A Life Misspent

by Suryakant Tripathi Nirala

  I dropped out of school once I realized that the goal of schooling was gainful employment. I had no clear sense of a grander purpose, but utilitarian ends did not seem sufficient. Later my large-hearted friends provided me hints of the vastness for which I had sacrificed petty employment. But at the time I speak of, I was a low-level member of the Raja’s administration. I was fed up dealing with correspondence and accounts when the Raja took it into his head to start a theatre group.

  The ideas of great ones don’t take long to be executed. The head clerk of the law court was selected as the lead. I auditioned along with the other employees. I was given a simple Sanskrit song to prepare, simple because Bengalis are thought to have atrocious pronunciation in Sanskrit.

  I memorized the song carefully. The Raja was present at the audition. He liked my singing and arranged for me to start receiving voice lessons. As my musical skills improved, I became an increasingly popular performer. Unfortunately, my popularity also made me the object of envy.

  There was a violent outbreak of influenza about this time. My father had passed away a year earlier; I was compelled to look for work to support the family. Otherwise, I too would have lived dreamily like other young people, wishing happiness to myself and to all other living beings.

  I received a telegram: ‘Your wife is gravely ill. Come immediately.’ I was twenty-two. I became aware of the intensity of her love just as she was ready to take leave of life. The newspapers had informed us about the ravages of the epidemic. I travelled to the riverbank in Dalmau and waited. The Ganga was swollen with dead bodies. At my in-laws’ house, I learned that my wife had passed away. My cousin had come over from my ancestral village to help with my wife’s illness, but he had taken ill himself and returned home. I left for our ancestral village the very next day. As I was walking towards my house, I saw my cousin’s corpse being carried to the cremation site. My head grew dizzy; I sat down on the ground to take a hold of myself.

  At home I found my cousin’s wife lying ill on a pallet. ‘How far has the funeral procession travelled?’ she asked. I had nothing to say. They had four sons and a baby girl who was still nursing. The oldest child lived with me in Bengal and went to school there. My uncle was the head of the family. He, too, contracted influenza. ‘What madness brought you here?’ he said to me.

  Words cannot describe how pitiful the scene was, how helpless, how tender. But I had no tenderness left after the death of my wife and my cousin. I said in a dry voice, ‘Get well and I will take the whole family to Bengal.’

  This was my first opportunity to serve those who were ill. Since then there has been no dearth in my life of calls for such service. Sister-in-law passed away on the third day after my cousin’s death. The nursing child was also sick. I slept that night holding her. She, too, passed away in the morning. I buried her in the riverbank. Then Uncle died. One more corpse to cart to the Ganga. Sister-in-law’s three sons contracted fever. Somehow I was able to nurse them back to health. This was the strangest time in my life. My family disappeared in the blink of an eye. All our sharecroppers and labourers died, the four who worked for my cousin as well as the two who worked for me. My cousin’s eldest son was fifteen years old, my young daughter a year old. In whichever direction I turned, I saw darkness.

  After I had attended to the affairs of my household, I went to my in-laws’. In spite of the suffering, I was able to keep my mind steady. I would go sit on a mound by the Ganga and watch the file of corpses brought to the river. It is impossible to describe my feelings. The mound of sadhus in Dalmau is famous for its height. The Ganga made a sharp turn below it. The corpses were laid together. Sometimes I would think of the ascetic sadhus, sometimes of the ephemerality of the world.

  One day Kulli appeared at the mound; he had asked people where he might find me. He looked sad at first, sensing my grief and bearing condolences, then his face broke into a smile. I saw that pure smile and realized he was a true friend. ‘I am aware that you loved Manohara7 deeply,’ he said. ‘God brings us to our senses by depriving us of what we desire. You are wiser than me. You know such things already. Enjoyment is fine in itself, but the main thing is to come to a good end.’

  I was staring at the brick floor of the sadhu’s hut. ‘Those who are dead have found peace already,’ he said. ‘Those who have beheld death seek peace as you do. This mound of sadhus is far from the town and, in feeling, far from the cremation grounds. It is as if an ascetic sadhu settled here after he died. His immortal presence makes it an abode of peace.’

