‘That may be true of history, but—’
‘Oh no, why should you cook that mishmash, instead you’ll be forced to gobble it, right? They’ll split up Bengal and claim it is for you; they’ll close down the doors of education and claim that it is with every good intention towards you; you will be saintly and shed tears and we shall be evil and build fortresses out of lies. Your tears won’t stay, but our forts will.’
Chandranathbabu said to me, ‘Don’t argue over this, Nikhil. If a man is incapable of comprehending that the great Truth within us all is the root of everything, he cannot ever comprehend that man is finally meant to unveil that Truth from all its shrouds and not to create a debris outside oneself.’
Sandip laughed and said, ‘You have spoken like a true teacher. These words are fit for the pages of a book. But my eyes tell me that it is man’s aim to make a huge pile of things outside oneself. And the people who have achieved that aim successfully are telling lies in bold letters on commercial advertisements every day. They fill in fake figures in the ledgers of civic management, their newspapers are full of lies and just as flies are carriers of the dengue fever, these people’s followers spread the message of deception. I am their disciple. When I was with the Congress, I didn’t hesitate to to add ninety per cent water to the ten per cent Truth, in accordance with the market conditions. Today I have left the party and I still believe in the principle that it is success and not Truth that is the goal of mankind.’
Chandranathbabu said, ‘The fruit of Truth.’
Sandip said, ‘Yes, it takes many a lie to grow that fruit. The ground beneath one’s feet has to be mashed into a pulp before that fruit can grow. And the Truth, that which grows by itself, is the weed, the wild flower. Those who expect fruits from that plant are the biggest fools of all.’
Sandip finished speaking and stormed out of the room. Chandranathbabu smiled a little, looked at me and said, ‘Do you know something, Nikhil? Sandip is not a-religious, he is anti-religion. He is the new moon; no doubt, he is the moon, but circumstances have forced him to rise opposite the full moon.’
I said, ‘That is why he and I have never agreed on anything. He has harmed me a lot and will do more harm to me. But I cannot bring myself to disrespect him.’
He said, ‘I am beginning to understand that. I have often wondered how you have tolerated Sandip for so long. In fact, at times I have suspected that you are weak in doing so. But now I can see that the two of you may not speak the same words, but you have the same rhythm.’
I spoke in jest, ‘Friends in amity have caused enmity. Perhaps Fate has in store another epic in blank verse for our lives.’
Chandranathbabu said, ‘Now what should we do about Panchu?’
I said, ‘You had once told me that the land on which Panchu’s house stands, is ancestral property and has come to belong to him. His zamindar has been trying to get him off that land for a while. Why don’t I buy that land and make him my subject?’
‘And the hundred rupees’ fine?’
‘How can they realize that? The land belongs to me now.’
‘And the bag of cloth?’
‘I will send for more. As my subject he will be allowed to sell whatever he wants, wherever he wants.’
Panchu folded his hands and said, ‘Sire, in the battle of kings there’ll be a crowd of policemen, lawyers and many such vultures, watching the fun. But I’ll be the only one to die,’
‘Why, what will they do to you?’
They’ll set my house on fire and I’ll die, along with the children.’
Chandranathbabu said, ‘All right, let your children stay with me for the next few weeks. Don’t be afraid. You are free to do business from your own home, no one will lay a finger on you. I will not allow you to run away, defeated by a wrong done to you. The more you bear, the more the burden grows.’
That same day I bought Panchu’s land, registered it and laid my claims on it. Then the squabble started.
Panchu’s property belonged to his maternal grandfather. Everyone knew that Panchu was his sole heir. But suddenly a maternal uncle’s wife materialized, laying claims to the inheritance, and settled down in his house with her bags, bundles, sacred books and a young widowed daughter. Surprised, Panchu said, ‘But my aunt died long ago.’
Her reply was, ‘Your uncle’s first wife may have died, but the second one came soon enough.’
‘But my aunt died long after my uncle’s death and so there really wouldn’t have been time for a second wife.’
