Kaushik rishi was genuinely sorrowful at the death of the crane. He was full of remorse, too. He resolved not to get angry again. But he would forget the resolution whenever something enraged him. And later, he would feel sorry for having given in.
And listen to what happened once … One day, he set out from his ashram in search of dakshina. When he reached a village, he walked up to a house and knocked at its door. The woman of the house was scrubbing dishes. She glanced towards the door and spotted an old man with matted white hair and a begging bowl in his hand. She understood that it must be some yogi who had come to ask for alms. She called out, ‘Maharaj, please sit patiently for some time. Let me finish scrubbing my pots and pans and then I will serve you.’
And so the rishi sat down in the doorway, prepared to wait for the dakshina. There were so many pots and pans that it was taking forever to scrub and clean them! The moment she had finished washing them all, the woman’s husband entered the house. Instantly, she left all her chores and became engrossed in serving her husband. She fetched water to wash the dust off his feet. Then she went into the kitchen to serve his food on a platter and brought it before him. It was a hot day, so she stood in front of him and cooled him with a hand-held fan. The husband asked for water and she instantly ran to get him cool water. The husband lingered over his meal. The wife dotingly served him.
It was only when the husband had finished his meal and gone to sleep that the wife remembered the yogi who had come begging and was waiting by the doorway. She gathered the dakshina and rushed to the door. She said, ‘Forgive me, maharaj, you had to wait for so long. I was so engrossed in serving my husband that I almost forgot that you have been waiting for me.’
Kaushik rishi was already annoyed at having been made to wait for such a long time. He listened to the woman’s words and his anger climbed several notches. Furious, he said, ‘It is good to serve one’s husband, but it is also your dharma to serve the Brahmin who comes to your door. I have been waiting here for such a long time! I am a Brahmin, not a beggar!’
The woman looked closely at him. She knew this was Kaushik rishi, a man famous for his temper. Clearly he was in a rage and getting angrier by the minute. The woman fell at his feet and implored him, ‘Forgive me, rishi-ji. I have been wrong.’
But the rishi’s temper could not be cooled so easily. If anything, his anger rose and rose. So, when the woman saw that the rishi was losing control, she let loose a volley of reprimands. ‘Control yourself, rishi-ji,’ she said, ‘there is no need for such anger. I am no crane that will turn into ashes when you look at me with anger. I am the wife of a Brahmin. My greatest dharma is to serve my husband. In any case, you go around with a thatch growing on your head; is it such a calamity if a bird dropped something on it?’
Kaushik rishi had never imagined that anyone would have the temerity to speak to him in this manner. Taken aback, he wondered who on earth this Brahmin woman might be. Most of all, he was surprised that she knew about the crane. And so he said, ‘Woman, you have turned out to be a shrew! How do you know about the crane that was burnt to cinders?’
She replied, ‘O rishi, nothing remains hidden. You have turned so many innocent birds to ashes with your anger; how can such a thing remain a secret? Knowledge cannot be confined to that of the vedas and puranas alone; after all, one must also have self-knowledge. He cannot be a learned man who knows all that is contained in the books, but has no control over his own self.’
Kaushik rishi stood before her with folded hands and said, ‘O Brahmin lady, you win and I lose. Now I shall seek knowledge from you.’
‘I am no teacher or giver of knowledge. I don’t have the time. What would I know about such matters? If you desire instruction, go to Mithila and seek refuge at the feet of Dharmavyadha. He will tell you what dharma is and what adharma.’
Kaushik rishi took her advice and set off instantly. With the name of Dharmavyadha on his lips, he took the road to Mithila.
Upon reaching Mithila, he began to enquire about the hermitage of Dharmavyadha. But there was no such hermitage and no one could tell him about it. Everyone expressed their ignorance. Finally, an old man said, ‘Are you looking for Dharmavyadha?’
‘Yes, I am looking for Dharmavyadha.’
