Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  It had been a bitterly cold day and, by dusk, the wind was blowing needles of ice on our hands and faces. It had rained the day before and the sky shone clear and frosty. A full moon, swimming in the sky, bathed the earth in liquid silver. I was poring over my school texts when Indra walked in.

  ‘There’s a play being performed in — village,’ he said. ‘Want to come?’

  I was crazy about the theatre so I jumped at the offer.

  ‘Get ready and come to our house in five minutes,’ he said and vanished.

  I dashed upstairs, pulled a wrapper around me, and ran after him. The place he had mentioned was some distance away and could only be reached by train. But when I got to his house Indra informed me that he proposed to take the dinghy. I was disappointed, for going by the river meant hard work at the oars and a long stretch of exposure to the cold night air. Besides, it was much slower than the train and we might not reach in time.

  ‘The boat will go like an arrow in this gale. We won’t be late,’ Indra said encouragingly. ‘A cousin of mine is here from Calcutta and he wants to go by the Ganga.’

  We got the boat ready and took our places in it. But time went by and there was no sign of Indra’s cousin. I waited with mounting impatience, tortured by thoughts of the scenes I would surely miss.

  At last a dim figure appeared on the bank. I got a bit of a shock for I had never seen anyone dressed quite like that. A heavy woollen overcoat was buttoned right down to his knees. His head and neck were wrapped in layers of cap and muffler. Gloves on his hands and silk stockings and pumps on his feet completed the ensemble. It was obvious that this Calcutta babu had taken every possible precaution against the inclement winter of the west. Making a face at our beloved dinghy he stepped into it in the manner of a potentate, one hand resting heavily on Indra’s shoulder and the other gripping mine like a vice. Then, comfortably ensconced in the best seat, he glared at me and asked, ‘What is your name, boy?’

  ‘Srikanta.’

  ‘Srikanta!’ He gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘What is the Sri for? Kanta is a good enough name for you. Come, don’t go on sitting there like a dummy. Prepare a hookah for me. Indra—give the boy the hookah and tobacco. Let him make himself useful.’

  ‘I’ll prepare your hookah, Natunda,’ Indra said in an embarrassed voice. ‘You take the oars, Srikanta.’

  I did not reply. Neither did I move from my place. I prepared the hookah but my rapturous mood of a few minutes ago changed to one of deepest gloom. I had never been spoken to in that tone of voice. I had never even seen a servant being spoken to like that. But he was a babu from Calcutta with an LA degree and Indra’s cousin as well, so I was forced to swallow his insults.

  After a few puffs Indra’s Natunda asked, ‘Where do you live, boy? What is that on your shoulders? A wrapper? What a filthy rag it is! It stinks from a hundred yards away. Take it off and spread it on the plank. Something is poking me.’

  ‘Take mine,’ Indra said quickly. ‘I’m not cold,’ and removing his woollen shawl he flung it towards his Natunda who folded it neatly over the plank and sat on it without a moment’s hesitation.

  We crossed the river within half an hour for it had shrunk considerably with the onset of winter. But no sooner did we touch the opposite bank than the wind dropped. The sail sagged and the boat came to a halt.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Indra asked Natunda.

  ‘Give the boy the oars. Let him pull the boat.’

  Indra laughed at the ignorance of his city cousin. ‘That would be quite useless. It’s impossible to row in still water like this. We’ll have to go back.’

  ‘Then why did you bring me in the dinghy, you fool?’ Natunda gnashed his teeth at Indra. ‘You’ll have to get me there tonight. I don’t care how. I’ve been invited to play the harmonium.’

  ‘There are others who can take your place.’

  ‘Hmph,’ Natunda grimaced. ‘Others who can take my place! As if one could find a decent harmonium player in these backwaters. I don’t want to listen to any of your nonsense. You promised to take me there and you will. How you do it is your business.’

  Sensing Indra’s predicament I volunteered a suggestion, ‘Maybe we could tow the boat, Indra?’

  Even before the words left my mouth his cousin snarled viciously at me, ‘Why don’t you do so then instead of sitting here hunched up like an animal?’