  Kulli’s words had a soothing effect. ‘Would you like to come to Ramgiri Maharaj’s ashram? You have probably visited there already.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘I have never been there.’

  We set out for the ashram.

  Ten

  I returned to my job shortly thereafter. One day a sadhu turned up. He would sit under a tree with a smoky fire going and his fire tongs8 stuck into the ground. In general, I had an independent way of looking at things, but I had become even more sceptical reading books on my own and listening to reformers such as Swami Vivekananda and Swami Ramtirth. The aim of a sadhu’s meditation is transcendental. There are many ancient ways of approaching the transcendental. When a person apprehends truth his understanding becomes true. What is affected is not one proposition or another, but the process of understanding itself. At this stage, the difference between ancient and modern methods holds little significance for him. I was a modern. I had read books by sadhus who objected to the use of intoxicants. But the sadhus I came across smoked ganja and stumbled about on our roads. They were not learned in English like Swami Vivekananda or Swami Ramtirth. Nor were their students learned enough in English to object to ganja. Lofty understanding has no further need of words. The stumbling sadhus smoked to overcome fatigue. As poison can be an antidote to disease, ganja can be an antidote to mere living. The sadhus valued character but not pointless asceticism; not urinating or defecating for a week could never be signs of spiritual accomplishment.

  The family man fluent in English seeks a sadhu who knows English. The family man is eager to learn the sadhu’s views on things from Europe and America. The truth, on the other hand, has no particular interest in Europe or America. The street sadhus think the English-speaking sadhus are frauds, each sadhu lording it over his coterie of disciples. So here was this non-English speaking sadhu sitting under the tree looking to collect the train fare to the Jagannath temple in Puri. The Raja’s household superintendent was favourably disposed towards the sadhu. He advised the Raja to help him out.

  After the court offices closed, I would spend my evenings with the Raja. He was fond of music; he played the mridanga rather well. ‘There is a sadhu visiting here,’ the Raja said when I arrived at the royal mansion. ‘Go take a look and tell me what you think.’

  Rajas ask many people for their advice. Their eyes can’t be everywhere, but they are all ears. They listen to various advisers and only then form their own opinion. I made an immediate declaration of my loyalty. ‘Raja,’ I said, ‘there is no need to squander money from the treasury.’

  My brain was full of unassimilated ideas readily found in utilitarian philosophies. The Raja smiled. I couldn’t interpret the smile, but I did know I was his employee. I had been given an assignment. With the thought in my heart that not a rupee from the treasury should be wasted, I made my way to the sadhu.

  He greeted me graciously upon my arrival. ‘Please come sit.’

  ‘These deceivers!’ I thought to myself. ‘Hey you! Why don’t you find some work for yourself?’ I said out loud.

  I didn’t know at the time that those who set out to seek God and realize him burn off their karmas. There’s only God left in their thoughts.

  ‘I address you politely,’ the sadhu said, ‘but you respond with rudeness. What kind of work would you like me to do?’

  ‘Hey, that’s none of my concern. Is there nothing useful you can do in this wide world?’

  ‘And who do you think keeps the
wide world going?’ the sadhu asked.

  I had read about these imposters who talk big and perform magic tricks.

  ‘Hey, you are not going to receive any rupees.’

  ‘Come to your senses,’ the sadhu said and pushed his fire tongs into the ground.

  I felt the tongs press into my scalp. My head dropped. I was singed with fire. I realized my intention had been impure. But I still could not summon up respect for the sadhu.

  He towered over me. ‘Hey, are you the Raja or something?’ The sadhu made the same mistake I had made. He, too, addressed me rudely. I tried to stay in the fight, like a wrestler not giving up under the weight of his opponent. ‘No, I am not the Raja,’ I answered.

  The sadhu was having his fun with me. By ‘Raja’ he meant Lord Ram who sustains the universe. I, of course, understood the Raja of whom I had just taken leave.

