‘Why do you talk of invitations? You are welcome to stay. Only—you may be a little uncomfortable. You see, the room you had last time ….’
‘Is occupied by the Babu,’ I said finishing the sentence for her. ‘That’s no problem. I’ll sleep in one of the rooms downstairs.’
Pyari stared. ‘Do you really mean to tell me that all this does not affect you? Since when have you become a saint?’
‘You don’t know me, Pyari,’ I thought. Aloud I said, ‘Why should it affect me? And talking of comfort, the poorest room in your house is more comfortable than the railway platform. I shall be fine. If there is a shortage of bedding—don’t worry. I have a blanket with me.’
Pyari was silent for a while. Then she said spitefully, ‘I’m quite sure you do. But if I were you, I would rather sleep out in the fields than endure such humiliation.’
I laughed at the passion in her voice. I knew what she wished to hear from my lips but deliberately, stubbornly, I made my voice calm and detached. ‘I’m not such a fool, Pyari,’ I said, ‘that I do not understand your predicament. I know that, had it been in your power, you would have given me the best room in the house as you did the last time I was here. But the matter is so trivial that it is hardly worth discussing. Tell Ratan to show me my room. I’m terribly tired.’
‘You are wise,’ Pyari said. ‘I’m relieved that you understand.’ Then, suppressing a sigh, she added, ‘But you haven’t told me why you have come.’
‘There are two reasons but I’ll tell you only the second.’
‘Why not the first?’
‘It has become irrelevant.’
‘Let us have the second then.’
‘I’m going to Burma. I may never see you again—at least not for many years. I wanted to see you once before I left.’
At this point Ratan came and announced that my room was ready.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I must sleep for a while, Pyari. Come to my room after an hour or so if you can. I have something more to tell you.’
When Ratan led me upstairs to Pyari’s bedroom I was surprised.
‘Why this room, Ratan? I was supposed to sleep downstairs.’
‘Downstairs? You to sleep downstairs? Are you joking, Babu?’ And Ratan smiled and turned to go.
‘Just a minute, Ratan,’ I said. ‘Where is your mistress to sleep?’
‘I’ve made a bed for her in Banku Babu’s room.’
I looked around me. There was no sign of the narrow cot and wooden rack that I had seen on my earlier visit. A vast, intricately carved four-poster stood in the middle of the room with snowy sheets spread over a high luxurious mattress. A small table stood on one side with a lamp, a few books and a bowl filled with jasmine on it. It was obvious, at one glance, that no servant’s hand had done all this. The room bore, in all its details, a loved one’s touch. Even the bed had been made by Pyari—I had not a doubt.
Pyari’s pain and humiliation at my feigned indifference was crystal clear to me for I knew and understood every nuance of her character and temperament. My abrupt entrance had startled her into somewhat uncharacteristic behaviour, but no one knew better than I what lay in her heart. She had expected, even hoped, that I would betray a sense of grievance and jealousy. It was to that end that she had flung her childish barbs at me. But I had ignored her deepest needs. I had affected a cruel unconcern in the proud conviction that it expressed my strength and manliness. The thought filled me with guilt. I tried to sleep but sleep would not come. I waited for her footfall in eager anticipation.
I may have dozed off for a few minutes. I woke up suddenly to find Pyari sitting by me—her hand on my chest. I sat up.
She said without preamble, ‘People who go to Burma never return. Do you know that?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Then ….’
‘Even if what you say is true, why should it affect me? I don’t leave anyone behind for whom I must return.’
‘Don’t you?’
It was a simple question but it hit me in a vulnerable spot which I had not known existed. In the past I had successfully hardened my heart to all her pleas and tears. But now, to my horror, my self-control suffered a complete breakdown. Without knowing what I did, I murmured, ‘There is one. I admit it. If I ever come back it will be for your sake alone.’
Pyari flung herself on me and wept without restraint. I felt her body shaking with sobs and warm tears trickling down my chest on to the sheet.
