I had not spoken a word in all this while. Nor had the sanyasi addressed himself to me. Now he asked me gravely, ‘Were you a sanyasi too—once?
My mouth was full of luchi. I lifted four fingers of my right hand and spluttered, ‘Not once. Not once. Four! Four!’
The sanyasi’s reserve broke down and he burst into a peal of merry laughter. After a while he asked, still laughing, ‘What made you change your mind?’
I pointed a finger at Rajlakshmi.
‘What lies you tell!’ Rajlakshmi exclaimed in mock anger. ‘Well, once perhaps! No, not even that. It was your illness, not me, that made you change your mind. Anyway, what about the other three?’
‘The mosquitoes are to blame. My skin wasn’t thick enough to withstand their assaults er—’
‘You may call me Bajrananda,’ the sanyasi said smiling. ‘And your name—’
Rajlakshmi spoke before I could, ‘You may call him Dada and me Bowdidi * if you wish. We are both older than you.’
The sanyasi blushed. I too was taken aback. Rajlakshmi was being too familiar, I thought. But, looking on her face, I changed my mind. Pyari’s eyes looked out of it—those old, clear, trusting, loving, happy eyes. This was the same Pyari who had fought and argued and wept because I had taken up the old man’s challenge of visiting the burning-ghat at midnight; the same Pyari who had insisted I part company with the prince. Her heart had gone out to the nameless boy who had left his loved ones forever. All the pain of parting that had been his mother’s was now hers.
‘I don’t mind calling you Dada,’ the sanyasi said to me. ‘But—’ He glanced at Rajlakshmi and lowered his eyes.
Rajlakshmi was not embarrassed in the least. ‘But what?’ she asked him archly. ‘What does a sanyasi call his brother’s wife? Not Mashima, surely, or Pishima?’
The boy smiled shyly. ‘I’m with you for another five or six hours. I’ll call you Bowdidi—if the need arises.’
Rajlakshmi took a handful of barfis and pedas from the pot of sweets at her side and placed them on his leaf. ‘And I’ll call you Sadhu Thakurpo. * Shall I?’
‘As you wish,’ he answered indifferently.
But, despite his cryptic comments and stern expression, he displayed a voracious appetite. The speed with which the luscious milk sweets Rajlakshmi kept piling on his leaf disappeared, alarmed me not a little. A deep sigh escaped me at which Rajlakshmi looked up sharply and said, ‘You have had a long journey and you must be tired. Go and rest in the cart.’
The sadhu looked up from his leaf and said, ‘The pot is nearly empty. It is something to sigh about.’
‘There’s plenty left,’ Rajlakshmi said, glaring at me.
Precisely at this moment, Ratan came up to where we sat and announced in all innocence, ‘Ma! I bought the chire as you said. But what will you eat it with? Not a drop of milk or curd is to be found in the bazaar.’
The sadhu turned a red embarrassed face to Rajlakshmi and said, ‘I have been very selfish. I—’
He attempted to rise but Rajlakshmi put out a hand and pulled him down crying wildly, ‘No. Don’t get up. If you do, I’ll throw the rest of the food in the dust. I swear I will.’
The passion in her voice must have surprised him for he stared at her and said helplessly, ‘But what about the rest of you?’
‘There’s plenty of food for the servants. As for me, I’ll be happy with a handful of chire and a gulp of water. But if you go away hungry I won’t have even that. Ask him if you don’t believe me.’ And she waved a hand in my direction.
‘That is quite true,’ I said. ‘Don’t waste your time arguing with the woman. Carry on the good work and complete it before sundown if you can. After that—even the chire and water will lose their purity.’
The sanyasi stared at her and asked in a wondering voice, ‘But why?’
Rajlakshmi blushed and, pulling her veil a little lower, resumed her task of serving the one who had given up worldly pleasures in favour of a life of abstinence.
The night of the thirteenth moon was barely upon us when the line of bullock-carts started moving slowly towards Gangamati. I was in front, comfortably ensconced in the cart meant for Rajlakshmi. She herself was in the middle, with the servants and luggage behind her. The sadhu, his tall form clearly visible in the moonlight, strode on ahead.
‘Brother!’ I called. ‘It is a long way to walk. Sit with me in my cart for a while.’