  Indra and I looked at each other. There was no way of reaching our destination other than towing the boat. The water was as cold as ice as we stepped into it and our hands and feet, cut to pieces on shell and rock, grew numb and blue. But the man for whom we were suffering these torments was as indifferent and unconcerned as the plank he sat on. From time to time he barked out a word of command at which we had to stop the boat and minister to his needs—which mainly involved the preparation of a fresh hookah. Then, as we strained and pulled at the heavy boat with all our childish strength, he smoked his hookah with comfortable sucking sounds. Once when Indra requested him to take the helm, he refused point-blank declaring that he had no intention of removing his gloves and catching his death.

  ‘You can keep them on…’ began Indra but he was cut short.

  ‘Yes and ruin them on your dirty rudder. Don’t be stupid. Just carry on with whatever you are doing.’

  I can say, in all honesty, that never before or after this encounter did I set eyes on a person as unadulteratedly selfish and mean as Indra’s Natunda. Through our nightmarish journey he sat as stiff as a board afraid to move lest a drop of water fall on his precious clothes and spoil them. Worse followed. The fresh air over the Ganga acted as a tonic and gave him an appetite that increased with each passing hour. Around eleven o’clock he could bear the pangs no longer.

  ‘Are there no shops nearby, Indra?’ he called, ‘Can’t you get me something to eat?’

  ‘There’s a village just ahead, Natunda. I’m sure we can buy some food.’

  ‘Then hurry up and get me there. You, boy! Can’t you pull harder? Don’t you get enough to eat?’

  After some time we arrived at the village. Here the bank was wide with a long shelf of sand stretching far into the river. We dragged the boat onto shallow water with a mighty effort and heaved a sigh of relief. The babu from Calcutta stood up. ‘I’m cramped from sitting in this nasty boat,’ he declared. ‘I must stretch my legs.’

  There being no question of his wetting his feet Indra lifted him out of the boat and carried him far out where the sand gleamed dry and white in the moonlight.

  As the two of us set out for the bazaar Indra said, ‘Why don’t you come too, Natunda? You’ll be frightened here all by yourself. People around here are honest. No one will steal the dinghy.’

  ‘Frightened?’ Indra’s cousin snarled at him. ‘What do you think of me? I am Calcutta born and bred—not a Bihari rat like you. I fear nobody and nothing—not even Death. If you think I’m going to walk through your dirty villages you’re mistaken. The natives stink so—they make me puke.’

  The solution, as he saw it, was that Indra should proceed to the village to buy food and that I should stay behind to prepare his hookah as and when he needed it. Indra was not averse to the idea but I rebelled outright. No force on earth was going to make me stay here alone with this man! I shook off Indra’s restraining hand and walked with him, away from the vicinity of his cousin. From behind us came the sounds of a nasal chant accompanied by a vigorous clapping of hands. ‘Tinkle, tinkle teacup,’ sang the Calcutta born and bred aristocrat as he walked up and down the bank.

  I could see that Indra was acutely embarrassed by his cousin’s behaviour. ‘Calcutta folk,’ he murmured. ‘They are not used to our kind of climate.’ He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘Hmph!’ I grunted.

  Indra then proceeded to give me an account of his cousin’s outstanding academic achievements. ‘He’ll pass his LA in a couple of years and become a deputy,’ Indra prophesied in a desperate bid to wipe out my annoyance and
kindle a spark of admiration for his cousin.

  Many years have passed since that night. I have no knowledge of what became of Indra’s cousin—whether he rose to the eminence of a deputy or not. But it is possible that he did. For, if what I hear is true, his was the stuff that Bengali deputies are made of. Indra’s Natunda was in the first flush of manhood at the time I’m writing about. It is generally believed that during this period the heart is at its largest and the mind at its most expansive. Yet, in the few hours that we were together, he managed to dispel this view totally and completely. Fortunately there are not many like him in the world, else it would be difficult to live in. But I digress again. Let me get on with what happened for it is more important that I give my readers the conclusion to the night’s adventure.

