by Rao, Raja
A child for a woman is always her own child. All children belong to her by right. Who made the world thus? I say you made it. Whoever said it was made, made it. Otherwise how can you say it was made? Making itself is an idea born of the world. When making seeks making in making, pray, who sees a world? You say World, and so making comes into existence. Is one the proof of the other? Are you my proof, I ask of you, whoever you may be? Suppose I were to take you to a lonely island and say, coo. The whole island will say coo. Then you say the whole island says coo, forgetting that you said coo. And when you said who said coo, you seek your breath and you know breath said coo. Did you see the origin of your breath? And did you see the origin of your breath? And did you see him who knows you breathe, etc., etc.? It is not so simple as all that. No question is simple. So no answer is normal. Yet must I have stopped where I left off? But I must give you other news. I must prove the world is. For Love is where happening happens as non-happening. What can happen where everything is, etc., etc.?
To prove the world is, I build a house two storeys high. To speak the truth, Shantha’s land was sold for eighteen thousand rupees. (The Revenue Board at last gave its decision soon after our child was born.) She paid some of her mother’s debts and she and her mother moved to my house completely. We paid the Mudali (who comes every Friday to see Usha and takes her to his wife, from where the child returns rich in gifts of sweets and dolls and many choli-pieces) the second instalment. In regard to the third, we waited for Govindan Nair to come out of jail. He sent word privately that we should not worry. Anyway, the Mudali was so kind to us, a month or two would make no difference to him. Thus with the little money Shantha still had—we started the second storey. Were it only one room and large veranda, it would still do. We just wanted a little more sea air. From the upper terrace we look over the coconut trees (and actually see some eagles’ nests), and far away we see the white of the sea. When the Maharaja goes on his Arath procession in the full October evening we will be able to see the elephants and the horses though we could never guess where the sword will be dipped in the sea and the Brahmins will bathe. But when night falls and the procession returns, how beautiful it will look, the clusters of linked lights moving back to the temple, and then all the million million temple lights will be aglow. That is why I said to Usha: ‘How can we leave Shantha and the child? We shall see the Arath from here.’ Usha said, ‘Of course, and Tangamma will come and stand on our terrace.’ Modhu, her eldest born, and Govindan Nair will go to the procession. The cat will sit on the edge of the new terrace and see the procession go to the sea.
The cat has become something of a problem to us. It feeds only on white-cows’ milk, not even cows’ milk will do. Govindan Nair says there are some chemical processes in white cows which are not to be found in black cows, that is why Narayan Pandita Vaidyan always says: ‘Take this trituration, sister, and after that you must drink white-cows’ milk.’ Strange, these limitations man seems to put on himself. However, there it is, the cat appears to understand it better. If Shantha is in her ‘three days’, and she should by chance touch the white saucer of milk, the cat will not come anywhere near it. If I ever get angry with the cat, it does not get angry with me, but will beg me for milk. Thus it shows what a fool I am. How can you get angry with such a silent thing? Have you ever seen it bite or tear? No, never. Usha can lie by the cat as the baby lies by her, and nothing ever happens, not even a scratch on the nose. Sometimes the cat disappears and one does not see it for a long time. The Mudali, who loves the cat, says it goes on its swayamavara14 rounds. It must seek its mate. But nobody has ever seen our cat meow on our terrace and call for a mate. Then one day it appears on the wall. We never ask it where it has been, it goes back to its white-cows’ milk (and the saucer) as if it had never been anywhere. Mysterious are feline ways.
Mysterious, you could say, are man’s ways too. He goes shopping or barking as he likes. I say barking because Govindan Nair’s shout is so much like a bark sometimes. He must speak to tree and mongoose as if they were under his authority. Everything in the world seems to obey—or must obey—Govindan Nair. I sometimes wonder what would, say, the river Parrar do, if he said: ‘Turn this way and go to the Coromandel Sea.’ It might become a Coromandel river. He still comes and says many things I just begin to understand. Shantha says in the evening: ‘What a strange man. He seems wanting to devour the whole world with fire. Then he sits down and talks to you as if he were sending a child to sleep. Who is he?’ Who, indeed, is Govindan Nair? He says he is a Nair and all Nair land has floated down to Antarctica. Perhaps they keep a record there? But here, what do we know? He has bought himself a bicycle, too. He gave us the next seven thousand rupees a few months after he came out of jail. We gave it to the Mudali. He took the whole sum but kept only four thousand. With the other three thousand, he had a gold belt and two diamond earring made for Usha, and a nose ring for Shantha. (Rather, his wife came home with betel leaf and nut, and this was offered with ceremony.) Shantha looks so lovely with her straight nose, her rich black hair and her diamond nose ring.