The woman admitted that the second marriage had taken place before and not after death. She didn’t want to share space with her co-wife and so she’d stayed in her father’s house. When her husband died, she renounced the material world and went to Vrindavan. Some of the officers of the zamindar, Kundu, were aware of all this and perhaps some of the subjects knew about it too; if the zamindar hollered loud enough, then even some of the people who had eaten the wedding feast would surely crawl out of the woodwork.
That afternoon, when I was thoroughly preoccupied with this new hassle in Panchu’s life, suddenly Bimala sent for me from her chambers. I was startled. I asked, ‘Who has called?’
The bearer said, ‘Ranima,’
‘The eldest one?’
’No, the youngest.’
The youngest one—I felt as if a hundred years had passed since she had last sent for me.
I left everyone sitting in the drawing room and went into the inner chambers. In the bedroom I was even more surprised to see Bimala had cared to dress up a little. For a while now this room had begun to look quite untidy; everything was so cluttered up that it felt like the room was also preoccupied. Today, I noticed that the room looked a little like its old self.
I stood silently looking at Bimala. She blushed a little, twisted the bangles on her left wrist with her right hand and said, ‘Listen, in all of Bengal our market is the only one stocking foreign cloth; does it look good?’
I asked, ‘What will be the best thing to do?’
‘Why don’t you tell them to throw those things away?’
‘But those things do not belong to me.’
‘But the market is yours.’
‘It belongs much more to those people who come there to buy and sell.’
‘Why can’t they buy indigenous goods?’
‘I’d be happy if they do buy it, but if they don’t?’
‘What? How can they dare to? You are after all—’
I don’t have much time; what is the point of arguing over this? I cannot bring myself to exploit people.’
‘The exploitation is not for your gain, it is for the sake of the country—’
‘I suppose you won’t understand that torturing for the sake of the country is the same as torturing the country itself.’ I left. Suddenly, I felt the whole world was alight in front of my eyes. The weight of the earthly world lifted from my shoulders. Suddenly I perceived how, for an eternity, the earth hurtled through the skies by a strange force, turning night and day like a sacred chant in spite of nurturing the life forms placed on her and maintaining a balance between all the changes and evolution that she undergoes. Responsibilities were endless, but so was freedom. No one, but no one, will ever tie me down. Suddenly, a deep fount of joy sprang from my mind like a swollen wave from the ocean’s breast, and reached for the clouds.
I asked myself again and again, what was the matter with me? At first there was no clear answer. And then it became quite clear: the impasse that had tortured me all these days had suddenly ended. As clearly as the glass on a photograph, I could see all of Bimala’s actions in my mind’s eye. It became obvious that Bimala had dressed herself up to get something from me. Until this day, I had never learnt to see Bimala’s dressing up as separate from her. But today her western-styled chignon seemed a mere pile of hair; moreover, there was a time when this chignon was priceless to me and today I realized it was ready to be sold for a lot less.
Sandip and I argued about pa
triotism every step of the way. Those were real differences. But the words that Bimala spoke in the name of the country, were coming from Sandip’s mouth and not from a greater Idea. If Sandip changed his words, so would Bimala. I could see all this very clearly—all traces of the fog had lifted.
As I left the broken nest of my bedroom and emerged into the open air of the autumn noon, I saw a bunch of mynahs chattering in great excitement in my garden. To the south of the garden lay the cobbled path, lined by rows of kanchan trees that overwhelmed the skies with the scent of their pink blossoms which were in abundance. In the distance, by the winding village road the empty bullock cart lay upturned and the two cows, no longer yoked, were roaming free. One was chewing grass and the other basked in the sun while a crow sat on its back, pecking away at its hide as the cow closed its eyes in sheer bliss. At this moment I felt I had suddenly come very close to the soul of this universe which was very simple and yet so profound; its warm breath fanned my heart as the fragrance of those kanchan flowers. I felt that I did exist, and so did everything else; this created a feeling—deep, munificent and indescribably beautiful within me.
