Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  ‘Indranath,’ I begged, ‘let’s not stop here. Let’s go home.’

  ‘No, Srikanta,’ he said firmly, ‘I can’t go home—not before I give this money to someone I know. I’m three days late as it is. They’ll be waiting for me.’

  ‘Give it to them tomorrow.’

  ‘No, Srikanta, don’t ask me to do that. Come with me if you like but don’t breathe a word about it to anyone.’

  The dinghy crept out of the shadows and the bank where we were to alight, came in view. Looking on it, bathed as it was in moonlight, I felt a momentary joy dispelling the terrors of the night. But, even before the keel could touch the pebbles, Indra had leaped out with a startled exclamation and in that moment I too saw what he had seen. The body of a boy, six or seven years old, lay in the water. The head rested on the bank. He could not have been dead for more than three or four hours for the wave-washed limbs were as smooth and firm as sculpted marble and the face, turned up to the moon, gleamed like a flower. Looking on that face in the hushed silence of the night, broken by an occasional nightbird’s call or the scream of a jackal, I had a strange vision. I saw the pain-tortured boy leap into Mother Ganga’s lap. I saw her clasping him to her breast, nursing him tenderly and washing his limbs with her tears. Then, with infinite love, she laid her soothed and sleeping child on this watery bed.

  I glanced at Indranath. Tears were pouring down his cheeks. ‘Move aside, Srikanta,’ he said hoarsely, ‘I’ll put him in the dinghy and row him out to the river where the jackals can’t get at him.’

  Tears had come to my eyes too on seeing Indranath’s. Yet I was dismayed by the suggestion. It is one thing to weep over a person’s distress—it is quite another to get involved with it. Besides, born as I was in a conservative Hindu family which carried in its veins the purest of pure Brahmin blood, the idea of touching a corpse was repugnant to me. The weight of a whole tradition was upon me in an instant and I felt hedged in by many taboos. I did not know what disease the boy had died of, what his caste was, what his lineage. I wasn’t even sure if the necessary rites had been performed over his body before it was thrown into the water. I expressed my doubts to Indranath. ‘We don’t know his caste. We can’t touch the body,’ I said.

  Indranath slid one arm under the boy’s head and the other below his knees and, lifting him as easily as he would a knot of grass, placed him tenderly on the plank on which I had lain. Giving the dinghy a push he seated himself and said, ‘Corpses don’t have castes.’

  ‘Of course they do,’ I answered with some heat.

  ‘No, Srikanta. Look at our dinghy. At one time it may have lived as a mango or a rose-apple tree. But now it is dead wood. It is nothing but a dinghy.’

  I realize now that Indranath’s argument was a childish one. Yet it must have contained a sharp grain of truth which pricked me at that time and does so to this day. Indranath often said things like that. Wild and indisciplined as he was, with little or no formal education, his view of the universe was original and dynamic. Speculating on the source of this philosophy, so many years later, I am convinced that it sprang from his basic honesty—the truth within him that recognized the all-pervasive truth beyond and became one with it. Deception, after all, does not exist in nature. It is confined in the minds of men alone. Brass, when it is passed off as gold, will remain brass though the buyer and the seller are both caught in a web of falsehood. The universe admits nothing but the truth—this Indranath saw as clearly as if it was reflected in a mirror within him. That is why his responses were always instinctive and sure.

