Bimala looked at me strangely and said, ‘I have understood you very well.’ For the first time, she addressed me with the informal ‘you’ as opposed to the formal equivalent.
I said, ‘Krishna was not just Arjun’s charioteer; he had a more colossal form and when Arjun perceived that, he realized the whole Truth. In this entire land I have perceived that colossal form of yours. Ganga-Brahmaputra are the strands of pearls gracing your neck; in the line of forest on the distant banks of the blue river I have glimpsed the lashes of your kohl-black eyes; the young rice fields undulate with the shadow of your striped sari rippling through them; I have glimpsed your cruelty in that raging summer sky, panting like a desert lion with its red tongue lolling. When the goddess has deigned to grant her devotee such a miraculous vision, I have decided to spread the word of her homage in the entire land and only then will my countrymen come alive. “It is your form that I build in every temple.” But everyone hasn’t quite understood it yet. So I have decided to create the statue of my deity with my own hands, before all the people of this land and worship her in a way that will help everybody believe in her. Grant me that boon, give me that strength.’
Bimala’s eyes were half closed. She sat still like a statue, almost one with her seat. Had I spoken some more, she would have fainted. A little later she opened her eyes and said, ‘Oh voyager of destruction, you have set out on the road and there is no one who can stop you. I can see that no one can come in the way of your desires. The king would come to lay down
his sceptre before you, the rich would come to donate all his wealth to you and even those who do not have anything, would be gratified to lay down their lives at your feet. Ethics and principles, morals and values would all fly away. Oh my Lord, my God, I do not know what you have seen in me, but I have just glimpsed your colossal form in the midst of my heart. It reduces me to nothing. Lord, oh Lord, what a tremendous force it is. It will not rest until it has destroyed me completely; I cannot take it anymore, I cannot bear this pain.’ She fell to the ground, reached for my feet and lay there sobbing, sobbing and sobbing.
This was hypnotism! This was the way to win the world. This magic spell was better than any other method. Who said Truth wins the day? Victory to illusion! Bengalis have realized that and hence they started worshipping the goddess with ten hands and placed her astride a lion. The same Bengali will build another goddess today and win the world with mesmerism. Vande Mataram!
I picked her up gently and made her sit on the stool. Before the weariness hit her after all this excitement, I quickly said, ‘The goddess has assigned me to reinstate her in this land, but I am a poor man.’
Bimala’s face was still red, her eyes misted with tears. She spoke in an emotion-laden voice, ‘You and poor. Everything that anyone has belongs to you. Why do I have a box full of jewellery? Please seize all my jewels and gems for your work—I don’t need any of them.’
Once before too, Bimala had offered me her jewellery. I baulk at nothing but this was my limit. It bothered me because traditionally it was the man who decked the woman with jewellery and hence, taking it from a woman would feel like a blow to my manhood.
But I had to get beyond myself. I wasn’t the one taking it. It was for the worship of the Mother and all of it would go for that. The puja would be so glamorous that no one ever would have seen anything like it. In the history of the new Bengal, this would be enshrined for all times to come. It would be my greatest gift to the country. The fools of the land worship the deity; Sandip creates the deity.
So much for the big talk. The small talk was also required. As of now I had to have at least three thousand, five thousand would be even better. But could I possibly broach the topic of money at an emotional time like this? Time was running out. I trampled upon my hesitations and spoke up, ‘Queen, the treasury is almost empty and the work is grinding to a halt.’
Immediately Bimala’s face crumpled in pain. I realized that she thought I was demanding the fifty thousand. It was probably weighing on her mind; perhaps she had worried about it all night and yet had found no solution. After all, she had no other way to show her love—she couldn’t possibly give her heart to me overtly and so she wanted to bring this money to me as a mark of all her covert caresses and desires. But the lack of a way to do so was stifling her. Her pain struck me to the quick. She was now all mine. There was no need to worry about uprooting her; now I needed to tend to her and keep her alive.
I said, ‘Queen, that fifty thousand won’t be needed right now. I have worked it out and just five thousand, or even three will do for now.’