‘Get up, Pyari,’ I said, laying a hand on her head. She did not reply, nor did she raise her head. I held her face between my palms and forced her to look up.
‘No, Pyari, no,’ I said, and wiped away her tears.
‘Tell me,’ she said hoarsely, ‘tell me truthfully—that man’s presence here—you don’t think ill of me?’
‘No.’
‘But—but you know I’m not a good woman. You know I’ve led an immoral life.’
I was silent. It was a paradox and I had no way of resolving it. I knew all there was to know about her. Yet I could not think of her as immoral and depraved.
Suddenly she sat up—her head held high.
‘May I ask a question?’ she said, her voice hard as nails. ‘Why is it that a man, however degenerate, is allowed to change his ways and come back to his family and the society in which he was born while a woman, should she commit the tiniest error, finds all doors locked against her?’
I had no answer.
‘I was young and innocent. People exploited me and made me what I am. Now that I seek a new identity, why won’t you give it to me?’
‘No one can stop you from reforming yourself. Even if society won’t accept you there are other means of escape from the life you lead.’
Pyari gazed on my face long and full and there was something in her eyes I could not fathom.
‘Very well,’ she said, ‘then you can’t stop me either.’
A slight cough was heard and Ratan stood by the door.
‘What is it, Ratan?’ Pyari asked, sitting up.
‘It is very late. The cook has dozed off in the kitchen. Isn’t it time Babu had his meal?’
‘Gracious!’ Pyari looked guilty and shamefaced. ‘I lost track of the time. You must all be hungry.’
She went down quickly and brought my meal, as she always did, with her own hands. Then, after I had eaten, she came up to my room and flung herself at the foot of the bed. It was one o’clock.
‘I have passed many sleepless nights for your sake,’ she said. ‘I’m going to keep you awake tonight whether you like it or not. I’ve thought it over. I can’t let you go to Burma.’
‘What am I to do, then? Keep drifting as I am?’
Pyari did not condescend to reply. She asked me another question instead. ‘Why do you wish to go so far away?’
‘I want work. I’m not going there for my own amusement.’
Pyari sat up angrily. She fixed her eyes on my face and said in a passionate voice, ‘You may fool the whole world but you can’t fool me. God will never forgive you if ….’
‘I know all that,’ I interrupted. ‘But what do you want me to do?’
Pyari looked pleased at this appeal. ‘I want you to give up your wandering ways. I want you to marry, settle down and raise a family.’
‘Will that really make you happy?’
She nodded so vigorously that her earrings trembled and twinkled.
‘That’s a relief,’ I said. ‘As a matter of fact that is one of the reasons I came to Patna. To tell you that I’m to be married.’
‘Really? Do you really mean it? I’ve prayed and prayed to Ma Kali and at last she has answered my prayers. But please remember that I shall choose the girl.’
‘You can’t. The girl has been chosen already.’
A shadow fell over the laughing face. ‘That is good news,’ she said.
‘I don’t know if it is good news or bad. All I know is that my marriage is settled. There is no way out.’
&n
bsp; Suddenly, Pyari lost her temper. ‘All lies!’ she shouted. ‘Why do you always trifle with me?’
‘What I have just told you is the absolute, unadulterated truth. See these.’ I pulled the two letters out of my pocket and handed them to her.
She took them but said resentfully, ‘I don’t read other people’s letters.’
‘Then you needn’t worry about other people’s futures either.’
‘I’m not worrying in the least.’
But she did not return the letters. After a while she walked up to the table and read the letters by the light of the lamp. After what seemed an incredibly long time, she returned to the bed. ‘Are you asleep?’ she asked softly.
‘No.’
‘I can’t let you marry this girl. I knew her as a child. She was not a nice girl.’
‘You read Ma’s letter?’
‘Yes, I did. There is nothing in it that can be considered binding. And even if there is, I won’t let you marry her. That’s final.’
‘What kind of girl would you have me marry?’
‘I can’t answer that straight away. I must think it over and then decide.’
