Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  ‘You are an eminent man, Srikanta Babu,’ he continued, ‘and a respected one. We have all heard of the power and prestige you enjoy in the highest circles. One line from you to the governor will ensure that the swine is punished with imprisonment upto fourteen years.’

  I stared at him in astonishment. The idea that I, who didn’t even know the governor’s name, was capable of getting a man imprisoned for life on the strength of a single line written to His Excellency, was so novel that I staggered under its impact. In my dazed condition, with my erstwhile mentor’s repeated humble requests ringing in my ears, I proceeded to the kitchen where the hapless combined hand was stationed. Crouching in the shadow of the black vault which made up the kitchen quarters, the combined hand had heard every word his master had uttered. He now came forward, pale and trembling, and folding his hands before me, begged me in a nasal whine to allow him to leave. He had no objection, he said, to working for the master if he moved to another house but this one, he was convinced, had a deo (a spirit) in it. Strange shadows flitted about day and night. The house was so dark and ill-ventilated that the presence of shadows did not surprise me. What did was the nasty stink that proceeded from the interior of the kitchen.

  ‘What is that smell?’ I asked

  ‘Something rotting. Must be a rat,’ said the combined hand.

  ‘Rat?’ I asked startled. ‘Is there a dead rat in there?’

  The combined hand shrugged his shoulders and informed me that he threw six or seven dead rats out into the alley every morning. I lit a kersosene lamp and the two of us made a thorough though futile search. I shivered involuntarily. Try as I would, I could not bring myself to advise the man not to desert his sick master. Back in the bedroom, Manohar Chakraborty treated me to an account of the virtues of the new house. Such a big house, located right in the centre of the city, was never to be had at the rent he was paying. Then again, the landlord was such a thorough gentleman, and the neighbours so decent and non-interfering. The room adjoining his had been rented out to a group of Christian boys from Madras who were as quiet as they were amiable and respectful. He even informed me that he would throw out the rascally Brahmin as soon as he felt a little better. Then, suddenly, he asked a strange question. ‘Do you believe in dreams, Srikanta Babu?’

  ‘No,’ I replied without the slightest hesitation.

  ‘I don’t either. Yet—and this is very strange, moshai—I dreamt last night that I fell down the stairs and was hurt in the groin. When I woke up I found a swelling on it. I even feel feverish this morning. Touch me and see.’

  I could feel my face grow pale with horror. I sat speechless for the next few minutes. Then, recovering myself, I checked his fever and inspected the lump in his groin. ‘Have you sent for a doctor?’ I asked. ‘I advise you to do so immediately.’

  ‘Everything is so expensive in this country, Srikanta Babu. A doctor will charge four or five rupees as his fee. Another two will be wasted on medicines—’

  ‘Never mind that,’ I cut him short. ‘Send for one immediately.’

  ‘Whom shall I send? Tiwari is a fool. Besides, if he goes, who’ll do the cooking?’

  ‘I’ll go,’ I said and went out.

  After examining the patient, the doctor drew me aside with the question, ‘Are you related to him?’ On my answering in the negative he asked, ‘Does he have any relatives in Burma?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ I said.

  The doctor’s face grew sombre. ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll write out a prescription. And you had better send for some ice to put on his head. But the best thing would be to remove him to the plague hospital. It is not right for you to expose yourself to the risk of infection. And another thing—don’t bother about the fee.’

  After the doctor had left I went back to Manohar Babu and, very hesitatingly, broached the subject of shifting him to a hospital ward. But at the word ‘hospital’ he burst into tears. ‘Don’t send me to a hospital please, Srikanta Babu. I’ve heard that the doctors there kill off the patients. I’ll never come back.’

