by Sudha Murty
One day, as he was holding the bakula in his hand, he suddenly realized why the flower meant so much to him. The bakula was now, for him, a symbol of Shrimati, a personification of her!
Shrikant collected all the bakula flowers in a small bag and placed it beneath his pillow. He knew that the scent from the flowers would not fade with time.
Time marched on. Shrimati completed her BA degree successfully, getting two gold medals in her subject. Sharada Emmikeri managed to get through, while Vandana passed with a second class. The next step was to apply for an MA course at Karnataka University, Dharwad. Vandana opted for political science and Shrimati for history.
The two friends commuted to the university every day, covering the twenty-five kilometre distance by the university bus rather than by the local train. Both of them enjoyed the ride and used the time to compare notes on their respective courses and classmates. Shrimati was eagerly looking forward to Dr Rao, the present Vice-Chancellor, returning to his parent history department the following year. She had heard so much about his brilliance as a scholar and his wonderful teaching skills that she was confident he would inspire her to give her best to the subject.
However, they did miss their friend Sharada.
As promised, Shrikant visited Hubli every December but in the summer holidays he would take up training with different companies to get practical experience and greater exposure. Only the last ten days of his vacation, which invariably coincided with the beginning of the month of Shravan, would he spend in Hubli. Those days were for Shrimati.
Gangakka looked forward to Shrikant’s visits too. She would cook a variety of dishes to make up for the time her son missed home food. She believed that he came home to be with her. Gangakka never dreamt that it was Shrimati who drew him to Hubli and that it was her he yearned to see.
Now, although they could meet at the University campus, they continued the ritual of their early morning chat under the bakula tree. The tree, sole witness to their conversations, smiled indulgently on them.
Vandana soon came to know about Shrikant and Shrimati’s friendship. But she did not mention it to anybody. She knew that if Gangakka found out, the consequences would be serious.
Whenever Shrikant came to the University to meet Shrimati, Vandana would return to Hubli alone. If Rindakka asked why Shrimati hadn’t returned, Vandana would cover up for her friend and say, ‘She is studying in the library.’
Shrimati found University much more exciting than college. She learned that history is not merely concerned with men or a nation. Everything had a history. Music, dance, art and even history had a history. Gradually she developed a fine critical sensibility and trained herself to think logically and reduce emotional idealism. By the end of the first term itself she understood the importance of field visits. They made everything she read in textbooks come alive. The department organized many such trips as a result of which Shrimati saw a number of historic places. She was amazed to find how a country’s present culture depended on its past history.
The well-mannered Shrimati endeared herself to her teachers and classmates alike. The professors were delighted to have an intelligent student like her in the history department.
In the meantime, Vandana’s life was taking a new turn. As she was neither a very bright student, nor keen on a career, her parents were planning to get her married. They found an eligible young man, Pramod, an engineer working with Larsen & Toubro, a well-known company, in Bombay. Pramod was originally from Belgaum. He was the only son of his parents and they owned a small house in Bombay. Since he did not have any family commitments, was well qualified and held a good job, he was most eligible in the marriage market.
As per tradition, the two horoscopes were matched and Pramod came to see Vandana with his family. He liked her and the marriage was finalized.
By then Vandana was in the final year of her MA, so both sets of parents decided that the marriage would take place after her exams. But after Pramod came to Hubli a few times to meet her, Vandana lost interest in her studies!
Shrimati was curious to know what Vandana and Pramod talked about. Theirs was an arranged marriage, they did not know each other, so what did they say to each other?
‘Vandana, what do you talk about with Pramod? You don’t even know him.’
‘What do you speak with Shrikant for hours together?’ Vandana countered.
‘Well, he was our classmate. Moreover, we have been good friends for a long time.’
‘Oh, don’t give me that explanation! It is not mere friendship. Ask yourself. Nobody spends such long hours, without telling people at home, with just a friend!’
Shrimati fell silent. Suddenly she began to feel a strange loneliness. It was not that she had not thought of marriage. But now she could not think of anyone other than Shrikant for a husband.
Having seen her incompatible parents and the kind of family life they led she was sure she would only marry a person who would understand her feelings and have consideration for her, unlike her father who only thought of himself all the time.
Although Shrikant and she were close friends, the issue of marriage had not yet come up. She felt there was something between them that went beyond friendship. Even if she had not shown any emotion outwardly, in her heart she was quite attached to Shrikant. What was on his mind, she wondered.
While it was natural for her to think of marriage—she was of marriageable age after all—Shrikant could not think of anything other than completing his B.Tech. and getting a good job. Marriage was far, far away.
In one of her usual letters she casually mentioned Vandana’s engagement.
One day after the December vacations, when exams were round the corner and Shrimati was busy with her seminars, Shrikant surprised Shrimati with an untimely visit to Hubli. Shrimati was overjoyed.
They decided Shrikant would wait for Shrimati near the town clock tower till she finished her seminar. ‘Shri,’ she said to him, ‘I do not have class today. Shall we go to Atthikolla? It is not hot outside.’