  ‘If you are his servant,’ the sadhu asked, ‘why don’t you speak as a servant should speak?’

  Here the sadhu erred. A servant is Lord Ram as much as the master. There was the further complication that my chosen deity was Lord Shiva, not Lord Ram.

  The sadhu wanted me to disengage before he would restore me to my senses. But it was not I who was fighting him, it was Lord Shiva. ‘I will have you dismissed from service,’ the sadhu threatened.

  If I had wavered under the threat the sadhu would have prevailed. ‘That will make me free,’ I countered. It was not me but Lord Shiva who spoke, although I did not know this at the time.

  The sadhu was astonished. How could a man with numerous children to support be so unconcerned? He began to weep. ‘For you, Lord,’ he said, ‘I have been wandering through village and town. Is this how you mock me?’

  I saw a light; I began to understand. I had seen this light while composing ‘A Bud of Jasmine’ and hadn’t known what the light was.

  When I was about to leave, the sadhu asked if we could travel the road together. But my pull was towards the world. I did not want knowledge alone. I also wanted to live out the karmas I must perform in the world. The sadhu felt the pain of our parting. He made a hollow moaning sound as if I had broken his body.

  By the time I reached the Raja’s mansion, I had forgotten these things. I was thinking only of pleasing the Raja. ‘What kind of man is he?’ the Raja asked. ‘You shouldn’t be wasting money on such people,’ I said. The Raja heard me and kept silent.

  The superintendent came to the Raja in the morning and received permission to grant twenty rupees to the sadhu. The superintendent proffered the money to the sadhu as if he was doing the sadhu a favour. The sadhu refused the gift, ‘The Raja himself visited me yesterday. I have made him angry.’ He flung his fire tongs before the superintendent and started to walk away.

  ‘The man who came to visit you is an ordinary employee. He is not the Raja.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ the sadhu said. ‘He is the Raja all right.’

  The superintendent did not know what to say. The sadhu left.

  I crossed that way shortly afterwards. ‘Did you tell the sadhu,’ the superintendent asked me, ‘that you were the true king?’

  ‘I said no such thing,’ I replied.

  The superintendent was no less loyal to the Raja than I. ‘You said something to the sadhu which made him refuse the Raja’s money and fling his tongs away. I will make a report to the Raja immediately.’

  Who will understand the difference between the person who bows before the universe and the person who bows before worldly authority?

  The superintendent made a dramatic report to the Raja such as people make when they hear something second-hand.

  ‘Did you tell the sadhu you were the Raja?’ the Raja asked softly when I arrived.

  I couldn’t bring myself to answer in words appropriate to the occasion. The Raja, too, seemed to me a mere mortal. ‘I said that a Raja’s employee was no less than the Raja.’ The Raja understood this sort of monism well. The great bureaucrats of India have disseminated such understanding successfully.

  I was let off on that occasion, but the dilemmas in my life persisted. One night around eleven, I was walking from the Raja’s mansion to my own rooms. I saw the superintendent walking in my direction near the elephant house, about a mile from where he lived. It was well known that the superintendent drank and those who drink get into other mischief as well. But the world is concerned with image. Anything which disturbs that image is a threat. I was surprised to see the superintendent. He was surprised to see me, perhaps also because he had complained about me to the Raja. I was baffled that he should be out this late in an unfamiliar part of town. I could smell the alcohol on

  his breath.

  The next day I mentioned this meeting to the Raja. I was making light conversation. Everybody knew the superintendent liked his drink. They laughed.

  But the great ones have diverse ways of relating to their inferiors. Some time later, I was commanded to go the Krishna temple and swear before the deity that I had seen the superintendent drunk.

  The superintendent sent me a directive: ‘Say I was not drunk.’ He was a practical man. He also arranged for the elephant keeper to be his witness. The elephant keeper was to say that an evil spirit had entered into the superintendent’s son and that the superintendent needed the elephant keeper’s help in driving out the spirit. The elephant keeper was to swear to this on the Koran.