The next moment I remembered Panchu, stuck in the mire of poverty and cunning. I thought I saw Panchu amidst that pensive grassland in the autumn noon, lying with his eyes closed, just like the cow—not from bliss but from sheer exhaustion, weariness and starvation. He seemed to personify all the poor farmers of Bengal. I caught a glimpse of the severely religious Harish Kundu, forehead marked with sacred sandal paste. He was no mean feat. He was huge too. He was like a layer of oily green floating on the ancient, rotting pond beneath the bamboo clump, covering it entirely and giving out toxic vapours by the second.
Eventually I would have to fight with those shadows that lay emaciated, tired and blinded by ignorance on the one hand, and on the other hand those that had thrived on the blood of the poor and was crushing the earth under its own immovable weight. This task had been kept aside for many hundred years. Let my trance break, my daze disappear and my manhood be freed from the ineffective mesh of the inner chambers. We are men, freedom is our goal, we shall hark the call of the Ideal and rush forth, we must scale the walls of the demon king and rescue the goddess trapped within. The girl who makes the victory badge for us with her deft fingers is our true partner. We must see through the masquerade of the girl who sits by the door and weaves her spells on us, we must see her true form without illusions—we shouldn’t dress her up in the colours of our own dreams and desires and send her out to distract us. Today I felt I shall be a winner. I stand on the straight road; I can see everything clearly. I have been freed and I have also freed—my salvation lies where my work is.
I know there will come a day when my heart will be wracked by pain again. But now I am familiar with that pain. I can no longer respect it. I know it is mine and mine alone—does it really have any value? The pain of the world will grace my brow. Oh Truth, save me, help me. Don’t let me go back to that fake world of illusion and artifice. If you must make me a lone traveller on a solitary journey, let the road lead to you. Today I have heard your drums within my soul.
Sandip
THAT DAY THE DAM OF TEARS WAS ON THE VERGE OF GIVING WAY. BIMALA sent for me, but she was silent for a while, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. I knew she had failed with Nikhil. She had been certain that she would somehow get the results, though I had no such hopes. Women know the weak spots of men, but sometimes find it hard to fathom their strengths. In reality, men are a mystery to women and vice versa. If that wasn’t the case, the difference between the two sexes would have been a superfluous creation of Nature.
Indignation! It was not about the important task not being fulfilled. The indignation was all about not being granted what she asked for so plainly. There is no end to the shades of gestures, tears, games over this demand of the ‘I’ that women have. That is what makes them so sweet. They are much greater egoists than we are. When the Maker made us, He was the schoolteacher, His tools were theories and notes. But when their time came, He had resigned from his job and become an artist; His tools were a brush and paints.
Hence, when Bimala stood there on the edge of the setting sun like a tearful, fiery red cloud coloured by that melancholy distress, I found her very sweet. I went close to her and took her hand. She trembled but didn’t take her hand away. I said, ‘Bee, we are co-workers, we have the same goals. Now sit down.’
I sat her down on a stool. Wonderful. All that emotion and it took just this to clamp it shut. The monsoon-floods of the Padma that were rushing forth, seemingly not prepared to stop for anything or anyone, suddenly appeared to change its course and began to flow smoothly between its banks again. I took her hand in mine and pressed them, every nerve end in my body playing like the strings of a bow; but why did it have to stop at the first two notes, why couldn’t it complete the aria? I realized that the bottomless depths of the flow of life are formed by many years of conduct. When the flood of desire gushed briskly enough, in places it was strong enough to erode that course and in places it met its match. There was a deep-rooted restraint within me, what was it? It was not just one thing, but many things tangled together. So I could never figure it out, but I knew it was an impediment. What I really was would never stand a court inquisition and be a writ of law. I was a mystery to myself and that’s why I loved myself so much; if I knew that ‘I’ completely, it would be so easy to root it out, discard it and reach a state of nirvana.
As Bimala sat on the stool watching me, her face paled. She knew in her heart that one of her problems no longer existed. The comet had zoomed past her, but the whiplash of its tail left her feeling enervated for a while. In order to get her out of the stupor, I said, ‘There are obstacles, but we shouldn’t regret them. We will fight, won’t we, Queen?’