‘But Dharmavyadha is a butcher. Why would he have an ashram? Ask for directions to his shop; it is at the turning of the next lane.’
Dharmavyadha was a butcher? It caused no end of perplexity to the rishi. He refused to believe that it could be so. The old man said. ‘I have told you where Dharmavyadha can be found; the rest is up to you.’
Rishi-ji found himself in a dilemma: what was he to do? Then he decided, after all, to go and see for himself. He walked to the turning of the next lane. He spotted a meat shop and a butcher with a cleaver in his hand. The man was making mince out of the meat. Kaushik rishi was revolted at the sight. He thought, this cannot possibly be the Dharmavyadha that the Brahmin lady had told him about. He was lost in his thoughts when the butcher saw him and came out of the shop. He touched the rishi’s feet and said, ‘Rishi-ji, I know. The Brahmin lady told you about me and I have been waiting for you. Come, come with me to my house.’
He reached the man’s house and felt as though he had come to an abode of peace. The butcher did not seem like a butcher at all; he appeared to be a model of love, devotion and peace. He explained so many intricacies of dharma to the rishi. Yet a thorn was stabbing the rishi’s heart: why was such a devout man a butcher? Finally he could control himself no longer and the question sprang to his lips: ‘Maharaj, one thing does not cease to surprise me.’
‘And what is that?’
‘A wise man like you, steeped in the wisdom of the shastras, runs a knife along the throats of animals every day. You slit their throats, you chop their flesh to pieces, then sell those pieces.’
Dharmavyadha laughed and said, ‘Rishi-ji, this world and this life – yours and mine – are nothing but a spectacle. Weeds and herbs, fruits and vegetables, birds and animals – all are fodder for someone or the other. Listen, O rishi, in ancient times there was a king, nay not a king but a god! So good, so kind was he! Every day thousands of animals were killed for his kitchens. Two thousand cows alone were butchered. But only some of this meat would be cooked in his own kitchen; the rest was distributed amongst the poor and the needy.’
‘Even cows?’ Kaushik rishi’s eyes were wide open with surprise. ‘But that is very sad!’
‘O rishi, every living creature gives dakshina to another living creature; herein lies the secret of life.’
Kaushik rishi remained lost in thought for a long time. After intense deliberation, he spoke. ‘O Wise One, are you not a Brahmin?’
‘I was; now I am not. But I shall become one again.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘O rishi, I was a Brahmin in my last birth. I was steeped in the vedas and shastras. Then I became friends with the king. Whenever the king went on a hunt, I too would go with him. The king would kill a lot of deer. One day, emulating the king, I too sighted a deer, aimed an arrow at it and shot it. But when it let out a piercing cry, I found that it was not a deer I had shot, but a man. In fact, he was a rishi; he cursed me that in my next birth I would be a butcher. I was much saddened. I said, “But my skin is a Brahmin’s.” He replied, “So what? You will soon grow a butcher’s skin.” Again, I asked, “But how will I get back into my own skin?” He answered. “When you impart learning to a rishi you will get back your own skin.” And so I left my mortal body and entered into my next birth and became a butcher. But now that I have granted knowledge to a Brahmin, I can go back into my skin. Now you will become a butcher and I shall go back to being a Brahmin.’
Kaushik rishi was much perplexed upon hearing these words and asked, ‘But how will I return to my skin?’
‘You will return to your own skin when some self-wronged rishi like yourself comes to sit at your feet and you grant him knowledge. Once that happens, you will return to
your own skin and that rishi will take the form of a butcher.’
And with these words, Dharmavyadha changed his form. While he was transformed into a Brahmin, Kaushik rishi became a butcher.
Noise1
g
‘So, what do you think? What will happen now?’
‘Anything can happen after this.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as,’ and he fell into deep thought. ‘Yaar, there is terrible confusion.’ And then he fell silent and began to drink his tea.