Atthikolla was a picnic spot in Dharwad, known for its mango groves. At this time of the year, early February, all the trees were covered with tender, new leaves, reddish green in colour. It was a very pleasant season—winter was over and the heat of summer was yet to begin.
Usually Shrikant would never disagree with Shrimati in such matters. But that day he said, ‘No, let’s go to Thackeray Park.’
‘Call it Chennamma Park,’ exclaimed Shrimati, her sense of history prompting her outburst.
Centuries ago, the British collector of Dharwad, a man called Thackeray, had fought a battle with Chennamma, the queen of Kittur. The officer had lost his life. The British erected a memorial in his name and built a park. Before independence, it was known as Thackeray Park. But after independence, the patriotic people of Dharwad called it Chennamma Park because it was Queen Chennamma who had killed Thackeray in the battlefield.
‘It’s all the same. Will the place change with the name? Let’s go.’ Shrikant was not bothered about such things.
Vandana, having seen them from a distance, went back to Hubli alone. Shrikant and Shrimati went to Thackeray or Kittur Chennamma Park. It was opposite the Mental Hospital on the Hubli-Belgaum Road. There were very few people in the garden and most of them were sleeping, using their hand as a pillow.
They chose a big banyan tree and sat beneath its sprawling branches.
Shrimati was in great spirits. Not only had her seminar gone off very well, she’d also had this surprise visit from Shrikant. She was chattering continuously, while the normally talkative Shrikant was in deep thought. Shrimati did not notice anything amiss.
‘Shri, today I had a seminar and everyone appreciated my work. I spoke on Ashoka. Do you remember? I had written an essay when we were in tenth standard. Today, I can write better. That time, I had less access to books and I was more emotional about Ashoka. Even now, whenever I read about Ashoka, my respect for him grows and he fascinates me. Shri,
is the name Ashoka not beautiful? Historians call him Dharmashoka—the virtuous one . . .’
Shrikant interrupted Shrimati and with a mischievous smile asked, ‘It seems you like that name a lot. So, if you have a son, will you name him Ashoka?’
Shrimati looked at him with surprise, wondering why the subject of naming an unborn son had come up!
Smilingly she replied, ‘Yes! What’s wrong with that? I would not think twice before doing it. But since you asked about names, Shri, let me tell you that I also like the name Adityavikrama. Vikramaditya was a title in the old days. Whenever a king achieved something extraordinary through bravery and adventure, he was given the title Vikramaditya. During the Gupta dynasty, Chandragupta II was called Vikramaditya. If I have another son, I will name him Adityavikrama . . .’
Shrimati spoke in all innocence, like a history teacher to her students.
‘Shri, Siddhartha Gautama is another person I really admire. He understood the nature of sorrow and knew the true values of life. He gave up his kingdom and his family for the sake of humanity. His message is full of love and compassion. He neither won any war nor did he establish a great empire. However, he won the empire of hearts. Maybe if I have one more son, I will name him Siddhartha Gautama . . .’
Shrikant moved closer to Shrimati, held her hands, and whispered softly but clearly in her ear, ‘Shrimati, when I become an engineer, don’t you think that it would be too much to ask for Siddhartha Gautama also, on my meagre salary?’
‘What?’ Shrimati exclaimed flustered, but in a flurry of joy.
EIGHT
It was the beginning of March and the University campus was normally deserted. Students were at home, preparing for their examinations, and professors were busy setting question papers. Only those scholars who were doing their Ph.D or some academic research came to the library in the University during this time. For a person like Shrimati, an examination was a cakewalk. So, even in March, she came to the University to help her professors with some project or the other. She enjoyed it and did not mind coming all the way to the campus for this. Vandana was extremely busy preparing for the examination and day-dreaming about her marriage.
One day Shrimati was in the library making notes for her professor who was going to Japan to attend an international seminar on ‘Buddhism in India and Japan’.
Shrimati had read so much about Buddhism, how though it had originated in India, it had spread to many countries in South-east Asia. China, Japan and Sri Lanka were all Buddhist countries. And Indonesia, once a Buddhist centre, boasted of one of the great Buddhist monuments, Borobudur. She would have loved to travel to all these places, but financial constraints had made that impossible. However, now that her professor was going to Japan and after that to Indonesia, he would describe it all to her when he returned. Even that was enough for her! While she was thinking these thoughts, the department peon Siddappa came and stood in front of her. ‘Madam, Professor is calling you, wants you to come immediately.’
‘Why Siddappa, what is it? He knows I am doing some important work!’
‘Some white man whom I have never seen before, must be a friend of the professor, has come and they were talking about you . . . maybe that’s why they have called you.’
Shrimati was wondering who it could be when she entered her professor’s room. There was another person there, an elderly gentleman with grey hair, well built, around six feet tall. He looked at her and gave her a friendly smile.
‘Come in Shrimati. Meet my friend Professor Mike Collins,’ Professor Rao introduced his guest.
Shrimati could not believe her ears. Any student of history would know his name. If there were a Nobel Prize for history, it would certainly have gone to Professor Collins a long time back.