Bimala was overwhelmed by the pressure lifting so suddenly. Like a song she sang, ‘I will bring you five thousand.’
This was the tune to which Krishna’s lover Radha had sung,
For my love I’ll don flowers in my hair,
The likes of which has never been seen in all the world,
The notes of the flute played in the wind,
Not for every ear is it meant,
Oh look at that, Yamuna has overflowed her banks.
It was the same tune, the same song and the same words: ‘I will bring you five thousand.’ ‘For my love I’ll don flowers in my hair.’ The flute played so sweetly because the wind had a narrow passage, there were so many restrictions in its way. If my greed had forced me to break the flute and flatten it, I would have heard, ‘Why? What do you need this money for? I am a woman, where shall I get so much money, etc. etc.’ It wouldn’t have a single syllable in common with Radha’s song. That’s why I say, illusion is the king, it is the flute and without illusion, it is the flute cracked open—I think Nikhil has got a taste of that pure emptiness these days. I feel sorry for him. But Nikhil boasts that he wants the Truth and I boast that I’d never let illusion slip through my fingers. ‘Jadrishi bhabana jasya siddhirbhabati tadrishi.’ One must act on one’s own desires. So there was no point regretting it.
In order to keep Bimala soaring in those lofty heights, I finished the matter of the five thousand quickly and got back to the adulation of that fierce goddess. When and where would we have the puja? The fair in Hosaingaji that was held in September at Ruimari under Nikhils jurisdiction, had thousands attending it and that would serve as a good locale. Bimala was excited. She felt this wasn’t about burning foreign cloth or burning down homes; Nikhil would surely not object to this. I laughed to myself—how little did they know each other, even after nine years spent together. Their knowledge was limited to the bounds of the home. The moment the world came into it, they were all at sea. For nine years they sat and believed that the home and the world matched in spirit. Today they are beginning to feel that some things that have never been coordinated could not suddenly complement harmoniously.
Anyway, let the ones who do not understand one another gradually stumble and find their way around; I don’t have to waste too much time on it. But I couldn’t leave Bimala in this heightened state, like a flying kite for too long and so I had to get my work done as quickly as possible. When she rose and walked towards the door, I asked, quite nonchalantly, ‘Queen, about the money—’
Bimala turned around and said, ‘At the end of this month, when the monthly revenue comes in—’
I said, ‘No, that would be too late.’
‘When do you want it?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow you’ll have it,’
Nikhilesh
THE DAILIES HAVE STARTED RUNNING A COLUMN ABOUT ME AND LETTERS are pouring in; I believe a limerick and cartoons are also in the pipeline. The channels of mockery have opened up, as have the floodgates of lies and everyone is delighted. They know that in this game of mudslinging, the slings are all in their hands, I am just a gentleman walking by the road, my clothes will be mud-stained.
They write, in my area every single individual is eager to participate in swadeshi and all that holds them back is the fear of retribution from me. The handful who dare to sell desi goods are harassed by me in true zaminda
ri style. I am in cahoots with the police, I correspond with the magistrate regularly and the daily had been informed by reliable sources that all this was aimed at earning myself some titles in addition to the ones inherited by me. They have written: ‘A man should earn his own name, but we also know that his own fellowmen have demanded that he be dethroned.’ Although my name isn’t mentioned, it is quite obvious from all they have said. On the other hand, the paper is also flooded by letters in praise of the patriotic Harish Kundu. They write that if there were more such diehard patriots in this land, then by now the factory chimneys of Manchester would also have taken to singing Vande Mataram in tuneful submission.
Meanwhile, I have received a letter written in red ink detailing the number of zamindars whose offices have been burnt down because their loyalties lay with Liverpool. It says that the fire of God has now embarked on this mission of cleansing; steps will be taken to evict those from the mother’s lap, who were never her children in the first place.
It is signed, ‘A humble claimant to the mother’s love, Ambikacharan Gupta.’