A third storey was what I wanted to build, so that I could see up to the end of the sea. Govindan Nair laughed and said, ‘Mister, can you see the back of your head?’ I said no. ‘To see the end of the sea is just like saying: I see the end of your nose. Can you see the end of my nose? Have a good look at it. Can you see it there? Just there. Yes, just here. Can you see it?’ he asked. I said, ‘No, how can I see a point?’ ‘Then how can you see the sea?’ he asked. ‘The drop makes the ocean, is an ancient saying.’ ‘So what shall I see when I build a house three storeys high?’ I said. He said: ‘The day that it is finished you will die. I have your horoscope. It is all drawn up. Jupiter enters the seventh house, and with moon in the fifth, death is certain.’ The cat jumped on to my lap and sat in comfort, her head held high.
The fact was I dreamed of a house three storeys high. Shantha said: ‘Why be so ambitious? Why not be satisfied seeing the Arath from our roof, and vaguely perceive the Maharaja dipping the sword into the sea? You can count the tiers of the temple spire, too.’
I was not satisfied. But one day the cat came back with a hollowed belly. We never knew where the litter was. She had hidden them somewhere, for we could see the teats were out. We never heard the kittens. One afternoon, however, on the wall was a series of four (or was it five or six?) kittens. They were all ambling along. She carried each one from one spot to the other, lifted them by the scruff of the neck. They neither meowed nor did they paw the air. One by one she took them down the wall.
That was the first time I went across the wall. I found a garden all rosy and gentle. There were bowers and many sweet-smelling herbs, there were pools and many orchids that smelled from a distance. There were old men with beards as long as their knees, and they talked to no one. Young men were in green turbans and others, children and women, sang or danced to no tune but to the tune of trees. Snakes lived there in plenty, and the mongoose roamed all about the garden. I saw deer, too. The air was so like a mirror you just walked towards yourself. How is it I never knew my neighbouring wall went up and down the road, and up again towards the hospital and came back by the bazaar and down towards the Secretariat and back again, covering such a large area, as if I could never have seen where it began and where it ended. I had also met some of my neighbours. That man there is in charge of the temple jewels. This man has a small watch shop in Puttenchantai. This is a famous lawyer and that other was once premier. The school children I recognize well, for I meet them with Usha when I sometimes go to fetch her from her school. How is it I never saw the others anywhere, or when I saw them I did not know they were here, across the wall? The fact of the fact is that I was too lazy to know who lived there. Truly to speak, if Govindan Nair had not come (and with the British bubo and Shridhar the two houses almost became one), I should never have gone beyond my Malayalarajyam and the Government Secretariat, with The Hindu for the evening tea. There would not have been even Sh
antha (who came to me because she loved the way Govindan Nair and I talked). Truth is such a beautiful thing—a beautiful woman like Shantha loves to hear the truth talked, because it explains her beauty and takes away her responsibility. Lord, how can anyone bear the burden of beauty?
So that day I walked behind the cat. It went down into the kitchen of the White House and left the litter in the corner of the granary room. Then it went up a series of stone steps. Up and up it went, up the staircase. Everybody bowed as if awed. Then I, too, followed it. This time I would not be defeated. I must win, I said. The winning was easy, for I heard a very lovely music. I was breathless. The staircase suddenly turned, and in went the cat. I stood there white as marble. I looked in and saw everything.