  The elephant keeper was not asked to be present on the appointed day. Only the superintendent and I went to the temple. I swore to what I had smelled on the superintendent’s breath. The superintendent swore he had not been drinking.

  When the swearing and counter-swearing were over, I tendered my resignation. I wrote the Raja a personal note saying he had no right to make me swear before the god I worshipped. I added that I had never asked for the superintendent’s dismissal.

  The superintendent told the Raja that I had made up the story about his drinking. I wanted, he said, to get back at him for favouring a sadhu I did not like. The superintendent reminded the Raja that he too had left off drinking when the Raja gave up alcohol. The Raja had taken note of the superintendent’s pursuit of virtue and declared him worthy of mystical initiation from the royal guru.

  My resignation was rejected. The Raja penned a note to me: ‘It is folly to abandon a definite position for uncertain prospects.’

  ‘Let me serve the uncertain,’ I said in reply. ‘I will instruct my successor in the work I do.’ I also requested the remainder of my salary.

  Many people came to say goodbye. The assistant manager who had frequently been accused of taking bribes claimed I had been the one honest man in the Raja’s administration. The others, he said, looked to their advantage and nodded their heads in assent to the Raja’s wishes.

  I sold my belongings and returned to my village with my nephew.

  The Non-Cooperation movement was at its height. The labourers winnowing the landlord’s grain would break into cries of ‘Long live Mahatma Gandhi!’ in the hope that their bonded labour would end. The more modern government employees, policemen and landlords mocked the peasants, calling them swine. Some inert wealthy citizens read through half a dozen newspapers daily and offered their wise counsel to anyone who would hear. ‘This Mahatma,’ one of them said to me, ‘has proved that if you turn a spinning wheel at one end, chapatis will come out the other end.’

  I was idle. The editors of Saraswati rejected the poems and essays I submitted. The journal Prabha dealt exclusively with well-known poets and litterateurs. I went into their office to inquire. I was told they only published poets of the calibre of Maithili Sharan Gupt, leader of the vanguard of India’s destiny. They named a few other writers worthy of publication. I returned home disappointed. There was no way of earning money. I had four young nephews to feed. I asked the gentleman who had joked about Gandhiji’s magic to buy me a takua on his next visit to Kanpur.

  A caste of weavers lived adjacent to my house. I began to sit by their looms to learn the art o
f weaving. ‘Why would you, a Brahmin,’ they said, ‘want to learn our labourer’s craft? You should be reciting the story of Lord Krishna to worshippers.’

  The gentleman who went to Kanpur returned without my takua. ‘I forgot,’ he said. ‘I was in a hurry.’

  I had no peace of mind. Fathers eager to marry off their daughters would descend upon me, each one describing his daughter as a goddess. I tried to escape by moving to my in-laws’ in Dalmau, but the population of seekers for eligible grooms was even greater there. I was sitting alone on the riverbank one day when Kulli happened to walk by. The passage of time had made him thoughtful. He greeted me courteously as before. He was under the impression that I was now an important social worker. He himself had begun to read the newspapers. He had given up his job as salesman of revenue stamps in protest against British rule. He began speaking of Gandhiji. I responded to his questions about current politics with the little that I knew.

  He grew impassioned. ‘Tell me what to do with my life.’

  ‘Throw yourself in the Ganga.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you capable of drowning or not?’ I said by way of reply.

  ‘What difference would that make? Be sensible.’

  ‘I have forgotten how.’

  ‘What were you doing by the riverbank?’

  ‘Sitting idly. I hadn’t come here expecting you.’

  Kulli had no idea of the volcano raging inside me. He stared at me a while, then left.

  Eleven

  After many turns of the wheel, I became a fully formed literary person. My fame spread in the field of poetry as rats fan out in a field of grain. I became known to peasants and landlords. Within a year, Kalidasa arrived from Calcutta9 and Shri Harsha from Allahabad10 to redeem Hindi poetry. Poets of the old school joined forces and mounted attacks against the new style, but they suffered defeat after defeat. The reason was they weren’t using brain power. Their guns fired blanks. It has always been so: the old school loses out against the moderns.