I too stayed quiet and kept drinking my tea. I could hear the shout from outside. I perked up my ears, tried to hear as intently as I could and then stood up. ‘The Supplement has come.’ I went out, bought the Supplement, returned and opened it on the table; both of us began to read it together.
After I had finished reading it, I asked, ‘So, what do you think?’
‘Yaar, there was only a snippet; there were no new details.’
‘Still, what do you think? What will happen now?’
‘What will happen now,’ and he fell into deep thought. ‘That’s a tough question, yaar!’
‘Still, what do you think?’
Speaking as though he were in great thought, he began, ‘I think …’ Then, looking to either side, he stopped and said, ‘Yaar, there is so much noise here!’
I too looked at the tables on either side of us. All the adjacent tables were full. Their occupants were less engrossed in drinking tea and more interested in talking. And the table closest to us was also the loudest. It had fewer teacups and more people. And its occupants were speaking in such loud voices that it was impossible to have a leisurely conversation while they were around.
I was a bit surprised and also angry. Such blithe people … they were sitting around and talking as though nothing had happened.
I ran my eyes all around the room. I could see a secluded spot near the kitchen with several empty tables.
‘Come, let us go and sit there.’
And we got up and sat down in the alcove near the kitchen. It was indeed a very peaceful spot. We could have a leisurely conversation here. I gave the order for a fresh round of tea, looked at him and said, ‘We can talk here.’
‘Yes, we can talk peacefully here,’ he said, expressing his satisfaction.
‘So, what do you think? What will happen now?’
At that very moment, two men entered the room and came and sat down at a table near us. One of them happened to look at the Supplement lying on our table. ‘So! The Supplement has been published,’ and with these words, he approached our table and asked, ‘Can I see it?’
‘Certainly,’ I said and handed him the one-page newspaper.
He took the Supplement, went to sit at his table with the newspaper spread out before him on it, and began to read it. A gentleman sitting at a table some distance away, too, spotted the open Supplement. ‘Oh! The Supplement has come?’ And he walked up to our neighbour’s table and, bent over its open page, began to read it. He had announced his discovery in such a loud voice that whoever heard it at the adjacent tables instantly perked up their ears. Several people walked over to the table where the Supplement lay face up.
‘So what does the Supplement say?’
Sermonizing, criticizing, analysing voices, a cautionary tone here, a discordant note there, a comment laced with grief, more debates, sharp tones, and voices raised higher and higher.
The two of us looked on in silence until he spoke up restlessly, ‘Yaar, there is too much noise here. It is difficult to sit here and talk.’
‘So shall we get out of here?’
And we came out. We had thought Café d’Place would have a more peaceful ambience. But the moment we set foot there, we felt as if we had entered a sea of noise. Then, we looked into several other tea houses. But everywhere, there was the same crush of people, the same noise.
‘Yaar, there is too much noise!’
‘I cannot understand why everything is so noisy today,’ I said.
‘And look at the crowds! It looks as though the entire city has come out to drink tea and gossip. Everyone looks so carefree!’
‘So much noise! Such a rush! It is going to be difficult for us to breathe in this city,’ I said in agreement.
‘Yaar, this city used to be so quiet! How contentedly we used to walk down this road!’
I ran my eyes down the length of the road. Buses, cars, taxis, rickshaws and, most of all, scooters … there was a veritable storm of traffic! And the noise! … Dear God! At that moment, when we were in search of a quiet nook, we realized how noisy the city had become and how crowded, too.
Perhaps, by now, the desire to talk had grown strong within him too. He was as eager as I was to find a quiet nook somewhere. How many places we went to and how many times we returned disappointed! And our desire for a peaceful conversation was such that it only became stronger – as though we had to resolve national issues today!