  Disengaging his clinging hands I went to look for Tiwari with the intention of sending him out to buy ice and medicines. But the combined hand had vanished. There was not a trace, in the house, of him or his possessions. I calculated that he had overheard the doctor’s remarks and though he had understood little else, the word plague had been sufficient inspiration for him to bolt. I had no choice but to lock the door and go out myself. I returned within an hour with medicines, an ice bag and ice, and the long vigil began. The morning dragged on hot and weary. The patient was in high delirium. Continually threshing his arms and legs, he tried to throw off the ice bag from his head. Then around two o’clock in the afternoon, he slipped into a coma.

  There were some lucid intervals, however. Towards evening he opened his eyes and, gazing into mine with full consciousness, he said, ‘I’m dying, Srikanta Babu.’

  I made no answer. He fumbled painfully for the key that was secured by a string to his waist and handing it to me with a trembling hand said, ‘I have three hundred guineas saved up. Send them to my wife. You’ll find the address and the money in my trunk.’

  I sat through the long dreary afternoon and evening watching the sick man die. From time to time I heard snatches of conversation and light footfalls from the adjoining room. Around dusk there was a sudden burst of activity. Sounds of furniture being shifted were interspersed with low whispers. Then all was still. I got up to investigate and found a lock on the door. Thinking that the inmates had gone out for a stroll and would soon be back, I took up my place, once more, at Manohar Babu’s side. An acute depression took hold of me. The hours passed and no one returned. Around midnight I got so restless that I went up to the door once again. The lock was still there and all was silent, but through a chink in the wooden wall a beam of light shone into the passage. Fitting my eye to it, I peeped into the room.

  The blood froze in my veins as the full impact of what I saw hit my consciousness. Two young men lay sleeping side by side, their heads resting on a single pillow. A row of candles, burning low in their sockets, stood on the headboard. I had heard of the Roman Catholic ritual of keeping a light burning at the head of a corpse and I knew, to a certainty, that these sleepers would never awake. Another two hours and Manohar Babu sank into the same restful sleep. As I sat guarding the body, I marvelled at the fate that had singled me out to take charge of the worldly possessions and mortal remains of one who had advised me, most emphatically, to keep away from the sick and the afflicted.

  The next morning and afternoon were taken up in collecting the death certificate, handing the body to the authorities and arranging for the guineas to be sent to the family of the deceased. Bidding goodbye to Manohar Babu’s corpse as it lay in the police wagon on its way, it is hoped, to heaven, I returned to my den in Da Thakur’s hotel. I was weary to the bone. Not a drop of water had passed through my lips in thirty-three hours, and my eyes burned with the night’s long vigil.

  As I sank down on the bed I became aware, for the first time, of a dull throbbing at the back of my ear. Probing gently with a finger I felt, or thought I felt, a lump. I wondered if this were preordained; if Manohar Chakraborty, in his infinite worldly wisdom, had ensured that I follow him to heaven to render a true account of what I had done with the guineas. All night I tossed and turned in my bed and, by constantly prodding the inflamed area, rendered it even more painful. I woke up the next morning with one thought in my head. I had to find some place to dump myself before I passed out altogether. I had many friends and acquaintances in Rangoon but they were all, without exception, righteous and devout. They didn’t deserve the terrible fate of having a plague patient thrust on them. If I did so I would incur the wrath of God as surely as I still lived and breathed. Far better to seek out a sinner. I knew of one—an immoral, depraved woman who lived in sin at the other end of Rangoon. I had despised her and scorned her for a long while now. Who, better than she, deserved the pun
ishment of nursing me through the dreaded illness? She might even catch the contagion and die and, in doing so, justly atone for her sins. Reasoning thus I sent for a carriage to take me to Abhaya’s house.

  Twelve

  THAT MORNING WHEN I STOOD FACE TO FACE WITH ABHAYA, DEATH warrant in hand, my fear of dying was swamped by a terrifying humility. Abhaya’s face turned deathly pale but the words that issued from her lips were these: ‘You were right to come to me for who, in this alien land, cares more for you than I do?’

