Many things have also been covered up regarding this chapter in my life that has evolved around Bimala-Nikhil. It wouldn’t have been hidden if I didn’t have anything to do with Ideas. My Idea is moulding my life in its own fashion, but there’s a lot of my life that is outside of it. My desires and those other bits of my life don’t coincide entirely; hence I like to keep them stashed away, hidden in a corner, or else they would end up spoiling everything.
This thing called ‘life’ is abstract; it is made up of such diversity. We, men with Ideas, wish to pour it into distinct moulds and view it clearly in perceptible forms; the success of life depends on that clarity. From the famous conqueror Alexander the Great to the contemporary billionaire of America, Rockefeller, each has poured himself into a precise mould, be it of the sword or of money, and only then has he been able to call himself a success.
This is the point on which Nikhil and I start arguing. Both he and I claim that one should know oneself. But from what he says, all that becomes apparent is that not knowing oneself is all that’s there to knowing oneself. He said, ‘What you call “getting the results” is actually a result that excludes one’s own self. The soul is greater than results.’
I said, ‘That is an ambiguous one.’
Nikhil said, ‘I have no choice. Life is more obscure than a machine; if you take life to be a machine, that won’t help you to know life. Similarly, the soul is more nebulous than results; but I wouldn’t say you are really seeing the soul for what it is, if you see it realized fully in results.’
I asked, ‘So , where do you see the soul? Under which nose or between which brow?’
He replied, ‘At the point where the soul knows itself to be eternal, where it leaves results far behind and goes beyond it.’
‘So what would you say of your country?’
‘The same thing. When the country says, “I’ll only look to myself”, it may well get results, but it loses its soul; but when it can see Truth as greater than itself, it can perhaps lose all results and yet achieve its own self.’
‘Where in history have you seen that happen?’
‘Man is so great that he can dispense with examples as much as he can overlook results. Perhaps there are no instances, just like there are no traces of a flower inside the seed; but still the seed does contain the flower. Yet, are there no instances at all? Was it a desire for results that made Buddha inspire India for so many centuries with his aspirations?’
It’s not that I can’t make any sense of what Nikhil says. That perhaps, is precisely my problem. I have been born in India; the toxin of religiosity permeates my blood. I may loudly assert that the path of denunciation is a crazy one. But I’m not able to brush it aside absolutely. That’s why, today, such strange things are happening in our country. The chant of religion and patriotism, both are being sung heartily—we want the Bhagavad Gita as well as Vande Mataram—not recognizing that this makes both equally obscure, the result being like a clash between the ill-matched drums and the shehnai. The task of my life is to put an end to this discordant cacophony. I’ll keep the drums intact, but the shehnai has been our ruin. We will uphold the flags of want and desire, which has been handed to us by Mother Nature, Mother Shakti and Mother Mahamaya when they sent us into the battlefield. Desire is beautiful and as pure as the fresh blossom, which doesn’t run to the powder-room at the drop of a hat to scrub itself with Vinoliya soap.
One question has been bothering me for a few days: why am I letting my life get entangled with Bimala’s? My life isn’t just a banana-boat drifting around hitting the shore where it wishes. This is what I meant when I said that I wish I could mould my life on the lines of one Idea, but it spills over. From time to time, people slip and slide. This time I’ve slipped away a bit too far.
I am not ashamed of the fact that Bimala has become the object of my desires. I can see quite clearly that she desires me: she is my very own. The fruit hangs on the tree by its stem, but does that mean we’ll have to accept that stem’s rights on it as eternal! All the thirst, all the sweetness that she has was meant to fall into my hands alone; her triumph lies in submitting herself to that. That is her religion and that is her integrity. I will pluck her and bring her there, I won’t let her life go in vain.
However, I am worried that I’m getting entangled and I feel that Bimal may become a huge burden on my life. I have come into this world to be a leader; I shall lead people with my words and in their work. Those masses are the horse for my crusade. My seat is on its back, its reins in my hands; it doesn’t know its destination—only I know it. I will not let it pause and think when thorns will make its feet bleed or mud will splatter it all over, I’ll only make it gallop.
