A Life Misspent

by Suryakant Tripathi Nirala

  The spittle dried in the leader’s throat. He looked ill as he left.

  Father called out after him, grave and affectionate: ‘Leader! Here, chew a little of our tobacco before you go.’

  ‘I am a mature person. They are trying to confuse me. I will judge Kulli for myself. If Chandrika is forced on me as an escort, it will be easy enough to distract him. I will send him on an errand, to get body oil for massage. ‘Wait for me at the crossroads when you return with the body oil.’ I need a little time alone with Kulli to understand why there is so much suspicion of him.’ I was thinking these thoughts when there was a rapping on the door. ‘May I enter?’ The voice was soft. Cultured. I understood it must be Kulli’s.

  ‘Please come in,’ I said with matching courteousness. He was an hour early, hair freshly oiled, a waistcoat over his muslin kurta, a cane, socks even in the heat of summer. A pale-faced supplicant. I remembered a line from Kalidasa for no reason: ‘Small talk from the lover like cooling breezes.’ I was not averse to flattery then. I did not understand its hidden meaning. Nor did I have Kalidasa’s knowledge of sexual matters. Had I been wiser I would have dismissed Kulli instantly.

  I accepted the cardamom Kulli offered me for sweetening the breath. ‘You are an hour early,’ I said.

  ‘I thought we might want to visit Pandeyji’s temple on the way.’

  Mother-in-law had been wary from the first. She had her bed pulled into the verandah. She asked Chandrika to take his afternoon nap on the verandah as well, plying him with questions about how we lived, what we ate, what kind of people we were.

  Chandrika was a blabbermouth. You could get the darkest family secret out of him in no time. He appeared in my room in a little while dressed to go out, hair well-groomed, walking staff in hand.

  Kulli seemed surprised to see Chandrika with me. He asked Chandrika for a jug of water and, while Chandrika was away, Kulli turned to me. ‘Is he coming along? What do we want him for?’

  Kulli’s questions piqued my curiosity. ‘Accompanying me is part of his job, but I can always send him away on an errand.’ Kulli understood this in his own way. He imagined that I knew what he desired and would arrange things accordingly. I was the man he took me for.

  Kulli accepted the jug of water Chandrika brought him. ‘The heat is terrible, splits one’s head open,’ he said. Meanwhile Chandrika was estimating whether he could bring Kulli down with one blow. Kulli splashed some water on his face, then drank a few sips. ‘Let’s not waste more time,’ he said.

  I went inside. Mother-in-law stood rigid at the door and my wife right behind her. I went straight to my room, put on fresh clothes and shoes and ran a comb through my hair. I picked up my umbrella and stepped outside. Mother-in-law blocked my way. She handed me a peasant staff and said I should take it along. ‘The path goes through the forest,’ she said.

  ‘I can use the umbrella if there’s danger,’ I replied.

  My wife smiled.

  Kulli was waiting by the door to keep me from turning back once I had set out. He walked behind me, followed by Chandrika. Kulli glanced back at Chandrika with contempt but said nothing. I stopped when Kulli stopped on the road. Chandrika stopped as well. Kulli couldn’t hide his irritation. I remembered Mother-in-law telling me that Kulli was less interested in the fort than in getting me away from the house. I was curious to know what Kulli was after. When we reached the main road Kulli signalled that I should dismiss Chandrika. I enjoyed the way Kulli turned up his mouth and arched his eyebrows when doing so. He looked crestfallen when I did not motion Chandrika away. Kulli’s pace slackened, but he didn’t lose hope. We continued in this manner towards the Shiva temple.

  At the temple we received darshan of the deity and looked at frescoes. We wanted to rest too, and listen to the priest’s conversation. Kulli was beside himself with impatience. The priest told us that the deity’s birthday that year fell on the same day as Muharram. The Shia carried paper shrines mourning the deaths of Hasan and Hussain. Inside the temple, the priest waved arti lamps to the accompaniment of loud music. The temple festivities were not out of place, the priest told the police inspector who came to inquire. The Muslims were mourning martyrs whose remains had never been found while the Hindus celebrated the birth of God himself. (I heard a son had been born to the priest the same day).