  Tears rushed to my eyes. ‘I am going, Abhaya,’ I said. ‘I have to suffer the agony of the passage. No one can take that away from me. I came to you in my helplessness but, seeing you, I am ashamed of bringing my troubles to your door. The carriage is waiting. I will not lose consciousness for another hour at least. I can reach the plague hospital before that. Only you—you must be firm and tell me to go.’

  In answer, Abhaya took my hand and led me to the bed. Then, wiping her eyes, she laid a hand on my fevered brow and said, ‘I am grateful I have a door to which you could bring your troubles. My home is truly a home now that you are in it.’

  What I suffered from was obviously not the plague for I was up and about in a fortnight. But Abhaya would not let me go back to the hotel. While still in her house I received a letter from Pyari—her first after I came to Burma. I had written to her several times but never received a reply.

  Touching lightly on the subject she wrote:

  If I die, someone or the other will inform you of the fact but while I live my news can be of no interest to you. That is why I do not write. The reverse is not true. I pine for news of you. Write me a line whenever you can so that I have the satisfaction of knowing how you fare in that God-forsaken land.

  Then she came to the real purpose of the letter.

  I’m writing to you in the hope of securing your permission for Banku’s marriage. I wish to arrange it within this month. You have always maintained that a man should not marry before he is capable of supporting a family and I have agreed with you. Nevertheless, I am being forced to take this decision. Do come home as soon as you are able and judge the situation for yourself.

  Towards the end of her letter there was a reference to Abhaya. I had been so shaken and bewildered after my argument with Abhaya on the day she had arrogantly asserted her right to spurn her brute of a husband and live openly with the man she loved, that I had poured out my feelings in a four-page letter to Rajlakshmi.

  Referring to that communication Rajlakshmi wrote:

  I don’t know if you’ve spoken of me to Abhaya. If you have I beg you to give her my humblest and sincerest regards. I don’t know if she is younger or older than me in years. I don’t need to know either. Her indomitable spirit and vigour of thought and action have ensured her a far higher place than ordinary mortals like us can ever dream of reaching. Srikantada, whenever I think of Abhaya I am reminded of something my gurudev said to me on the day of my indoctrination. I had everything arranged and ready in my house in Kashi. Gurudev entered the puja room and seated himself on the carpet. I watched him as he sat, still and silent as a figure of stone, then, suddenly afraid, I threw myself at his feet and wept, ‘Gurudev, don’t give me the mantra. I don’t deserve it.’

  He put a hand on my head and asked, ‘Why, child, what ails you?’

  ‘I am a sinner.’

  ‘If so, you are all the more in need of the word of God.’

  ‘I lied to you,’ I sobbed. ‘I dared not reveal my true identity. If you knew what I am you would never have crossed my threshold.’

  ‘I crossed your threshold with full knowledge and I shall give you the mantra all the same. I may not approve of Pyari but what prevents me from loving my daughter Rajlakshmi?’

  I sat speechless for a few minutes. Then I said fearfully, ‘My mother’s guru refused to give me the mantra. He said he would be doomed to eternal punishment if he did. Was he not right?’

  Gurudev smiled. ‘He must have been. But I have no fear of eternal punishment so I can give it to you.’

  ‘Why do you have no fear?’

  ‘Why is one member of a household stricken with a disease while another is untouched?’

  ‘No one is untouched. The strong can resist the disease. The weak succumb.’

  Gurudev stroked my head and said, ‘Always remember that, child. What kills the weak and petty makes the strong stronger and finer.’

  ‘But good and bad are equally so for everyone, surely, irrespective of strength or weakness? Is it not unjust to have different laws for different people?’

  ‘No. That is how God created the world. What is good for one is not necessarily good for another. A drug that kills a child of five may have no effect whatsoever on a man of thirty. You may not agree with me—at least not today—but bear this in mind. There are some among us in whose breast the fire of God burns bright and clear. There are others who have not the faintest spark—only a heap of cold, dead ashes. Can they both be subject to a common law? No, child, no.’