  Indra and I reached the grocer’s shop in a few minutes. As we had anticipated, the shop was shut and the owner, with his doors and windows locked securely against the cold, was sunk in a slumber so profound that not all the clamour of the world could wake him. Indra and I banged on the door and yelled with all our might but to no avail. We were dealing not with a gentleman of leisure for whom sleep is a luxury, but with a hardy yokel who worked like a machine from dawn to dusk and, having assumed the horizontal position, was lost to the world. After half an hour of trying we had to give up and return to the bank empty-handed.

  The dinghy bobbed up and down where we had left it but where was Natunda? The beach stretched stark and white as far as the eye could see. Not a shadow of the Calcutta cousin marred its gleaming surface.

  ‘Natunda! Natunda!’ Indra and I shouted till our lungs were fit to burst but nothing save the reverberations of our own voices came back to us. We stared at one another as a terrible thought took possession of us. For a man to be attacked and killed by a wolf was not an uncommon occurrence in these parts. In winter, packs of wolves frequently descended on unsuspecting villagers and dragged babies out of huts and goats from their pens.

  ‘It—it—couldn’t be a wolf—could it, Srikanta?’ Indra’s voice shook. At this voicing of my fears a trickle of ice water ran down my spine and goose bumps broke out all over my body. I didn’t like Indra’s Natunda but I hadn’t wished him such a terrible fate.

  As we strained our eyes scanning that vast expanse of sand, an object, gleaming in the moonlight, caught our attention. Going towards it we discovered that it was one of Natunda’s much prized pumps. Indra broke down completely. Flinging himself on the wet sand he howled like a child. ‘What shall I do? How can I face my aunt, Srikanta? I won’t go home. I just can’t go home anymore.’

  As I stood watching him, jumbled thoughts in my head took shape and acquired a focus. I remembered that when we were rapping on the grocer’s door and shouting his name, a loud chorus of barking dogs had reached out to us from the bank. Intent on our purpose we hadn’t given it a thought. But now it was obvious that the dogs had seen the wolves attacking Natunda and had set up an alarm—which we had foolishly ignored. I could still hear faint sounds of barking from a distance which left no doubt in my mind that somewhere, further up the bank, a pack of wolves was feasting on Indra’s cousin and that the pye-dogs of the village were looking on and barking with all their might. Indra sat up suddenly, grim determination on his face.

  ‘I must go to Natunda,’ he said.

  ‘Oh no.’ I laid a hand on his arm. ‘You can’t do that. Have you gone mad?’

  Indra shook me off and walked to the dinghy. Picking up an oar he threw it over his right shoulder. Then, taking a large knife out of his pocket, he held it, blade upwards in his left hand. With eyes blazing out of a face that was pale and drawn with anxiety, he said, ‘You stay here, Srikanta. If I don’t return send word to my parents.’

  I knew that his mind was made up and I made no further protestations. Picking up a length of bamboo from the dinghy I followed him as he strode purposefully up the bank. Indra turned around and, snatching the bamboo away, flung it into the water.

  ‘Why should you risk your life, Srikanta?’ he said. ‘What has happened is through no fault of yours.’

  ‘It isn’t your fault either,’ I replied.

  ‘That is true,’ he admitted, ‘I told Natunda not to come by the river. He wouldn’t listen. But I can’t return home without him. I have to go.’

  I knew that. I also knew that I could never let him go alone. I retrieved my weapon from the river and the two of us walked in the direction of the barking dogs. As we went along Indra warned me, ‘Don’t try to run on the sand. Jump into the water if they attack.’

  After walking about half a mile we came to a sand dune. As we climbed to the top we saw some five or six pye-dogs, a little distance up the bank, apparently guarding some object immersed in the water. From time to time they set up a chorus of barks. As far as we could see there was no trace of any other animal—not even a jackal.

  ‘Natunda!’ Indra shouted.