  Reflecting on this aspect of Indranath’s character I recall an incident that took place ten or twelve years later. One evening, the town buzzed with a rumour that the body of an old Brahmin lady was lying uncremated in a house in the next mohalla. On making enquiries I found out that she had been on a pilgrimage to Kashi but, having fallen ill on her way back to Calcutta, had alighted at our station and had taken shelter with a distant relative. She had passed two days and nights in terrible anguish and had died that morning. This relative had been to England many years ago and was, for that reason, treated as an outcaste. Consequently, no caste-Hindu would defile himself by touching the body of the dead woman. For, though a staunch Hindu herself and just returned from a pilgrimage, she had committed the unforgivable offence of dying in the house of one who had upon him the stigma of excommunication. Some of us got together and cremated the body but on returning from the burning-ghat we found our own doors locked against us. We heard that the leaders of the community had approached every Hindu family in our absence with the decree that unless we shaved our heads, ate cow-dung and begged forgiveness we were to be denied entry into the house. Not knowing how to deal with the situation we went to Doctor Babu for advice. A skilled physician with a large practice, Doctor Babu had made himself indispensable to the local Bengalis by not charging them his professional fees. On hearing our story he was livid with anger. He announced that from that day onwards he would not treat the families of those self-styled leaders—even if they lay at the point of death. No one knows how the threat got conveyed but by evening the elders had come up with a fresh verdict. The shaving of the head was waived. All we were required to do was to apologize and to partake of the holy matter already mentioned. On our rejecting the verdict the second half of it was deleted. An apology would be enough. When even that was denied them the leaders announced that, this being our first offence, they had forgiven us unconditionally. At this point Doctor Babu stepped in. He declared that things would only come back to normal if an apology was forthcoming from their side. In consequence, many a grey head was seen entering the doctor’s residence that evening. What passed between them I do not know but by morning the doctor’s anger had cooled and we were permitted to enter our homes without performing any penitential rites.

  But I am digressing wildly. My sole intention in recording this incident is to stress the gap between the two philosophies of death—the ignorant child Indra’s and that of these men, so far ahead of him in years and experience. And I am convinced that had Doctor Babu not given their moral conditioning such bitter medication they would never have been cured of their malady.

  To return to the events of the night. By the time we had reached the river and had lowered the body into the water the night was nearly spent. A pearl-grey mist was creeping over the eastern sky as we watched the child floating away, past the dripping tamarisks and wild reeds, weaving in and out of patches of light and shadow.

  ‘Let’s go, Indra,’ I said.

  ‘Where?’ He lifted a face contorted with pain and compassion.

  ‘You said you had to go somewhere.’

  ‘No. We’ll leave that for another day.’

  ‘Very good,’ I cried joyfully, ‘then let’s go home.’

  Indra stared at me for a few seconds, then asked, ‘Do you know where the dead go, Srikanta?’

  ‘No, I don’t. They go to heaven. Let’s go home please.’

  ‘Everyone can’t go to heaven. Some stay on the earth—at least for a while. As I was laying him in the water he whispered in my ear. I heard him clearly. He said “Bhaiya”.’

  ‘You are frightening me, Indra,’ my voice trembled and tears sprang to my eyes. ‘I think I’m going to faint.’

  Without a word Indra picked up the oars and started propelling the boat towards the middle of the river. Suddenly he spoke in a sombre voice: ‘Ram Ram, Ram Ram. He’s in the boat, Srikanta, sitting just behind me.’

  Sky, river and Indranath blacked out in an instant and I fell, face forward, on the floor of the dinghy. When I came to I was lying on the plank and Indranath was sitting at my feet. The sky was streaked with dawn and the dinghy rested by a bank.

  ‘Get up, Srikanta,’ Indranath said, ‘we’ll have to walk the rest of the way.’

  Four

  THE SUN HAD JUST RISEN OVER THE RIVER WHEN I ENTERED THE house dragging my feet. Joyful cries of ‘He’s here’ and ‘Srikanta is back’ rushed out at
me from all directions. Jatinda, who was about my age, got so excited that he ran from room to room announcing my return; then, clutching my hand, dragged me to where Mejda was sitting solemnly over his books.

  ‘Here he is, here’s Srikanta,’ he announced. Mejda glanced up at me, then lowered his eyes in the manner of a tiger who, having secured his prey, can take his time over the eating. This was the same cousin under whose supervision we were studying last night and whose blood-curdling screams had chased the Royal Bengal Tiger out of the house into the pomegranate bush.

  ‘Satish,’ Pishima’s voice called from within the house. ‘Just look into the almanac and see if it is all right to eat brinjal this morning.’ Pushing open the door she entered the room, then catching sight of my pale face and bloodshot eyes she exclaimed: ‘Why? Where were you all this time, you good-for-nothing boy? Worrying me to death! I couldn’t sleep a wink the whole night. Why are your eyes so red? You haven’t caught a fever, have you?’ Coming closer she laid a hand on my forehead and cried out to the others in the room. ‘Just as I said. He’s burning all over. Never in my seven lives have I seen a boy like this one. You deserve to be tied down and stung with nettles, you rascal. Now come upstairs and go straight to bed.’ And totally forgetting her earlier preoccupation with brinjals she drew me along with her.