I knew that all this was the handiwork of local students. I called a few of them and showed them the letter. Solemnly, the BA said, ‘We have also come to know that there is a group of desperados in the land who would do anything to rid the land of the enemies of swadeshi.’
I said, ‘If even a single person buckles down under their unfair pressure tactics, it is a shame for the entire nation.’
The MA in history said, ‘I don’t understand.’
I said, ‘Our country quakes under every gaze, be it God’s or the constable’s. Now, in the name of freedom, if you bring back that terror with a new name to it, if you want to plant your victory flag through oppression, then the ones who love the country would never bow down to that rule of terror.’
The history MA said, ‘Is there a country where the law of the land is not one of terror?’
I said, ‘The limit of that terror determines how free the people of that land are. If it is used solely to curb violence on others then it’s obviously there to protect every individual from the cruelty of another individual. But if the reign of terror determines what one should wear, where he should buy his goods, what he should eat, with whom he should have his meal, then it denies the basics of individual freedom. And that is tantamount to denying man his human rights.’
The history MA asked, ‘Isn’t there such a system of denying the individual’s freedom from the roots in other countries as well?’
I said, ‘Of course there is. The existence of slavery in any country is proof of that.’
He said, ‘In that case slavery is also a part of man’s objective and that is also humanism.’
The BA said, ‘ We have really appreciated the example raised by Sandipbabu the other day: if you were to sweep up the entire estate of Harish Kundu or the Chakravartys of Sankibhanga, you wouldn’t find an ounce of foreign salt. Why? Because they have always ruled with an iron hand. For the masses, who are meek by nature, the greatest danger is in not having a ruler.’
The young man who had failed his FA piped up, ‘I’ve heard this from someone: the Chakravartys had a Kayasth tenant. He refused to obey them over an issue and it went to the courts. The situation came to this that he had hardly enough to eat. After two days of starvation, he set off to sell his wife s jewellery. It was his last resort. But no one bought them from him, fearing retribution from the zamindar. The chief-clerk offered to buy them for five rupees. They must have been worth nearly thirty. Desperate, he agreed to five rupees. The clerk took the bundle of ornaments from him and informed him that the five rupees would go towards paying off his tax arrears. When we heard this, we told Sandipbabu that we should boycott Chakravarty. But he said, if you boycott such vibrant people, who would you work with—the dead ones? They are the masters because they desire with a passion. Those who cannot crave so passionately, would either go along with others’ wishes, or die for others. He drew a comparison with you and said, today there isn’t a single person in Chakravarty’s area who would dare to oppose swadeshi. But Nikhilesh wouldn’t be able to do that, however hard he tried.’
I said, ‘Of course I wouldn’t, because I want greater things than swadeshi, I do not want a lifeless post, I want a live tree. My work will take time.’
The historian laughed and said, ‘You’ll get neither, because, I agree with Sandipbabu: to have is to seize. It took us a while to learn this lesson, because these are the antithesis of textbook wisdom. I have seen with my own eyes: Gurucharan Bhaduri, the Kundu family’s clerk, went out to collect taxes. A Muslim subject had nothing to sell or give. He only had his young wife. Bhaduri said you’ll have to marry off your wife and raise the money. A candidate for this nikaah soon turned up and the debt was paid off. I can tell you, that husband’s tears almost robbed me of my sleep; but whatever the misery, I have learnt this, that when it comes to collecting money, the man who can make the debtor marry off his wife and raise the debt is a greater human being than I am. I cannot do it, tears come to my eyes and so all is lost. If anyone can save my country, it’ll be people like this clerk, this Kundu and this Chakravarty.’
I was dumbfounded. I said, ‘If that is so, then it is my job to save the land from these clerks, these Kundus and Chakravartys. Look here, when the poison of slavery that runs in the blood begins to come out it take horrible shapes. The one who is tortured as the daughter-in-law, turns into the greatest tormentor when she is the mother-in-law. A man may walk with his eyes lowered but when he goes as the groom’s party, the bride’s household is hard pressed to meet his random demands. You have unequivocally accepted the rule of fear, known that as the right path, and so now you choose to terrorize everyone and bend them to your will. My battle is with this brutality inherent in weakness.’