  Kulli interrupted to ask leave of the priest. ‘We have many other things to see,’ Kulli said. Ignoring numerous signals from Kulli that we should be going, I got up only when the priest had finished his story. Kulli continued to communicate by signs as we left the temple precincts, a fact that did not escape Chandrika’s notice. Chandrika had imagined he would be needed to beat Kulli to a pulp, but he discerned something gentle in Kulli’s communication with me. He was mystified.

  I chose this moment to send Chandrika to buy perfumed massage oil from the perfume maker. He was in a fix. Mother-in-law had told him not to let me out of sight. ‘The friend may turn out to be an enemy.’ But Kulli didn’t fit the description of an enemy. Chandrika said weakly, ‘I would have enjoyed seeing more of the fort.’

  ‘Will the fort be closed from now on? You can see it tomorrow if you wish. Do as your master says. Go and buy the perfumed oil. The shop is just ahead,’ Kulli added.

  Chandrika looked to me for guidance.

  I said in an excited voice, ‘Wait for us by this lane or on the main road. We should be back within the hour.’

  Chandrika turned to leave. Kulli puffed his chest out in victory. I enjoyed watching him. We lacked such charming mannerisms in Bengal.

  The fort began to be visible as we descended a slope. There were two mounds adjacent to one another. The building stood on top of the mounds. It appeared that the entire area of the fort had been walled in brick. Some of the bricks were large. Others were thin like our Lucknow bricks but more durable. We came to a wonderful gate built of these slender bricks. The path to the gate rose up like the ascent to a drinking pool for farm animals. It was also paved with fine bricks. We walked through the gate into the fort. A kind of intoxication comes over one in ancient places. Kulli pointed to the mound across from us. ‘Those are the queen’s quarters,’ he said. ‘We can make them out even though the building has settled. The gallery can be seen lower down. There is a cellar, too, with hidden treasure, people say.’

  We went forward. The ruins of a mosque lay before us. ‘The mosque was built after the Shah had conquered the town. It seems new in comparison to the other buildings. Up ahead is where soldiers were quartered; all that remains is these graves. A succession of gates led from here to the summerhouse. There were sentry stations and soldiers on duty. Notice how the land climbs and how high it gets by the summerhouse,’ Kulli said.

  He pointed out a well that had gone dry. Bordering it was the fort’s sewage ditch where Hindu statues had been tossed when Muslims conquered the fort. A heap of statues could still be seen in there. ‘There was said to be a tunnel leading from the ditch to the outside.’

  We continued towards the summerhouse. ‘This used to be a beautiful structure,’ Kulli said. ‘The British repaired it and turned it into a court building.’

  I stood on a hilltop. The Ganga flowed below. Some stones among the ruins indicated a flight of steps that must have led from the summerhouse down to the water. The Ganga was wide here. The banks on either side of the river were broad. The view was unimpeded. It brought refreshment to the heart. Kulli smiled on seeing me happy and seated himself by the stones leading up to the summerhouse. I was tired; I sat beside him.

  ‘Friend,’ he said, ‘how fresh the air smells.’

  I liked being called friend. I much prefer friendship to the relationship of guru and disciple.

  I agreed the air was fine. Kulli liked my agreeable response. He sounded yet more agreeable as he said, ‘I can tell you sing. Sing something that suits the time and place.’

  Only a connoisseur of music would ask for a song suiting time and place. I was flattered. Praise is always pleasing. Wha
t I didn’t know before was that it makes you reckless. I began to sing. Kulli swayed from side to side. But I noticed with distress that Kulli wasn’t keeping time to the music. ‘Wah!’ he said at a point that marked the pause. But it wasn’t a true pause. What could have happened? I stopped singing.

  ‘You are a high class singer,’ Kulli said. ‘I never knew.’

  I swelled with pride. I reeled off a long list of ustads from whom I had learned to sing, one or two real, the others names I had heard of.

  Kulli was impressed. ‘You have learned from musicians who come to perform for the prince. Even among such illustrious singers your voice is special. It is not melody that pours from your throat but magic.’

  What Kulli said must be true. I suppressed my elation.