Many a times Shrimati and the other students had heard Professor Rao talk about Professor Collins. He was an American and came from a very affluent family. His father was a wealthy businessman. But the son had been passionate about history and had gone to Oxford to study. He got his Ph.D from there. His wife Jane, whom he had met at college and later married, was also a historian. They had done some fascinating research work together.
They had a daughter, Dorothy, and she too, like her parents, had chosen history as her subject and was working towards a doctorate.
Unfortunately, Jane had died of cancer recently and Professor Collins was alone. He had been on a tour of Sri Lanka, and on the way back had come to meet his old friend.
Professor Rao had been his student at Yale University and a special affection had developed between the two of them.
Shrimati could see the happiness on Professor Rao’s face on seeing his teacher.
‘Mike, Shrimati is an excellent student and one of my favourites. Her interest in history is similar to Dorothy’s. She has prepared extensive notes on Buddhism. You can see how she writes.’
Shrimati went red, hearing her teacher praise her in front of such a well-known person.
‘Hello, Shrimati! It is nice to meet you. I would love to see your notes sometime. I am not an expert on Buddhism like your teacher,’ he spoke to her in American accent, which was a little difficult for Shrimati to understand.
Shrimati was embarrassed giving her notes to such a famous person. However, she placed them on the table next to him.
Professor Rao told her, ‘Shrimati, Mike had come to visit the Calcutta museum and he has finished much of his work. It was very nice of him to come to this small town to meet me. Though Karnataka has famous historical monuments, he doesn’t have enough time to see all of them. But he cannot go back to the US without seeing at least a couple of them. So I have suggested that he should visit Badami, Aihole and Pattadakal. It can be done in one day.’
‘Yes, Sir, they are really wonderful places. Every historian will enjoy them.’
‘That is why I sent for you. You must accompany him on this tour.’
Shrimati was surprised, ‘Why me, Sir? He would like to spend more time with you, I think.’
‘I wish I could go with him but someone is coming tomorrow with a marriage proposal for my daughter. And you know that it wouldn’t look good if the girl’s father is not there! So I want you to take him around. Besides, you are an excellent guide.’
‘Who else will come along, Sir?’
‘My son Shashi will accompany you. Mike doesn’t stand on formalities. After all, it is a one-day trip. My driver will also be with you people.’
While the conversation was still going on between Shrimati and Professor Rao, Professor Collins was going through Shrimati’s notes.
She had described beautifully the differences between Vihara and Chaitya, the origin of the Jataka tales and the decline of Buddhism.
After Shrimati had been given instructions for the trip, she left.
Professor Collins turned to Professor Rao and said, ‘Her ideas are very clear and logical. She is probably better than Dorothy. No wonder you said she was an excellent student.’
Professor Rao beamed with pride.
The next day, Shashi, Shrimati and Professor Collins left at the break of dawn. As Professor Collins was scared of drinking water in India and he found it difficult to eat the spicy food at the various eating joints, they carried bottled water, fruit and some bread and jam for him. But regular lunch was packed for Shashi and Shrimati.
The staple food of North Karnataka is jowar roti. Another favourite is avalakki, a dish made with beaten rice. There is a saying that if you go to North Karnataka and don’t eat avalakki then you’ve missed something in life. People there are very fond of sweets too.
It was the beginning of March and the sun was not harsh yet. The road was fairly free of traffic, so the morning journey was pleasant.
‘Shrimati, my friend said you are an excellent guide. But you don’t seem to speak at all! Why don’t you tell me the history of this place?’ said Professor Collins, with a smile.
‘Sir, how can I guide someone like you?’
‘Come on, S
hrimati! Don’t call me Sir. Call me Mike. In America we address everyone by their first name.’
‘But Sir, you are older to me in age and more so in knowledge. In our culture, addressing elderly people by their first name is looked upon as rudeness. I can never do that.’
‘All right, then, call me whatever you please. Moreover, what’s in a name? Now, tell me about the places we are visiting today.’
‘Sir, every person grows up with the history of the place to which he or she belongs. Whenever I used to come here as a little girl, my mother would explain to me its importance. She used to tell me that many wars were fought here and many kings had ruled the place. The stone monuments are silent witnesses to many momentous events. At that time, I used to feel happy that my ancestors were a part of the battles and a part of the kingdom too. I still feel that I belong to this area. The events might have taken place twelve centuries back, but when I closed my eyes, I could visualize many things. It made me very emotional. Later, when I grew up, I became passionate about history and started detaching it from the emotional point of view and became more aware of the facts.’
‘That’s right, Shrimati. It’s truly a historian’s view. However unpleasant it may be, one should never give up the critical attitude. Where the heart rules, there the mind grows dull.’
‘Sir, sorry. I didn’t answer your basic question. This area was ruled by the mighty Chalukya dynasty and the place now called Badami was known as Vatapi. The Chalukyas ruled in the eighth century and at that time, this area was very prosperous. There are many stories regarding the origin of this dynasty. The founder’s name was Pulakeshi and they say he was nurtured on tiger’s milk on top of the hill. From that I conclude that he was a very brave man. The greatest ruler of the Chalukya dynasty was Pulakeshi II. He defeated Harshavardhana, a powerful king of the north, on the banks of the river Narmada . . .’