My thoughts are very simple and any common man would understand them in a minute. But for these MAs who were flexing their historians’ brains in this land, the point was to trounce out Truth.
Meanwhile, I was bothered about Panchu’s fake aunt. It would be difficult to prove. It was difficult, and almost next to impossible, getting witnesses for the truth. But for something that hasn’t happened, one could easily rally forth a whole host of witnesses. This was a ploy to spoil my purchase of the original deeds from Panchu. I was cornered and I even considered giving Panchu some land in my own area and setting him up. But Chandranathbabu said he wasn’t keen on letting evil defeat him so easily. He wanted to try himself.
‘You will try?’
‘Yes, I.’
I couldn’t understand what a teacher hoped to achieve in these matters of legal twists and turns. That evening he failed to keep our daily appointment. I went looking and found that he had left with his clothes and things; he had left a message with the servants that he’d be back in a few days. I figured he may have gone to Panchu’s uncle’s home in the hope of rounding up some witnesses. If that was the case, I knew nothing would come of it. His school was closed for a few days on account of Jagatdhatri Puja and Muharram. So there was no news of him there either.
When the autumn evenings draw to a close, turning the light into a muted yellow, the shades in one’s mind also turn colour. Many people live their mental lives indoors—they can totally ignore the ‘outside’. My mind seems to reside under a tree, exposed to every nuance, every gust of wind from the outside, resonating every single aria of the sunlight. When the sun was high in the sky and a host of chores jostled for space all around me, I felt I needed nothing more from life. But when the sky grew dimmer, my heart seemed to feel that dusk came upon this world only to draw a curtain over life; at this time solitude would fill up the endless darkness. The life that blossomed amidst others in the day was supposed to withdraw within itself at dusk and that was the true essence of light and shade. I could scarcely turn my back on this profound truth. Hence, when dusk began to glow on this earth, like the glittering dark eyes of a lover, my heart kept repeating, ‘It’s untrue, the true meanin
g, the true purpose of a man’s life is not work; man is not merely a labourer, be it the labour of Truth, or the labour of life. Nikhilesh, have you lost sight of that man, who lives and rests in the starlight, away from all his work? The man who is completely alone in that space where all the world’s multitude cannot give him company, must be so truly alone.’
That day, when the evening had just reached the crossroads of dusk, I had no work; neither did I feel like working. Chandranathbabu wasn’t there either. When my empty heart yearned to cling to something, I went to the garden indoors. I love chrysanthemums. I had planted many of them in clay pots and when they all bloomed together, it looked like waves of colour in a sea of green. It was a while since I’d visited the garden. So I smiled to myself, ‘Let me lighten up the mood of my bereaved chrysanthemums today.’
When I stepped into the garden the sickle moon just peeped over the walls of our house. Dark shadows lay pooled at the base of the wall and the moonlight arched over it to cast its radiance on the western side of the garden. I suddenly felt the moon had tiptoed up from behind, covered the eyes of darkness and was smiling mischievously.
When I approached the gallery-like steps on which rows and rows of chrysanthemum plants rested, I spotted someone lying quietly beneath the steps, on the grass. My heart missed a beat. She also stood up, startled.
I was in a quandary. I wondered if I should go back; perhaps Bimala also considered leaving. But staying and leaving, both were equally difficult. Before I could come to a decision, Bimala stood up, covered her head with her sari and started walking back to the house. In that one instant, Bimala’s unbearable grief stood before me, personified. My own grief and grievances vanished in a second. I called out, ‘Bimala.’
She stopped, startled. But she didn’t turn towards me. I came and stood in front of her. She stood in the shadow, the moonlight fell on my face. She stood there, hands bunched in fists, eyes shut tight. I said, ‘Bimala, my cage here is walled from all sides—how can I keep you here? You cannot live like this.’
The Tagore Omnibus, Volume One Page 38