Bimala coughed a little to clear her throat and then just said, ‘Yes.’
I said, ‘Let us work out the details of the plan for our actions in the future.’
I took out a pencil and paper from my pocket and began to discuss how I would delegate work amongst the boys who had come to join us from Calcutta. Suddenly Bimala said, ‘Not now, Sandipbabu, I’ll come again at five o’clock; we can talk then.’ She got up and quickly left the room.
I realized that she simply couldn’t bring herself to concentrate on what I was saying; she needed to be alone with herself for a while. Perhaps she’d have to throw herself on the bed and weep for some time.
When Bimala left, the atmosphere in the room became headier. My mood seemed to get tipsier just as the sky is tinged with more pink after the sun actually sets. I began to feel I had let the moment pass. What kind of weakness was this? Perhaps Bimala went away disgusted with my inexplicable hesitation. Possible.
At this time, when my blood was throbbing with the effects of this inebriation, a bearer came and informed me that Amulya wanted to see me. For a moment I wanted to send him on his way, but before I could make up my mind, he came into the room.
Then it was back to news of the battle of salt-sugar-cloth. The heady feeling evaporated. I felt like the dream had snapped. I got ready for battle and off to the battlefield it was.
The news was this: Kundu’s subjects who used to bring stuff to the market had finally come around. The officers in Nikhil’s employ were all secretly on our side. They were supplying the inside information. The Marwaris were begging to be allowed to sell the foreign cloth in exchange for a fine, or they’d go bankrupt. The Muslims were refusing to give in.
A farmer had bought some cheap German shawls for his children. Some of our boys from the local villages had grabbed the shawls from him and burnt them. That had caused a furore. We offered to buy him some desi warm clothes. But there were no cheap desi warm clothes to be found. Obviously we couldn’t buy him Kashmiri shawls. He came and put his case before Nikhil. He ordered him to lodge a complaint against the boys. The local officers had taken the responsibility of seeing to it that the complaint didn’t go through smoot
hly; their chief was also on our side.
The point was, if we had to buy desi cloth for those whose things we burnt, and then also pay for the court case, where were we supposed to get that kind of funds from? And all this burning would hot up the market for foreign fabrics. When the nawab was so taken with the sound of breaking glass that he went around smashing all his chandeliers, the glassblowers had the time of their lives.
The second question was: there weren’t any cheap desi warm clothes to be had. Now in winter, should we allow the foreign shawls, wrappers and merino to stay or not?
I said, ‘We will not gift desi clothes to the man who wants to buy foreign clothes. He is the one to be punished, not us. If they went to court, we would set their crops on fire; the gentle approach wouldn’t work. Hey Amulya, don’t look so shocked. I don’t get my kicks out of setting the farmer’s crops on fire. But this is war. If you are afraid to hurt, go and have fun, be genteel and keel over with love.’
And the foreign warm clothes? Whatever the inconvenience, those will not be allowed to stay. We cannot have a compromise with the foreign stuff under any circumstances, in any condition. When there were no foreign wrappers to be had, the farmer s children double-wrapped their cloth and kept themselves warm. That’s what they’d have to do again. I know that wouldn’t satisfy them, but this wasn’t the time for satisfaction.
We had somehow, by hook or by crook, managed to bring around some of those who brought the shipments to the markets by boat. Mirjan, the most powerful of them all, refused to give an inch. We asked Kulada, the chief-clerk here, if Mirjan’s boat could be sunk. He said, of course it could, but the blame would eventually come to rest at his door, I said the blame shouldn’t be kept so loose that it could come to rest anywhere; but if at all it came to that, I’d come forward and take it.
At the end of the market-day, Mirjan’s empty boat was docked at the pier. There were no boatmen in it. The chief-clerk had cleverly invited them to a show nearby. That night the boat was set adrift with a hole in it and bags of rubbish piled into it.
Tagore Omnibus, Volume 1 Page 36
