has any right over his own property, it makes sense only if the speaker is a totally selfless man; but if he’s a greedy thief, the words are a He on his lips. If one’s appetites are strong, he wouldn’t really be able to make sense of this book.’
I said, ‘But appetite is that gas-lamp of Nature which guides us on these roads. Those who deny the appetite wish to achieve a third eye by plucking out both their eyes.’
Nikhil said, ‘I accept appetite or proclivity only when I accept renunciation at the same time. If I try to see something by stuffing it right into my eyes, I hurt my eyes and also fail to see it. When people try to realize everything through their appetite, they distort their desires without realizing the truth.’
I said, ‘Look Nikhil, it is self-indulgence to see the world through glasses framed by moral ethics; that’s why in a crisis you cannot see reality clearly and you cannot complete any task with vigour.’
Nikhil said, ‘I don’t think a job is successful only if it’s done vigorously.’
‘Then?’
‘What’s the use of arguing in vain? These matters lose their charm if they’re discussed to no avail.’
I really wanted the Bee to join our discussion. Till this point she sat there without saying a word. Perhaps today I’d really shaken her mind quite deeply and so she was unsure, wanting to revalidate her lessons from the schoolteacher.
Was the dose too strong today? But the jolt was important. At the outset one must realize that something which the mind always accepted as fixed can be shaken.
I said to Nikhil, ‘It s a good thing I spoke to you. I was about to let Queen Bee read this book.’
Nikhil said, ‘What’s the harm in that? Bimal should read any book that I’ve read, I’d just like to clarify one matter though; nowadays Europe is intent on analysing all things human in terms of science and all discussions rest upon premises like man is merely physiology or biology or psychology or at best, sociology. But, please, I beg you to remember that man is not just a logos, he’s made up of all sciences and he goes beyond them all, stretching himself towards eternity. You accuse me that I am the schoolteacher’s student; I’m not, but you are. You wish to find man through your science teachers and not through your inner beings.’
I said, ‘Nikhil, why are you so excitable these days?’
He said, ‘It’s because I can see quite clearly that you are denigrating man, humiliating him.’
‘Why do you say that?’
I see it in the environment, through my own pain. You are intent on tortuously killing Him who is the noblest in man, the Beautiful, the Ascetic.’
‘This is some mad rambling of yours!’
Abruptly Nikhil stood up and said, ‘Look Sandip, I firmly believe that man can suffer endless agony and he’ll still be alive; hence I’m prepared to tolerate everything knowingly.’
&n
bsp; He finished speaking and walked out of the room.
I watched this display in amazement. Then I heard a sudden sound and turned to see that some books had dropped noisily to the floor, and Queen Bee was walking away hurriedly, keeping a distance from me.
Strange man, that Nikhilesh! He can feel distinctly that dark clouds have gathered over his home. Yet, why doesn’t he just throw me out? I know he is waiting to see what Bimala does. If Bimala tells him, ‘You are not the right partner for me,’ only then will he lower his head and say, ‘I see that there’s been a mistake.’ He doesn’t have the strength to realize that the biggest mistake is in calling a mistake by that name. Nikhil is a perfect example of just how Idea enervates a man. I have never seen another man like him. He is an eccentric product of Nature. It’ll be difficult to even construct a story or a play around him, let alone a family.
Then of course the Bee—it was obvious that the spell has broken today. She has understood the force of the tide which had her in its thrall. Now, fully aware, she has to either move forward or turn back. Not really; from now on, she’ll go forward and turn back alternately. I’m not worried about that. When your clothes are on fire, you may run around as much as you please and it’ll only serve to stoke the flames some more. The jolts of fear will make her emotions stronger. I have seen so many of them by now. That widow, Kusum, finally came and surrendered to me, trembling with fear. And the foreign girl who lived near our hostel—on some days when she was upset with me I felt she’d tear me to pieces. I remember that day very well, when she screamed, ‘Go, go’ and threw me out of her room; the moment I stepped over the threshold, she came running back, fell at my feet, cried and banged her head on the floor and fainted. I know these ones very well—call it anger, fear, shame or hatred, these only act as firewood within their heart and burn to cinder after stoking the fire in it. The only thing that can contain this fire is Idea. But women don’t possess an ounce of it. They do their good deeds, go to pilgrimages, bow piously before the holy man, just as we men go to office—but they stay far away from Idea.
The Tagore Omnibus, Volume One Page 30