That horse of mine is at the door today, impatiently pawing the earth with its hooves; the skies tremble with its neighing and what am I doing? What am I doing with my time? My auspicious moments are almost slipping away.
I had the impression I could run like the storm; I could pluck a flower, throw it away and it wouldn’t slow down my pace one bit. But now I seem to be hovering around the flower like the honeybee and not like the storm.
Obviously when I colour myself with my own Ideas, the colour isn’t as fast at all the spots and suddenly I can glimpse that ordinary mortal. If some omniscient God were to pen down the story of my life, I’m sure it’d be seen that there isn’t much difference between me and that Harry there—or even Nikhilesh for that matter. Last night I was leafing through my diary written at the time when I’d just passed my BA and my head was fairly bursting with philosophy. Ever since then I’d vowed that I wouldn’t allow any illusions, other people’s or mine, into my life, and I’d make my life entirely real. But from then until now, what do I see in the story of my life? Where is that tightly woven fabric? This is more like a net; the threads are all there, but there are as many gaps. I have tried to fight those weaknesses, but failed to conquer them. For a while now I was surely moving at a good pace; today again I find a large gap in myself.
It hurts. ‘I want it, it’s near my fingers and I’ll pluck it’—this is a clear declaration, the shortest route. I have always said that those who can walk this path vehemently are the ones who succeed. But Lord Indra didn’t allow this penance to be a simple one; from somewhere, he sent the angel to cause suffering and blur the ascetic’s vision with the vaporous mesh.
I see Bimala thrashing about like a trapped deer; such fear, so much pathos in those large eyes, her body lacerated by her attempts to free herself—the hunter should be happy at this sight. I do feel joy, but I also feel pain. That’s why I’m not able to tighten the noose properly while time flies past.
There have been moments when, had I rushed up to Bimala, pressed her hand and drawn her into my bosom, she wouldn’t have been able to protest; she too felt that any moment now something was about to happen, which will change the significance of her entire world—standing before that elemental ambiguity, her face was pale, her eyes filled with fear as well as excitement as if the heavens and the world were holding their breath and standing still, waiting for a decision to be made. But I let those moments pass; I didn’t allow the imminent to become definitive, with unabashed strength. From this I can tell that those constraints that were innate to my nature have now come out and stand there blocking my way.
Ravana, whom I respect as the primary protagonist of the Ramayana, also died in this fashion. Instead of bringing Sita into his chamber, he kept her in Ashokavana. Thanks to that tiny bit of naive quandary that persisted in that great hero, the burning of Lanka was in vain. If he didn’t have the dilemma, Sita would have given up her chaste airs and worshipped Ravana! In the same way, this hesitation always made him pity and disregard Vibhishana whom he should have killed; instead he himself lost his life.
This is the tragedy of life. It hides in a corner of the heart, curled up into a little ball and then in an instant it overcomes the giant. Man is not what he knows himself to be and that is why so many unpleasant things hap
pen.
Although Nikhil is so weird and I laugh at him so often, deep down I can’t squash the knowledge that he’s my friend. In the beginning I didn’t think of him at all. But as the days go by, I feel shame before him, and pain too. Some days, as always, I venture into an argument with him in the course of our conversation, but the enthusiasm flags suddenly—so much so, that I even do what I’ve never done before, that is, pretend to agree with him on some things. But this hypocrisy doesn’t go down well with me and it doesn’t suit Nikhil either—here too, we have something in common.
So , these days I try to avoid Nikhil and my day is made if I don’t bump into him. These are signs of weakness. The moment one acknowledges the spectre of culpability, it turns into something very real; then, even if you do not believe in it, it catches hold of you. I simply want to let Nikhil know this very frankly, that we must look at these things in larger, more realistic perspectives. A genuine friendship shouldn’t get messed up when faced with the Truth.