I saw nose (not the nose) and eyes seeing eyes, I saw ears curved to make sound visible, and face and limbs rising in perfection of perfection, for form was it. I saw love yet knew not its name but heard it as sound, I saw truth not as fact but as ignition. I could walk into fire and be cool, I could sing and be silent, I could hold myself and yet not be there. I saw feet. They made flowers on stems and the curved hands of children. I smelled a breath that was of nowhere but rising in my nostrils sank back into me, and found death was at my door. I woke up and found death had passed by, telling me I had no business to be there. Then where was I? Death said it had died. I had killed death. When you see death as death, you kill it. When you say, I am so and so, and you say, I am such and such, you have killed yourself. I remain ever, having killed myself.
This was what Govindan Nair meant. This is what Usha meant when she said she saw Shridhar. She did not really, but when she went up, she saw herself and called herself Shridhar. Now I understand. This is also why Govindan Nair never went to prison. When you see the stone of the wall, and stone alone remains, you have no prison. If I say you are and just see you, you are not there. If I go on seeing a point, I become the point. So the prison vanished. And I understood the ration-shop scale where children played. You weigh only that which you seem to weigh, but that which knows neither balance nor weight stands outside of time. Life is so precious. I ask you why does not one play?
I play now building my house of two storeys. I change the beams of black wood to those of teak (people say like this white ants don’t worm them out). I have a flush lavatory on the other floor so that Usha need not come down during the night. Doctors say the evacuating habits of children form their character later. Besides, Shantha and I love each other so much, sometimes she wants to wash because she wants to love even more. How I love the smell of Shantha’s body, it’s like the inner curve of a jackfruit—pouch and honey of wondrous odours, and succulent. Oh, how beautiful the earth is.
The cat’s litter is at my door. Now that Govindan Nair is transferred to Alwaye, I have my responsibilities. I go on feeding kittens. I gave one of them to Bhoothalinga Iyer’s widow the other day. John was gone off to the wars; soon after the knife incident he joined the navy. The battle of Burma was just beginning. His wife, however, came and said: ‘Sir, I hear you have a cat that has wonderful kittens. Could you give me one? My husband was a friend of Govindan Nair.’ I gave her a cup of tea, some cakes, and one white kitten went with her. (Mrs John was called Anita.) The Iyengar lady with big breasts and all that—she also comes. She plays with the cat (and with Usha when she is free) and goes away. She says her house is too small and she has no place for a cat yet. If Govindan Nair were here, he would find her a house. In the Brahmin streets near the temple there are such lovely dilapidated structures. You can buy any one of them and build it anew. It will fetch pure gold after the war. Sir C.P.15 will go and Gandhi-raj will come. In Gandhi-raj everybody will have a house.
I will never build a house three storeys high. Have you ever seen a house so high? No, not in Trivandrum. In Trivandrum, the best houses, those of P. Govardhan Nair or of Jagadish Iyer, retired High Court judge, or even of Raja Raja Rajendra Varma, His Highness’s first cousin, are but two storeys high. You can make nice curved stairways. You could make one in marble, or in polished wood (like in the Royal Guest House at Kanyakumari), but you must always have the terrace open. That is what one calls the third floor. A house always opens into openness. Has anybody seen a house shut out?
I have been made Secretary of the Temple Grants Department at the Revenue Board. From five Secretaries they increased to eight, because of the serious strain of war work. I never see my son Vithal—his mother keeps him away so that her lands will not become mine. Shantha never grumbles and says, I want to marry you. How could one not be married in marriage when you move where there is no movement, you sleep where there is but light? Marriage is not a fact, it is a state. You marry because you see.
Author’s Note
‘Two plus two makes four’ is commonplace arithmetic. ‘When you take away plentitude (purnasya) from plentitude, what remains over is plentitude’ is an ancient Upanishadic saying. The problem of meaning is not what you say but from where you say it. Man-centered explications at best end in dithyrambic numbers, in sociological aesthetics, and Truth-turned discourse leads one to silence and so to meaning. The two seem complimentary but in fact the first is exclusive of the second, whereas, not so the second of the first. My friend Govindan Nair (whom you will soon meet) is no enemy of Kirillov (whom you all know) but Govindan Nair is, alas, good Kirillov’s. It is a pity, therefore, that Govindan Nair did not meet Kirillov. It would have been such fun, and—who knows—Govindan Nair might yet have charmed Kirillov into his unbeginning game.