  ‘Srikanta! Don’t leave the room,’ Mejda commanded in a terrible voice.

  ‘Why not?’ Pishima asked but before Mejda could answer she was shaking her head vigorously. ‘No. No lessons now. He must eat first and get some sleep.’ She took me by the hand and led me to the door. This was too much for Mejda. Forgetting himself he shouted, ‘Stay where you are, Srikanta. Don’t you dare leave the room.’

  Even Pishima was startled for a moment, then collecting herself gave Mejda a long and level look. ‘Satish,’ she said in a voice like thunder. ‘I know that you often beat and bully the little ones. I haven’t said anything till now but, after today, if I ever catch you touching one of them I’ll have you tied to a pillar and whipped by the servants. It is no concern of yours if they study or do not study. Pass your own exams first.’ Saying this she took me away with her leaving Mejda sitting in gloomy silence. Upstairs, in her room, she helped me change my clothes, then stuffing me with an enormous quantity of milk and hot jalebis, put me to bed scolding me heartily all the while. Then, informing me that it was only with my death that her bones would get a rest, she went out of the room. I heard her lift the catch and walk away.

  Five minutes later there was a little click at the door and Chhorda came running in, laughing and out of breath. Throwing himself on the bed he whispered: ‘Ma has ordered Mejda to keep away from us. He is to study in a separate room. Barda will help us with our studies. We needn’t be afraid of Mejda anymore.’ Bringing his thumbs together he wiggled them gleefully. Jatinda, who had followed Chhorda, was determined to take the credit for what had happened. ‘It is I,’ he announced, slapping his chest like a doughty warrior. ‘It is I who brought this about. Had I not taken Srikanta to Mejda, Ma would never have given such an order. You should both be grateful to me. You must give me your new top, Chhorda.’

  ‘Take it from my desk,’ said Chhorda who, till that moment, had valued his top above everything else in the world.

  I realized then how much more precious to him was his independence! Adults are often unaware that children value their freedom and yearn for their fundamental rights in exactly the same measure as they themselves. Mejda, exploiting his position as the elder brother, had denied us our legitimate rights as human beings. We were like slaves to his whims and moods. Every Sunday he would make us walk miles in the hot sun to call his friends over for a game of cards. On summer afternoons we had to take turns in fanning him as he slept and in winter, while he lay reading a book in the cosy comfort of his quilt, one of us had to be on hand to turn the pages. Whenever the fancy took him he would call out in a terrible voice, ‘Keshav, take out your geography book. Jatin, go and cut a strong switch from the casuarina tree and bring it to me,’ which meant that a flogging was inevitable. That protest was possible, never occurred to us. No wonder, then, that our joy at his degradation knew no bounds.

  My fever rose that night and I was confined to bed for a week. Ten days elapsed before I was allowed to go to school and another month before I met Indranath again. It was Saturday—I remember that distinctly. The rains were over and the river had begun to shrink. I sat, fishing-rod in hand, at one of the streams that meandered away from the Ganga trying to catch the catfish that swarmed in the shallow waters. Among the other boys who sat at different points along the bank I noticed one catching an incredible number in rapid succession. His face was hidden from view by a clump of reeds. Only the swift dipping and jerking of his line was visible from where I sat and that was enough to tell me that he was an expert fisherman. I decided to sit next to him. As I approached the clump a familiar voice spoke: ‘Come and sit on my right side, Srikanta.’

  On hearing that voice a tremor passed through me and the blood leaped up in my veins. I was speechless with the many emotions that warred within me. I am aware that terms like these are worn clichés that come nowhere near expressing my feelings of that moment. But, with my limited powers of self-expression, what alternative do I have but to fall back on them? Where can I find words that will truly mirror the strange complex of emotions that I struggled with in that moment of reunion with Indranath—the delight, the yearning and the dread. I sat next to him but could not speak.

  Indra broke the silence with a question. ‘Did you get a thrashing that morning, Srikanta?’ I shook my head. His face lit up. ‘I knew you wouldn’t. I prayed very hard to Ma Kali. “Don’t let Srikanta get beaten,” I begged and begged. She’s a very benign goddess—is Ma Kali. If you have true faith in your heart she will always grant your prayer. Then no one can beat you.’ Saying this he put down his line, brought his hands together and touched his forehead in reverence.