But I can’t deny the fact that this time I have been weak. This weakness hasn’t impressed Bimala one bit; she is the moth that singed her wings in the flame of my unreserved masculinity. When the haze of emotions sways me, Bimala is also swayed by it, but she feels revulsion; at that moment, although she cannot take back the garland she has thrown around my neck, the sight of it makes her feel like closing her eyes.
For both of us there is no turning back. I don’t have the strength to leave Bimala now. But neither will I let go of my own path. My way is that of throngs of people, not this backdoor to the inner chambers, I’ll not be able to abandon my own country now, especially not in these times; at present I’ll merge Bimala with my country. The same westward storm that has snatched away the veil of right and wrong from the face of the motherland, will raise the bridal veil off Bimala’s face—there is no disregard for her in that nakedness. The ship will sway on the waves of the ocean of people, the victory flag of Vande Mataram will flutter at its helm, roars and foaming waters all around—that ship will be our vessel of strength as well as that of love. There, Bimala will perceive such immense freedom that on its face, all her inhibitions will drop away without shame, unknown to her. Fascinated by this visage of destruction she won’t hesitate to turn cruel. In Bimala I have seen the face of that gorgeous ruthless, which is the natural strength of Nature. If women could free themselves of the phony binds placed on them by men, I’d have truly witnessed Kali on this earth—she is the brazen goddess, she is heartless. I am a devotee of the same Kali; one day I’ll drag Bimala amidst that devastation and invoke Kali, Let me make preparations for that.
Nikhilesh
EVERY CORNER IS FLOODED BY THE MONSOON TORRENTS; THE GLOW OFF the young rice stalks is like that from the body of a child. There was water all the way up till the gardens in our house. The morning sun poured down on this earth unimpeded, matching the passion of the blue sky.
If only I had music in my voice ! The water in the streams shimmered, the leaves on the trees glistened and ever so often, the paddy fields trembled and sparkled—in the morning music struck up on this July day, I alone was dumb! The tunes are locked within me; all the brightness of this world coming at me gets imprisoned within and cannot go back. When I look at this lacklustre, gloomy self I can understand why I am deprived. No one can endure my company day and night.
Bimal is so full of life. That’s why, in all of these nine years, she has never ever seemed boring to me. But if there’s anything in me, it is just mute profundity and not rippling surges. I am only capable of receiving but I cannot stir. My company is like starvation; when I see Bimal today I can understand what a famine she has survived all these years. Who is to blame?
Alas—
Monsoon floods, July and August,
My temple lies vacant!
My temple is built to stay empty; its doors are closed. I failed to understand all these years, that my idol was waiting outside the door. I’d thought he had accepted the prayers and also granted the boons—but, my temple lies vacant, my temple lies vacant.
Every year in the month of July when the earth was in all its glory, we toured the lake in Shyamaldaha in our barge. When the moonlight of the Krishnapanchami waned and hit rock bottom, we returned home. I used to tell Bimal that a song always had to return to its refrain; the refrain of union in life lay here amidst open nature; on these swelling waters where the wind blew gently, where the dusky earth drew the veil of shadows over her head and eavesdropped all night from one bank to another in the silent moonlight—this was where man and woman first united, and not within four walls. So, we returned here to the refrain of that first primal union, the union between Shiva and Parvati in the lotus gardens of Manasarovar in Kailash. After my marriage, two years were wasted in the hassle of examinations in Calcutta; since then for seven years now, every July, the moon has played its silent conch in our watery haven beside the blooming lotus garden. The first seven years of that life went thus; now the second phase begins.
I cannot possibly forget the fact that the full moon of July is here. The first three days have passed; I don’t know if Bimal remembers, but she hasn’t reminded me. Everything is quiet and the song has stopped.
Monsoon floods, July and August,
My temple lies vacant!
When a temple falls vacant from absence, the flute plays even in that vacuum. But the temple that falls vacant from parting lies very still and even the sound of weeping is discordant there.
Today my sobs are out of tune. I have got to stop this weeping. I shouldn’t be cowardly enough to restrain Bimal with these tears. Where love has turned into a lie, tears shouldn’t try and bind it. As long as my pain expresses itself, Bimal will not be totally free.