‘If I am to wait for the girl you approve of I may as well resign myself to being a bachelor—in this life at least. In my next birth we shall see. So be it. I’m in no hurry. But the girl has to be married off. Five hundred rupees will do it. Her mother told me that.’
Pyari sat up in her excitement. ‘I’ll send the money tomorrow,’ she cried joyfully. Then, sobering down, she added, ‘Believe me, I object to this match only because she’s not the right girl for you. Otherwise ….’
‘Otherwise what?’
‘Otherwise nothing. I’ll find a girl worthy of you and then talk about it.’
‘Your efforts will be wasted,’ I said. ‘You’ll never find a girl worthy of me.’
She was silent for a long, long while. Then she asked suddenly, quite out of context, ‘Will you take me with you to Burma?’
‘Do you have the courage to come with me?’
Pyari’s eyes held mine. ‘Do you really believe I don’t?’
‘What about all these? Your house, furniture—all your possessions?’
‘I’ll give them all to Banku. What is my wealth to me if, in spite of it, you are forced to go to Burma to earn your living.’
I made no comment. I stared out of the window into the dark expanse outside.
‘Is it necessary to go that far?’ Pyari put out a feeler. ‘Will my money never be of any use to you?’
‘No. Never.’
‘I knew that. But will you take me with you?’ She placed a soft, moist palm on my foot.
I remembered the day Pyari had practically asked me to leave her house out of her consideration for Banku’s feelings. I had marvelled at her strength of mind. Tonight I witnessed a total collapse of the rigid self-control that was such an integral part of her character. Her soft voice, humble with love, threatened to shatter all my powers of resistance. But I did not succumb.
‘I can’t take you with me,’ I said. ‘But I’ll come back to you the moment you call. Whatever I do, wherever I am, I shall be yours and only yours.’
‘Only mine?’ she cried out in wonder.
‘All my life.’
‘Then you’ll never marry? Never lead a normal life?’
‘No. I will never do anything that makes you unhappy.’
Pyari’s lip trembled and her eyes swam. ‘You will live the life of an ascetic? For a woman like me?’
‘That I will. It is not much of a sacrifice for what you have given me has fulfilled me completely. You must always remember that, Rajlakshmi.’
Her eyes held mine briefly. Then, flinging herself on the bed, she burst into a storm of passionate tears.
The house was dark and silent. Not a mouse stirred. I had a sudden vision of the night looking in through the window at her exquisite counterpart—born of the same womb, as rapturous, as passionate—performing her heart-breaking act. I felt her quiet eyes rest on Pyari. I saw a gentle smile hovering about her mouth as with a last, lingering look, she turned away and was lost in the first pearly light that streamed from the east.
Two
THERE ARE SOME MEMORIES THAT NEVER FADE NO MATTER HOW many years roll by. Pyari’s last words, just before I left Patna, still ring in my ears as clearly as if they were uttered yesterday. ‘I’m not an ignorant child,’ she had said, weeping bitterly. ‘I know I must be punished for what I have done. But what is being meted out to me is too painful to be borne. Our society is too unequal—too cruel to its women. It will suffer for this some day. A terrible punishment awaits it—as God is my witness!’
Why Pyari cursed Hindu society the way she did was known to herself and to her God. It was not totally unknown to me either but I chose to remain silent.
As I stepped into the carriage, Pyari rushed up to me. ‘You are going so far away. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again. I have one last request. Will you grant it?’
‘I will.’
‘The way you live,’ she murmured. ‘If anything happens, God forbid, will you send me word?’
‘I will.’
Pyari wiped my feet with the end of her sari. She said hesitating, humble, ‘Do you have to go? Don’t go.’
I averted my eyes from her streaming face and trembling lips. The carriage moved on. The clamour of creaking wheels and horses’ hooves exploded in my ears but through it all I heard her soft, almost inaudible sobbing all the way to the station.