  Hooking some bait onto his line he dropped it in the water and said, ‘Had I known you were going to get fever I could have prevented that too.’

  ‘How?’ I asked.

  ‘I would have plucked lots of jaba * and thrown them at Ma Kali’s feet. She loves jaba. She’ll give a boy whatever he prays for if he brings her blood-red jaba. Everyone knows that. Don’t you?’

  ‘Didn’t you get fever after that night?’ I asked.

  ‘Me?’ Indranath was amazed. ‘I never get fever. I never fall ill. If you pray to all the gods and goddesses twice everyday they’ll come and stand before you. You’ll see them clearly. Then you’ll never fall ill. No one can touch a hair of your head. You can go where you like, do what you like, exactly like me.’

  I nodded, then dropping my line in the water, asked softly: ‘Whom do you take with you in the dinghy?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To the other bank. To catch fish?’

  ‘I don’t go anymore.’ He put down his rod and tackle on the grass.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘She made me swear—’ Indranath left the sentence in mid air and clammed up as though alerted.

  But I had not forgotten that exchange of money in the dark.

  ‘Who made you swear? Your mother?’ I probed.

  ‘No, not my mother.’ Twining the tackle around the rod he asked suddenly, ‘You didn’t tell anyone where we went that night? Did you, Srikanta?’

  ‘No,’ I answered, ‘but everyone knows I went with you.’

  He sat silent for a while, frowning a little. Once he opened his mouth as if to say something, then changing his mind shut it again. Breaking off a reed he circled it slowly in the water, his face turning a rich red as he stared at the breaking ripples. Suddenly he blurted out: ‘Do you have any money, Srikanta?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Say—about five rupees.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I had the money and I was delighted to give it to him. But Indranath didn’t seem to share my joy. He hung his
head and said glumly: ‘I can’t repay it.’

  ‘I don’t want you to repay it,’ I announced with some spirit.

  I tried to search his face but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. He went on staring into the water for a long time. At last he spoke.

  ‘I don’t want it for myself. I want to give it to someone I know. They are very poor, Srikanta. They don’t get enough to eat. Will you come with me and give the money yourself?’

  Something stirred in my memory.

  ‘Is it the same person? The one you wanted to visit that night?’

  ‘Yes,’ Indranath murmured absently. ‘Didi won’t touch my money anymore. If you don’t come with me she won’t take your money either. She’ll think I’ve stolen it from my mother’s trunk.’

  ‘Is she your bon (sister)?’

  ‘No, she’s not my sister but I call her Didi. Will you come, Srikanta?’ Then, seeing me hesitate, he added hastily, ‘We’ll go during the day. Tomorrow is a Sunday. If we start at noon we’ll be back by the evening. We’ll meet here tomorrow at twelve o’clock.’

  His pleading eyes left me powerless to refuse. With the promise that I would accompany him the following day I went home.

  I spent the whole evening in an agony of anticipation—the memory of that terrible night rousing a whole range of discordant emotions. All night I tossed and turned in my bed waiting for the dawn but when it came my first thought was: ‘Do I have to go? What if I don’t keep my word?’ Nevertheless, I reached the clump of reeds at the appointed hour with the five rupees in my pocket. Indranath was already there sitting in his dinghy. On seeing me his face broke into a smile. I took my place beside him without a word and we set sail once again.

  Reliving that memory now, when the shadows of death are already darkening around me, I thank my Maker in all humility for helping me overcome my fears and hesitations. For what followed was an experience I have never forgotten. That afternoon I discovered a presence that has remained with me to this hour. It was out of this encounter, in the most impressionable years of my life, that my life-long vision of woman has been formed. I have argued and reasoned with myself but none of it could ever shake the conviction that a woman is essentially noble, chaste and loving. If there is evil surrounding her she can, I am convinced, shed it like a worn garment at any given moment and take her place among the purest and brightest of spirits. My friends tell me that this is a foolish preconception unsupported by logic and reason. I do not protest for it is true that I have no convincing arguments to counter theirs. All I have are primary instincts that have swelled and strengthened with the passing years.