‘I will when I get tired. Just now I prefer to walk.’
‘Then walk by my side as my bodyguard,’ Rajlakshmi’s voice was heard in the dark. ‘We can talk as we go along. I can judge by your accent that you do not belong here. You are probably from our part of the world. What are you doing here and where are you going?’
‘To Gopalpur,’ was the brief answer.
‘How far is it from Gangamati?’
‘They are neighbouring villages, or so I’ve heard. To tell you the truth I know nothing of them. I’ve never been there in my life.’
‘How will you find the village, then, so late at night? Or the house you’re expected in?
‘To find the village will not be difficult. I’ve been told that it lies two miles south of a dried up tank that falls right on the track. As for being expected anywhere—there is no such thing. Once there I’ll look for a tree under which I can sit and wait for the dawn to break.’
‘You’ll spend this bitter, winter night under a tree? With only that thin blanket to cover you?’ Rajlakshmi cried out in an anguished voice. ‘No, Thakurpo, I can’t let you do that.’
There was a long silence. Then the sadhu’s voice was heard saying, ‘But I have no home, Didi. The shade of a tree is my only shelter.’
It was Rajlakshmi’s turn to fall silent. After a while her voice fell, soft and gentle, on my ear. ‘Not when your sister is with you. Come home with me tonight. Go wherever you wish after daybreak. I won’t stop you.’ Calling Ratan, she told him that no luggage was to be moved without her express command.
‘Then give up walking in the cold wind, bhai,’ I broke the silence that followed. ‘Come into the shelter of the cart.’
‘I will, presently. Let me talk to Didi for a while.’
It was obvious, now, that he had given up the struggle and surrendered heart and soul to Rajlakshmi.
The hours went by. Snatches of conversation came to my ears between the noise of the night—the creaking of wheels, the baying of jackals and the sleepy voices of the servants. I dozed off once in a while waking up with a jerk. I heard Rajlakshmi ask after one such rude awakening, ‘What do you have in your box, Ananda?’
‘A few books and medicines.’
‘Why medicines? Are you a doctor?’
‘I’m a sanyasi. Have you not heard of the cholera epidemic in these parts?’
‘No. I know nothing of it. But you—can you cure cholera?’
‘No man can cure anything. He can only serve his fellowmen as best as he can. The rest lies in the hands of God.’
‘Was that why you became a sanyasi? To serve your fellow-men?’
‘One of the reasons. We have another mission—to free our country from the foreign yoke.’
‘Is it necessary to renounce the world for that?’
‘I haven’t renounced the world. I’m too small a man to make such a claim. I’ve only exchanged some responsibilities for others.’ Then, pausing for a few moments, he added, ‘You are pained at the thought of all I’ve lost just as if you were my true sister. But if you had seen those for whom I’ve left my home and family, if you had seen their agony, their helplessness, their sheer numbers—you would never ask me to abandon them.’
I could guess from her silence that the sanyasi’s words had touched a vulnerable spot in Rajlakshmi’s heart. I myself was not unaware of my country’s condition. I had witnessed her suffering and suffered for her. But this young boy had done more. He had pledged himself to a lifetime of service. The sleep vanished from my eyes and hot tears pricked my eyelids. I do
n’t know what Rajlakshmi’s new brother made of her silence. But I knew what lay in her heart.
The impassioned young voice came echoing through the dark. The sanyasi described the plight of rural India where ninety per cent of our countrymen live. He spoke of the poverty and degradation, the polluted air and germ-ridden water. He lashed out at the primitive faith of our people: their superstitions, their obscurantism. He condemned the white foreigners who had ravaged our land and were steadily bleeding her white. My eyes burned with shame and sorrow as I listened. Never had my country’s humiliation lain heavier on my heart.
The cart’s wheels creaked and the bullocks’ feet were a steady patter on the stony path. The land stretched away on all sides—arid and waste. The smell of dust was in the air even as the night dews were falling. It was cold, bitterly cold, and the moon, pale with frost, hung high in the heavens.
Suddenly, the voice changed. It became gentle, everyday. ‘I met you only a short while ago, but I think I know you, Didi. I wish I could show you the millions of our brothers and sisters I spoke of. You would have understood them and suffered with them.’