  ‘Here I am,’ the object called out sobbing loudly, in a voice surprisingly like that of the brave babu from Calcutta. The dogs yelped and ran as Indra and I rushed forward and pulled the near fainting Natunda out of the water. Torrents of water ran from his overcoat, muffler, cap and gloves and the shining pump on one stockinged foot was bloated like a drum. We understood, without being told, that the canine population of the village had been so charmed by his melodious rendering of Tinkle, tinkle teacup that they had rushed towards him in appreciation. Later, his nervous bid for escape had startled them into giving him a chase. Slipping and scrambling over the sand he had lost a shoe. Then, in a desperate attempt to elude his pursuers, he had jumped into the freezing water and had been standing neck-deep in it for the past half hour. But wonder of wonders! The first words that came out from between his chattering teeth, as we dragged him out of the water, were, ‘My other pump?’

  Then, one by one, he mourned the fate of his greatcoat, his cap, his muffler and his gloves—alternating his lamentations with curses on the pair of us for setting him on the shore instead of carrying him to the boat where he could have removed his wet clothing without messing them up with sand. All through the journey homeward he raved and bemoaned the fate that had cast him in the company of savages like us who hadn’t even seen such things as an overcoat, pumps, a muffler and gloves and therefore, had no idea of their value. What filled us with a kind of awed admiration was that his body, which he had hitherto jealously protected from the smallest drop of water, did not feature in his lamentations.

  It was past two o’clock at night when the dinghy touched our bank. With my wrapper tucked around his middle—the same wrapper whose stink had made him swoon earlier in the evening—and Indra’s shawl around his shoulders, he allowed himself to be led home, grumbling all the while at being forced to touch to his body rags too filthy for him to wipe his feet on. However, all this abuse fell on our ears as sweetly as raindrops on a yam leaf. Our relief at being able to bring him home alive glowed within us so warmly that even the penetrating cold of that winter night meant nothing to us. Wrapping the edge of my thin dhoti around my bare chest and back I walked home, my heart singing with happiness.

  Eight

  I OFTEN WONDER, WHEN SITTING DOWN TO WRITE, HOW IT IS THAT certain events in one’s life are remembered as clearly as if they had occurred just the day before while others are clean forgotten. Wise men tell us that the memory is like a mesh through which the unimportant sinks beneath the weight of the important and is lost. I do not agree for, in my memory, many trivial incidents stand out bright and clear while others, which should have been preserved and cherished, have rusted and been reduced to dust.

  One such remembrance had lain dormant in my consciousness till a chance meeting brought it to light. It happened many years later—at a period of time when even the memory of Didi had been misted over. I had been invited to a hunting expedition by a prince who had been a class fellow of mine at school. I had done his sums for him time and again and in consequence, though princes ordinarily have short memories, he
had kept in touch. We had exchanged letters even after we had both passed the Entrance examination and gone our own ways.

  One day, quite by accident, I ran into him. His father had died in the intervening years and he had inherited the estate. He was organizing a hunting party which he invited me to join. He had heard, he said, that there was no one who could beat me with a rifle in these parts. He had also heard of certain other talents I had acquired as I stepped into manhood—talents that entitled me to a friendship with a prince who had money to burn.

  But I must confess, in all modesty, that what he had heard were exaggerated reports from kind relatives and friends. However, let that pass. The Shastras tell us not to turn down the appeals of princes. So, being a Hindu and a Brahmin, I decided to follow the doctrines of our illustrious forefathers and accept his invitation.

  On reaching the camp, after a twenty-mile elephant ride from the station, I found that the hunting expedition had all the trappings of a luxurious safari. Five tents had been set up. One, exquisitely fitted up and furnished, was for His Highness exclusively. One was set up as a kitchen. Of the other three, one housed his retinue of friends, one his servants, and the last—set a little apart from the others—had a couple of dancing girls in it. These, with their attendant musicians, had been brought along to entertain the prince and his party after each day’s hunt.

  Twilight had set in by the time I announced my arrival. As I approached His Highness’ tent I could hear strains of music coming from within. The entertainment had clearly been going on for some hours, for my host had reached such a stage of inebriation that his happiness on seeing me made him fall back with a thud on the silken cushions. The other occupants of the tent gave me a thunderous, if somewhat confused, welcome for not one of them knew me. The singing girl stopped her song and sat, eyes downcast, on the velvet rug. This young woman had been procured at great expense from Patna. I was impressed by His Highness’ taste, for she was beautiful as well as a skilled singer with an extremely melodious voice.