  Srikantada, I have not seen Abhaya but from what you write about her, I can sense the fire Gurudev spoke of, flaming fiercely in her soul. Don’t be hasty in your judgement of her. Don’t weigh her actions on the same pair of scales as you do those of ordinary women like me.

  I handed the letter to Abhaya. She read it once, twice and yet a third time. Then, suddenly overcome, she crumpled the piece of paper in her hand and, throwing it on the bed, ran out of the room. I realized that the respect and admiration that breathed from every line of Rajlakshmi’s letter was too great for Abhaya’s hurt, humiliated womanhood to bear. She had to hide her face, torn with pain and happiness, from my insensitive male eyes. She reappeared half an hour later. I could see that she had washed her face clean of the tell-tale tears.

  ‘Srikanta Dada,’ she began.

  ‘Good heavens! Since when have I become your dada?’

  ‘From this minute.’

  ‘Oh! No,’ I groaned. ‘What will become of me if all my girlfriends make me their brother?’

  Abhaya laughed. ‘So that was your little plan, was it? You are a terrible man. Is this the return you make to poor Rohini Babu for sheltering you and looking after you in your illness?’ Then, sobering down, she added, ‘What a pity I didn’t think of sending a telegram to Rajlakshmi when you were sick! If I had she would have been here by now and I would have had the good fortune of seeing her.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed.

  Abhaya looked thoughtful. ‘From the tone of her letter I get the feeling that she needs you desperately. Why don’t you take a month’s leave and go home, Srikanta Dada?’

  I didn’t admit it to Abhaya but I too had got the feeling that Rajlakshmi needed me. Next morning, I applied for a month’s leave and made all the arrangements for the journey back to India. Just before I stepped into the carriage that was to take me to the harbour Abhaya touched my feet and said, ‘I want you to make me a promise.’

  ‘Yes. What is it?’

  ‘Certain situations arise at times, which men are powerless to deal with. If, and when, that happens you must write to me and ask me for my advice.’

  I nodded my assent and got into the carriage.

  ‘Another thing,’ Abhaya called after me. ‘Look after yourself. Be very careful, particularly on the ship.’

  I looked back smiling, to see Abhaya’s eyes swimming in tears.

  Thirteen

  THE FIRST PERSON I SAW WHEN THE SHIP TOUCHED THE SHORE WAS Banku. He ran up the steps and, touching my feet with great reverence, said, ‘Ma is waiting in the carriage. Why don’t you join her? I’ll collect your stuff and bring it in.’

  I stepped on the jetty to encounter a grinning Ratan. He fell at my feet in an excess of devotion then, leading me to the carriage, opened the door and bid me step in.

  ‘Come,’ Rajlakshmi said and, turning to Ratan with a distracted frown, added, ‘We are leaving, Ratan. It is two o’clock and Babu is tired and hungry. You hire another carr
iage and come home with Banku and the luggage. Tell the coachman to start moving.’ As we moved on, Rajlakshmi bent down to touch my feet. Then, raising her head, she asked, ‘Was the journey uncomfortable?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You were very ill—’

  ‘I was ill but not very. What about you? You look far from well yourself. When did you arrive?’

  ‘The day before yesterday. I left Patna as soon as I got Abhaya’s wire intimating your arrival. I would have come a few days later in any case. We have a lot of work waiting for us in Calcutta.’

  ‘It can go on waiting. Tell me, is anything wrong?’

  A little smile flickered on Rajlakshmi’s face at the sight of which the full realization of what I had been deprived of all these months overwhelmed me. A sweeping, blinding desire swamped all my other feelings but I had to crush it, perforce, with all the will power I was capable of. There was only one witness to my agony of the moment, and that was God. A sigh, wrenched from the depths of my being, made Rajlakshmi look up in surprise and ask, ‘Do I look different? Am I thinner than I used to be?’