Rajlakshmi was silent for a long, long while. Then, clearing her throat, she said huskily, ‘How can that be? I’m a woman, Thakurpo.’
‘All the more because you are a woman, Didi.’
Four
I WOKE UP, CRAMPED AND COLD, TO THE SOUNDS OF ARRIVAL AND the twittering of birds in the pearly dawn. As I sat up, I was alarmed to find myself surrounded by what seemed to be a sea of faces. Crowds of naked children and half-naked adults swarmed about the carts as they stood at the entrance of our new dwelling house. I had heard Ratan complain that only the lowest of the lower castes lived in Gangamati. Looking on the faces about me I was forced to admit the truth of his statement.
As the children squirmed and pushed, in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the mistress, Ratan descended on them angrily. ‘Get away—shoo, scram! How dare you get so close, you vermin? What are you staring at? Are we here for your entertainment? Look, Babu! Look at their cheek. Pushing their way in as though they belong here. Filthy untouchables!’
Sadhuji, meanwhile, was busy unloading his trunk from the luggage cart. Opening it he took out a bell metal pitcher and, approaching the nearest child, pressed it into his hand and said, ‘Run and fetch some water from the nearest pond, boy. I’m going to make some tea.’ Then, turning to a ragged-looking man who stood idly by, he asked, ‘Dada, does anyone nearby happen to own a cow. I could do with a bit of fresh milk.’
All this while, Rajlakshmi had sat motionless in her cart watching the scene with anxious eyes. But when Sadhuji turned to her, saying heartily, ‘Fresh cow’s milk, Didi! What fine tea it will make,’ she could contain herself no longer.
‘Ratan,’ she called, her voice sharp. ‘Take the pitcher to the nearest pond and fill it. Be sure to scour it well first.’
As was to be expected, Ratan’s temper was not improved by this command. To be rudely woken out of a sweet slumber by an unruly mob was bad enough. To be expected to venture forth in the biting cold to look for a pond from which to fill a pitcher that belonged to an unknown sadhu, was not to be borne. His face gradually assumed the character and dimensions of a hornet’s nest that had been violently disturbed. He made a rush towards the hapless urchin who stood gaping, pitcher in hand, and roared, ‘Why did you touch the pitcher you vicious imp? Come with me and scour it out or I’ll—’
The sadhu and I burst out laughing. Rajlakshmi said with a pained smile, ‘You’ve managed to turn the village upside down, Ananda. Do sanyasis have to have their tea at crack of dawn?’
At this moment, Rajlakshmi’s caretaker, Kashi Ram Kushari, came hurrying in with three or four men behind him. One carried a basket of fresh vegetables and greens, another had several pots of milk and curd with him and yet another dangled an enormous rui by a string. I watched him closely as Rajlakshmi stepped down and made her obeisance. He was a lean, elderly man of about fifty years of age with a fair clean-shaven face. There was a simplicity about him that I liked. We greeted each other with instant approval. Sadhuji, disdaining these conventional niceties, had, in the meantime, relieved the men of their burdens and was now examining the contents with a lively interest.
Announcing that the vegetables were freshly picked and the milk thick and creamy he proceeded to deliver a short sermon on the weight, size and anticipated flavour of the rui.
‘Don’t be alarmed, Kushari moshai,’ Rajlakshmi said with a glance at the former’s anxious eyes. ‘The sanyasi is my brother. This is not my first attempt to transform an ascetic into a householder.’
Ananda retaliated with a laugh, ‘Do your best, Didi. I assure you, you won’t succeed. Not this time.’
Entering the house we found it to be large and well appointed. The time given him being too little to build a new house, Kushari moshai had, with discreet additions and alterations, converted the old court-house into a comfortable dwelling place. There was a large sitting-room, two fair sized bedrooms, a kitchen and a storeroom—all with packed mud floors and freshly thatched straw roofs. In addition, there was an enormous yard neatly fenced in with high mud walls. A sweet-water well stood in a corner of the yard and rows of basil, oleander and jasmine bushes adorned it.
We were delighted with the house—the sanyasi most of all. He went from room to room, examined the flowering trees and shrubs, tasted the well water, and declared that everything was perfect. Rajlakshmi busied herself in the kitchen and refrained from expressing an opinion. But, from the look in her eyes, it was easy to see that she was not disappointed. Only Ratan’s face remained as glum as ever. He sat motionless, his back against a bamboo post, making no effort to help Rajlakshmi or explore his new surroundings.