‘All the restaurants are full. Let us go to Company Bagh.’2
And we left the noisy main road and took a quiet side street. A few more steps brought us to Company Bagh. The very air of the garden was redolent with peace and tranquillity. A few people could be seen here or there; some were walking on a footpath; others were sitting quietly on benches. We too sat down on a stone bench. We had crossed a sea of noise; we wanted to rest for a while. A couple passed close by; as they walked ahead, the young man held the girl’s hand. They walked in the shade of the trees until they went around a dense tree and disappeared from sight.
‘No details are available. There is confusion all around,’ he muttered.
‘Paani re paani, tera rang kaisa?’3 the song could be heard from a distance.
The song kept coming closer. A young man, with a transistor slung from one arm, was walking along. He sat down on the patch of grass near us, put down his transistor on one side and began to untie his shoe laces. The song attracted both of us. We listened attentively.
‘Is it Lata?’
‘Yes. And Kishore Kumar with her,’ I said.
But, soon afterwards, the volume of the transistor steadily increased. One more song by Lata, then another, then yet another till a group of raucous young men appeared on the scene. They too sat down on a patch of grass near us. They had a tape recorder. They began to listen to songs of their choice.
‘Yaar, this is the most awful boriyat.’4
‘And their taste is so atrocious, so vulgar!’ I was getting angry at this new lot.
‘We will find no haven in this city today.’
‘I don’t understand why people must listen to songs at such high volumes.’
‘The slow tunes have become ineffectual. The noise all around is such that no one can hear what the other has to say. What can one have to say in such a world?’
And we both fell silent. On one side there was the transistor, on the other the tape recorder. Noise on our left, noise on our right. Defeated and depressed, we stood up. We walked along some footpaths. Evening had fallen by now. The crowd of walkers had swollen. We came out of the park.
‘We should listen to the BBC,’5 and with these words, he started off. After all, the thought was stuck in his head; if anything, it was pricking him like a thorn. Till the thorn was pulled out, neither of us could rest in peace. The thorn was slowly being pulled out when we heard the sound of footsteps from behind us. The person behind us was approaching with swift strides. We slowed down; soon, he overtook us. Now we could talk in peace, but the road was such that people often came here for their evening walks and the gentleman who was walking behind us was walking in such a leisurely fashion that even when we slackened our pace, we could not reduce the distance between him and us.
‘Come, let us go home,’ I suggested.
‘You live alone, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Let us go, then; we can talk in peace over there.’
We turned around. I reached home, opened my door and said, ‘
Sit down.’
As he sat down, he looked around. ‘Yaar, don’t you have a radio?’
‘Neither radio nor transistor.’
‘Well, if you had one, we could have listened to the BBC.’
‘Do you think the BBC will reveal anything?’
‘Of course, it will. Anyway, today, we must listen to our own radio too. But, anyway, you have not indulged in these entanglements. No radio, no TV.’
‘Wives are known to collect such things,’ I said.
‘And wife and children are an entanglement too.’
‘That is why I haven’t got any.’
‘Good for you; you live in peace.’ And then after a moment’s pause, ‘I think your neighbours are all bachelors too.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘It is very quiet here, yaar.’
‘It is not a mohalla; it is a block of flats. You can’t tell in flats, but there are large families living in the apartments on either side.’
I thought, first of all, I should arrange for some tea. One can talk contentedly when there is tea. I looked for milk; it was there. Tea leaves and sugar could usually be found. I filled the kettle with water and put it on the heater.
‘Yaar, there seem to be no children in your neighbourhood.’
‘No, yaar, there are lots of them.’
‘I can’t hear them. In fact, there is no sound at all.’
I said, ‘This is a flat; don’t go by the sounds in a mohalla.’
But my answer did not satisfy him. He spoke after a moment’s silence, ‘It is very quiet here. It seems as though we have come to a jungle.’
I said nothing. My attention was focussed on the hissing water.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I am making tea; it will be ready in a minute. Then we can talk at leisure.’
‘Let it be, yaar. Let us go back to our usual place and drink tea.’ And he got up abruptly, saying: ‘This place is making me anxious.’
The Death of Sheherzad Page 8