Three
ONE FOGGY MORNING, A WEEK LATER, I STEPPED OFF THE TRAIN AT the Koilaghat area of Calcutta. A khaki-clad coolie swooped down on my tin trunk and bedroll like some bird of prey and vanished out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. I scanned the crowd, forcing back the tears of panic and fury that stung my eyes, but it was several hours before he reappeared. As the train was entering the station I had observed herd upon herd of motley-coloured animals packed between the road and the jetty. Coming closer I recognized them for what they were—not animals but men, women and children who had spent the night in the cold and the fog in the hope of securing some space to sit in on the boat that was to carry them across the black water. I had a reservation for the deck but my heart quaked at the thought of forcing my way through this turbulent sea of humanity to the entrance of the jetty.
There were people from the length and breadth of India—from northernmost Kabul to southernmost Kumarika. There were foreigners too. A group of Chinamen in black vests dominated the scene. Suddenly, as if at a signal, the fifteen or sixteen hundred people stood up and started forming lines, as meek and docile as a gigantic flock of sheep. I wondered why, for, as far as I could see, there was no sign of a ship, not even in the distant horizon.
I asked a man in the crowd, ‘What is happening? Why has everyone stood up?’
‘Dog-tori,’ he mumbled.
‘What?’
‘Dog-tori. For the Pi-lage.’
I was no wiser for this communication. Nevertheless I decided to follow the instincts of the herd and wedge myself somewhere in the line. But, try as I would, not a chink could I discover in the solid wall before me. Finally, at the tail end of the queue, I found some Mussalmans from Khidirpur standing, not with the belligerence of the others, but rather awkwardly in scattered twos and threes. There is one characteristic that distinguishes the Bengali from the other races of India. He is more sensitive to humiliation. That being made to wait for hours like sheep and goats is an affront to human dignity was writ large on the faces of these men. I decided to join them. They worked as tailors in Rangoon, they said, and had made the trip several times. They explained to me that all the passengers were required to go through a medical examination because the authorities feared that some may be carrying the plague.
After what seemed hours a white doctor and his assistant were seen approaching and the examination began. I could not see much of what was going on for the stretch before me was formidable. However,
as the line diminished, I noticed that the examination involved a stripping of the body down to the hips and a probing into all those private parts that might conceal a lump. I heard the exclamations of fear and pain as men, women and children were subjected to the insensitivity and ruthlessness that characterize the white race in its dealings with the coloured and I cursed the passivity that has been bred in the Hindu from time immemorial.
When my turn came, I shut my eyes and surrendered to the inevitable. Mercifully it lasted only a few minutes. I was declared fit to travel. The next step was to find a place in the boat.
One who has never mounted the deck of a ship has no idea of how it is done. Packed into a congealed mass of stinking bodies I was alternately pulled forward and pushed backwards in a series of jerks that bore a closer resemblance to the motion of a giant machine than to the movements of human beings. I reached the deck, almost swooning from lack of air, but there was no way I could stop there. The relentless pressure from behind propelled me on to a gaping hole through which a flight of dark steps led to the monstrous cavern of the ship’s hold. The mighty stream of Punjabis, Bengalis, Madrasis, Gujaratis, Marathas, Afghans, Chinese, Marwaris and Biharis gushed into the cavern with the force and turbulence of a mountain cataract. I may have lost consciousness for a few moments for I have no memories of the downward flight. When I came to, I found myself standing, dazed and stupid, at one end while my travelling companions were already seated and chatting with their neighbours. The floor of the hold was miraculously partitioned into thousands of segments with sheets and blankets, steel trunks and wooden crates. It was at this moment that my coolie reappeared.
‘I have kept your luggage on the deck, Babu. Shall I bring it down?’
‘No. On the contrary, take me out of here if you can.’
Movement was impossible without stepping on people’s bedding and stumbling over their possessions for, barring the few inches of space on which my feet were planted, there was not a spot of unoccupied territory on the floor of the hold. The coolie gripped my hand and with commendable speed and efficiency, got me out of the hold without seriously disturbing the floor arrangements. Then, leading me to my tin trunk and bedroll, he took his tip and departed.
Srikanta Page 14