The sanyasi gulped down two cups of hot tea with the remains of the previous day’s sweetmeats and said, ‘Let’s go for a walk. We can have a look at the village and bathe in the canal on our way back. Why don’t you come too, Didi? There are no genteel folk around so you needn’t feel embarrassed. I must say that I envy you your property. It is a fair one.’
‘Sanyasis are greedy and envious by nature,’ Rajlakshmi said, dimpling at her guest. Then, calling out to the Brahmin cook she had brought with her, she said, ‘Maharaj! * I’m going to the canal for a bath. Don’t touch the fish till I get back. I wish to cook it myself.’
At this, Ratan, who hadn’t uttered a word all this while, declared in a solemn voice, ‘The canal is crawling with leeches, each a-yard-and-a-half long.’
Rajlakshmi’s face turned pale. She looked about her with an air of helplessness. ‘That’s what I heard this morning,’ Ratan said in a voice that seemed to clinch the matter.
But the sadhu turned on him with an oath, ‘You rascally son of a barber! So this is your game—is it? Don’t let him frighten you with his lies, Didi. I’ll get into the water first and if I’m not bled to death by the leeches you can join me.’
But the joke was lost on his Didi who stood where she was and said, ‘It is better not to be too rash. We know nothing of this place. Get up, Ratan, and draw some water out of the well. I’ll have my bath here. And you too,’ she turned to me, ‘you are not well enough, yet, to go bathing in strange canals.’
‘What about me?’ Sadhuji asked laughing. ‘Am I of no consequence that you send me to meet my death among the leeches?’
At these words, uttered so lightly, Rajlakshmi’s eyes filled with tears. She smiled at him tenderly and said, ‘You are beyond human control, bhai. One who hasn’t obeyed his parents is not likely to obey a stranger.’
The sanyasi stopped short in the act of moving towards the door and said abruptly. ‘Don’t call yourself a stranger. I left home and family to make the rest of the world my own.’ He walked rapidly away with me following close behind.
We wandered about the village for several hours. It was small and densely populated with men, women and children from the lowest strata of the caste order. Except one family of Kumahars a
nd another of Baruis the entire community was drawn from the Jal Achal order of Doms and Bauris. The latter worked as wage labourers and the former wove baskets and mats and sold them to the few upper caste families who lived in the village of Porhamati on the other side of the canal. They were so poor that their houses were not more than shacks and their living little better than that of street dogs who are born only to be kicked and starved to a miserable death.
I wondered at their resilience. ‘This is how they have lived for centuries,’ I thought, ‘expecting nothing from life, making no demands and dreaming no dreams. We have taken away their humanity. We treat them like polluted beings. And so encased are we in the armour of our superior caste that their agony and humiliation makes not the slightest dent.’
Lost in my thoughts, I became aware of the sadhu’s intent gaze only after a while. Fixing his eyes upon my face he said, ‘Dada, this is a true picture of our people but don’t torture yourself with thoughts of their misery. They aren’t miserable in the least.’
‘What do you mean? What kind of talk is this?’ I exclaimed, angered by his careless dismissal of the anguish of his fellowmen.
‘If you had travelled as widely as I have, you would have understood. What is it that tells a man he suffers? The mind—is it not? But do these people have minds left to them? Have we not squeezed the life, the mind, the spirit out of them and reduced them to animals? They genuinely believe that to ask for more is to err against God!’ He laughed heartily and continued, ‘What fine rogues our ancestors were! What a dirty trick they played on millions of their countrymen. And for so many years!’ And he laughed again—peal after peal of gay laughter.
His words made me uncomfortable. I couldn’t join in in his mirth.
Presently, he sobered down and said, ‘There’s been a terrible drought this year and the winter paddy has failed. Famine will stalk the village sooner or later. God has seen fit to send you among your subjects in this dark hour of their lives. Don’t abandon them. Don’t go back to the city till the worst is over. You can’t do much—I know that. But you can see their suffering with your own eyes and suffer with them. It will wipe out the sin of living off your fellowmen—to a certain degree’
Srikanta Page 27