Plentitude has no quarrel with two, but two is the enemy of plentitude. And so of Shakespeare. The not-two alone is meaning in any meaning: ‘Truth is the meaning of the lie for meaning is Truth,’ etc., etc. Truth alone is position-less, so you play. The two (plus two) ends in suicide. I like play. So let us play. Come, Kirillov, let us play chess, you and I.
Introduction
1 Raja Rao, The Policeman and the Rose: Stories. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1978, p. xiv.
2 Raja Rao, The Chessmaster and His Moves. New Delhi: Vision Books, 1988, p. 1.
3 R. Parthasarathy, ‘The Future World Is Being Made in America: An Interview with Raja Rao’, Span (September 1977): 30.
4 Braj B. Kachru, The Indianization of English: The English Language in India. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1983.
5 Raja Rao, Kanthapura. London: Allen and Unwin, 1938. Reprinted 1963, New York: New Directions. Subsequent citations from the American edition are indicated in the text parenthetically by page number.
6 Raja Rao, The Serpent and the Rope. London: John Murray, 1960. Subsequent citations from this edition are indicated in the text parenthetically by page number.
7 I have not been able to trace the source of this quotation.
8 Chāndogya Upaniṣad, VI.8.7, in The Principal Upaniṣads, ed. and trans. S. Radhakrishnan. London: Allen and Unwin, 1953, p. 458.
9 Raja Rao, ‘The Writer and the Word’, The Literary Criterion 7.1 (Winter 1965): 231.
10 Robert Redfield, Peasant Society and Culture: An Anthropological Approach to Civilization. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1956, pp. 67-104.
11 Janet Powers Gemmill, ‘The Transcreation of Spoken Kannada in Raja Rao’s Kanthapura’, Literature East and West 18.2-4 (1974): 191-202.
12 Gemmill, ‘The Transcreation of Spoken Kannada in Raja Rao’s Kanthapura’, p. 194.
13 C.D. Narasimhaiah, ‘Indian Writing in English: An Introduction’, The Journal of Commonwealth Literature 5 (1968): 14.
14 Quoted in M.K. Naik, Raja Rao. Twayne World Authors Series. New York: Twayne, 1972, p. 106.
15 Louis Dumont and David Pocock, ‘On the Different Aspects or Levels in Hinduism’, Contributions to Indian Sociology 3 (July 1959): 45.
16 Bhavabhuti, Rama’s Later History (Uttararāmacarita), part 1: Introduction and Translation by Shripad Krishna Belvalkar. Harvard Oriental Series, 21. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1915, p. 39.
17 Raja Rao, The Cat and Shakespe
are. New York: Macmillan, 1965, pp. 8-10. Subsequent citations from this edition are indicated in the text parenthetically by page number.
18 Arthur Avalon, ed. Kulacūḍāmaṇi Nigama, with an introduction and translation by A.K. Maitra. Madras: Ganesh & Co., 1956, ch. 1, verses 25-26.
19 Raja Rao, The Policeman and the Rose: Stories. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1978, p. 88. Subsequent citations from this edition are indicated in the text parenthetically by page number.
20 Rabindranath Tagore, Stories from Tagore. New York: Macmillan, 1918, p. 122. Subsequent citations from this edition are indicated in the text parenthetically by page number.
21 Integral Yoga Institute, ed. Dictionary of Sanskrit Names. Yogaville, Buckingham, VA: Integral Yoga Publications, 1989, p. 57.
22 Sushil Kumar De, ed., and Rev. V. Raghavan, The Meghadūta of Kālidāsa, 3rd ed. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi, 1982, verse 11.
23 Raja Rao, On the Ganga Ghat. Delhi: Orient Paperbacks, 1993, p. 112. Subsequent citations from this edition are indicated in the text parenthetically by page number.
24 Sankara, Ātmabodhaḥ: Self-Knowledge, trans. Swami Nikhilananda. Madras: Sri Ramakrishna Math, 1967, p. 261, verse 11.
1
1 Wife of Shiva and daughter of Himalaya.
2 Brahmins who fled, so it is believed, from persecution in Kashmir during the early years of Muslim conquest. In Travancore, they are mostly engaged in business. Their language is Konkani, which is akin to Hindi.
3 The recitation of sacred syllables.
4 The lunar month that falls in December—January.