  Afternoon turned to evening. I should be getting home. ‘Time to go,’ I said.

  Kulli sighed deeply. ‘All right then, let’s go.’

  I was not familiar with the route Kulli took. I asked him about it and he said his house was not far off—that his house deserved to be purified by the dust on my feet.

  I still considered myself a Brahmin in those days. It did not seem unnatural that the dust on my Brahmin feet should confer purification. I also thought about Kulli’s body which was of course associated with the house Kulli wanted me to purify. I realized that people read vile motives into the kind-hearted statements Kulli made and that purifying Kulli’s house and body would restore Kulli’s reputation. I had seen nothing in his conduct which was untoward. Announcing Kulli’s worthiness by visiting his house seemed an excellent idea. I walked quietly by Kulli’s side. His house lay near the crossroads past the shops. Kulli unlocked the door and led me in. I was struck by the simplicity of the furnishings. Clearly this was a scholar yogi who lived in a modest hut among yapping hyenas. ‘I live alone in this house,’ Kulli said. ‘I have no wife and no children. I own a little land and two traps. I live to please myself, but this does not please my neighbours. If I have a weakness or two what is that to others? It’s my money that I spend.’

  What he said made perfect sense.

  ‘Fortunately there are people like you and me who aren’t intimidated by gossip-mongers,’ Kulli said. He offered me a paan tenderly, adding a little squeeze as our fingers brushed. ‘Just like a brother-in-law,’ I thought. Since Kulli belonged to my wife’s town, he was entitled to tease me as a brother-in-law would. A strange kind of happiness came over Kulli when he saw I was not displeased. ‘Come and have sweets with me tomorrow. You don’t have to tell others about the invitation; people are only too ready to misunderstand. Come by nine.’ He added meekly, ‘Grace should be bestowed on the needy too.’

  I couldn’t understand the irony in his words just as people today don’t understand the irony in mine. I accepted the invitation and got up to leave.

  ‘How wonderfully the paan juice traces your lips,’ he said, ‘turning them into daggers.’

  Kulli spoke with feeling, but I understood his words as the brother-in-law’s teasing of the bridegroom. I smiled happily. Kulli accompanied me to the main road before taking his leave. He reminded me that we were to meet at nine the next day.

  I joined my palms in acknowledgement.

  Chandrika had been waiting by a roadside mound all this while. ‘You took your own sweet time, Babu,’ Chandrika said. ‘I was hoping somebody hadn’t played a trick on you.’

  ‘No trick has been played on me, Chandrika, but we have a little deceiving of our own to do. When Mother-in-law asks, say we were together all the time.’

  Chandrika agreed. I was still thinking about Kulli; I neglected to put things to Chandrika in a way he could grasp.

  Mother-in-law was waiting for our return. When I went in to change clothes, she asked Chandrika to describe the places we had visited.

  ‘I went nowhere, only to the perfume seller’s for perfumed massage oil,’ Chandrika said, too late to catch himself.

  That was the clue Mother-in-law required. ‘Did your Babu send you for the perfumed oil?’

  ‘Yes,’ Chadrika answered, feeling remorse at having said more than he should have.

  ‘And afterwards?’ she asked.

  Chandrika was alert now. ‘We went to the fort.’

  ‘Did you see the seven-storey house there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you go to the big pond?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you visit the Thousand-Treed garden?’

  ‘Yes, everyone stood gazing at the trees a long time.’

  Mother-in-law seized a solid walking stick and waved it at him. ‘You crazy Afghan! Give me the full account or this stick will leave your face disfigured. Tell me where you went.’

  ‘I am just a servant, Mother. Don’t beat me. Ask my master.’

  She had no need to ask. All became clear to her. When I emerged from my room, I saw Chandrika standing by Mother-in-law’s side. She flashed a glance at me as if I was a pariah.

  Then she went inside. I came out onto the road determined to sort things out. Chandrika followed me in tears. ‘I won’t stay here any longer,’ he said.

  ‘Will you admit defeat so easily? At least treat me to a few days of perfumed oil massage.’