But I have to free her completely or I will not be free of the lie. Today, keeping her tied to my side is the same as shrouding myself in illusions. It doesn’t help anyone, let alone bring any joy. Let me go, let me go—grief will be a jewel in the heart if only you can free yourself from lies.
I feel I have come close to grasping something. People have exaggerated the love between a man and a woman to such an extent that now I’m unable to bring it under control even for the sake of humanity. We’ve turned the lamp of the room into the fire on the hearth. Now the day has come when it should no longer be pampered but instead, disregarded, Having received the invocations of desire, it has taken the form of a goddess; but we won’t accept the kind of prayers that require that a man sacrifice his manliness and have her drink his blood. We must rip apart the mesh of illusions that she has woven through looks and adornment, songs and tales, laughter and tears.
I have always felt a sort of revulsion for Kalidasa’s poem Ritusamhar. How can man bring himself to thus belittle the joyous rhythm of Nature? All the flowers and fruits of this world simply lie at his lover’s feet as objects of the veneration of desire. What was this intoxicant that clouded the poet’s vision? The one that I was drunk on for all these years may not be so red in colour, but its effect was just as strong. It was this intoxication that made me hum that strain all day today—
Monsoon floods, July and August,
My temple lies vacant!
Vacant temple! I should be ashamed of myself. What has made this colossal temple of yours so empty all of a sudden? I have known a lie for what it is and that has taken all the meaning out of every truth I’ve ever known?
This morning I d gone in to pick up a book from the shelf in the bedroom. It’s been so long since I entered my room in the day. Seeing the room in daylight, I felt very strange. Bimal’s sari lay crinkled up on that same rack and her discarded blouse and jacket lay in a corner waiting to be washed. Her hair pin, hair oil, brush, perfume bottles and even the sindoor box lay on the dressing table. Her tiny, zari embroidered slippers stood under the table—in the days when Bimal firmly refused to wear shoes, I’d had this made with the help of a Muslim friend of mine from Lucknow. She nearly died of shame just walking from the bedroom to that corridor t
here, in these slippers. Since then Bimal has gone through several slippers but she has kept this aside with special care. I’d joked with her and said, ‘Every day you worship me by touching my feet when I sleep and today I have come to revere my living goddess by keeping the dust off her feet.’ Bimal had said, ‘Please don’t say such things or I’ll never wear those shoes.’ This was my familiar bedroom. This room has a fragrance, which my heart knows intrinsically and which is perhaps not known to anyone else. My lovelorn heart has spread so many fine roots into these little and insignificant things: I have perceived this today in a way in which I never did before. The heart isn’t free if the core root alone is destroyed. Even those slippers tend to draw him back. Even if Lakshmi deserts you, the mind hovers around the strewn petals of her lotus-seat. Suddenly my glance rested on the mantle. I saw that my picture stood on it as before and some dried, blackened flowers lay before it. The face in the photo was unchanged although the veneration was distorted. Today, from this room, these dry, black flowers were all I deserved. The reason they were still here was that even the need to discard them was gone. Anyway, I have accepted Truth in this stark and dreary form of it—when will I be able to achieve the indifference of that picture on the mantle?
At this point suddenly, Bimal entered the room from behind me. Quickly I looked away and walked towards the shelf, saying, ‘I’ve come to take Amiel’ s Journal.’ I don’t know why this explanation was necessary. But I felt as if I was an offender here, as if I had no rights and had come in here to steal a look at something that was hidden, something that should stay hidden. I couldn’t look her in the eye and quickly left the room.
When it became impossible to sit and read the book in the sitting room, everything in life began to seem difficult—I didn’t have the slightest wish to see or hear anything, to say or do anything—exactly when all the days of my future had congealed into that one single moment and weighed down on my heart like a colossal weight, Panchu brought some ripe coconuts in a basket, kept them before me and touched my feet.
The Tagore Omnibus, Volume One Page 33