  Sobbing and whimpering, Chandrika described how the conversation with Mother-in-law had gone. I felt disgraced. ‘They will stoop to anything. They are low enough to pry information out of a servant. Go ahead, use a full bottle of perfumed oil for your massage. Let them find out what class you are even though you hail from a village.’

  I came to the inner courtyard and asked Chandrika to spread a mat for me. Mother-in-law watched my agitated countenance for a while before returning to her room. Chandrika laid the mat out and brought the bottle of perfumed oil. I pointed to my chest. That’s where the massage was to begin. Chandrika shook the perfumed oil out as if it were water. He used up twenty rupees worth in no time, patting it liberally over my chest. ‘That’s all there is, Babu,’ he said. For a moment, I felt the shock of such waste. Then I mastered myself. The smell of the perfume spread all around. Father-in-law came out of his room sniffing the fragrance. I greeted him boisterously. ‘Be careful,’ he said smiling. ‘Such smells draw them down. The houris will be after you.’

  Waves of perfume lappled against the walls of the inner rooms. Mother-in-law came out again.

  Chandrika was absorbed in massaging me.

  ‘Is that cologne you are using?’

  ‘Perfumed oil,’ I replied.

  ‘How much did it cost?’

  I answered calmly, ‘Twenty rupees.’

  ‘How often do you get massaged like this?’

  ‘On alternate days,’ I replied in the same calm tone.

  ‘What benefit does such a massage confer?’

  ‘It makes one broad-chested.’

  My physique was broad since childhood, but Mother-in-law believed me that the cause lay in perfumed oil massages. ‘What kind of monthly salary does your father get?’ she asked.

  It would have been embarrassing to tell her; my father’s salary was pitifully small. But the world shines with false glory. I said in a robust voice, ‘My father’s income flows from many sources. We never know what flow will swell it at what time.’

  On hearing this, Mother-in-law began to sob. ‘Couldn’t the father, who spends twenty rupees a day on perfumed oil for his son’s massage, bring jewellery for his daughter-in-law worth two thousand rupees? I was a fool to have agreed to the marriage.’

  I found it reassuring that we were on to a new subject. In any case, the perfumed oil had all been rubbed in. Continuing the massage would have made sparks fly from dry skin. I told Chandrika to stop.

  Silence fell over the house in which, as the poet says, not a bee buzzed. It grew to be dinnertime, but I was not called in to eat. I tried to fix my mind on the ascetic verses of the Charpat Panjrika. To no avail. If the wind had turned against me so soon how would the rest of the visit pass? My wife’s younger bother (now himself a father of
several children) was four years old at that time. He started to cry for some reason and Chandrika sprang to his feet thinking it was the call to dinner. All grew quiet again.

  ‘How do you feel?’ I asked him.

  ‘Babu, back home I would have been done with my dinner and the first round of sleep.’

  ‘There’s more variety to the food here,’ I countered.

  ‘But no millet and garbanzo cooked in oil.’

  Just then Mother-in-law’s servant came out to announce that food was ready.

  Not a word was spoken during dinner. We could count each other’s breaths. I ate mechanically and retired to my room.

  When everyone had finished eating, my wife came into my room as on the previous night. What was missing tonight was the poetry in her gait. She offered me paan indifferently. I moved over to make room for her. She sat at the end of the bed and massaged my feet. Then she lay down on her half of the bed. I could guess why she felt distant, but I kept quiet. I knew her soft heart would prompt her to speak. After some moments of silence, she said the perfume was so strong she couldn’t sleep.

  ‘It’s because you have no experience of such things. Do you remember the story of the fishwife? She was late returning from the river. She saw a gardener’s hut in the king’s garden and decided to spend the night in the hut. The garden was fragrant with flowers. The fishwife tossed and turned. She couldn’t bear their fragrance. Then she remembered her fish basket. She drew the basket close, leaned her head against it and fell asleep immediately.’

  My wife didn’t like that. ‘So I am a fishwife, am I?’

  ‘When did I deny you were a Brahmin scholar? I just narrated a story people tell.’

  ‘Do you think I eat fish?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s not a matter of what you eat but of how things smell. Consider your greasy hair, for example. It smells so bad it makes me nauseous.’

  ‘Do you take me for a whore? Must I be powdering and perfuming myself all the time?’