I sighed. The sanyasi obviously saw me as a powerful zamindar who made a luxurious living by exploiting his miserable subjects. How far it was from the truth! But I didn’t react. It was past noon by the time we had bathed in the canal and returned to the house. The midday meal was ready and Rajlakshmi served it to us. She had done the cooking herself and therefore, as was to be expected, the sadhu got the best part including the head of the fish and the creamy top of the curd. He ate with a relish that only an ascetic was capable of. No householder of my acquaintance could have matched his enormous appetite and tremendous zest for food. In between mouthfuls, he carried on a conversation with Rajlakshmi.
‘I’m delighted with your zamindari, Didi, and feel sorry to leave it.’
‘Have I asked you to?’
‘You mustn’t be too kind to sadhus and fakirs. They start taking advantage of you at the first opportunity. But the village is truly charming. Not a house has a full thatch on it. They look just like the ashrams of the rishis. Only the people who live in them are, without exception, all untouchables.’
‘That’s what Ratan tells me. There’s not one family whose water is acceptable. I don’t think we can stay here for long.’
The sadhu’s lips twitched a little. I noticed it but it didn’t have the power to hurt. For I knew, better than all others present, the terrible power of age-old prejudices and irrational beliefs. The very fact that this kindest, most loving of women, could betray such a shameless assumption of superiority was proof of that power. ‘Lakshmi,’ I said to myself, ‘the work a man does may be low—even degrading. He himself, by virtue of his birth, is the highest of created beings. If that were not so, Pyari could never have transformed herself back to Rajlakshmi.’
I ate in silence till, the meal over, Rajlakshmi handed us our paan and left. An hour or so later she reappeared with the astonishing news that the sadhu was about to depart. We hastened outside to find Ananda dressed and ready and his heavy trunk already lodged on the head of a man from the village. Although Rajlakshmi had promised to let him go as soon as he wished she cried out in alarm, ‘Are you really going, Ananda?’
‘Yes, Didi. If I don’t hurry I won’t reach before sunset.’
‘Where are you going? Who will look after you?’
‘Let me get there first.’
‘When will you come back?’
‘I can’t say. I may come back some day when my work is concluded.’
‘No! No.’ Rajlakshmi shook her head violently. ‘I can’t let you go like that. You must come back in a few days.’
‘I’ve told you why I’m going—’
Rajlakshmi burst into tears and ran inside. The sadhu turned a red, embarrassed face to me and said, ‘I’m really sorry but I can’t stay.’
I nodded. I understood his predicament. His mission was as important to him as Rajlakshmi’s heartfelt appeal and he had to suffer the pain of choosing. He glanced towards the door, sighed, and smiled ruefully, ‘Ours is a strange country, Dada,’ he remarked. ‘Here mothers and sisters are strewn in the streets. There’s no escaping them.’
He walked away leaving me wondering at Rajlakshmi’s foolishness. How could she expect to hold a man who had left his own mother and sisters in response to the call of a million others? How did she ever hope to entice him with her puny bribes of fish heads and creamy curd?
Five
RECLINING AGAINST A CUSHION, I WATCHED THE DAYLIGHT FADE from the high walls of the courtyard. Stray thoughts continued to flit in and out of my head as they had done ever since the moment of Ananda’s departure. I marvelled at the Providence that had rendered one we hadn’t known above a few hours so much a part and parcel of our lives. Rajlakshmi had not left her room ever since she had rushed in weeping and slammed the door. As for me, an overwhelming lassitude—the consequence, no doubt, of my prolonged illness—took hold of my body and soul. I felt myself in the presence of a power, mysterious and terrifying, even as the wintry dusk crept in, chilling my blood and clutching at my heart with numb fingers.
The door opened with a click and Rajlakshmi walked in. Her face was composed but her eyes were red and swollen. She sat by me and, smiling apologetically, murmured, ‘I fell asleep—’
‘That isn’t surprising,’ I answered. ‘You must be tired to death after all the strain of packing and travel. If I were in your place I would have slept for a hundred years.’
‘You didn’t sleep at all?’
‘No. But I will now.’
‘No, you won’t. Not at this hour. Tell me, did Ananda say anything before he left?’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as where he is going or—’ she smiled painfully, abandoning her sentence in mid-stream.
‘You know very well where he is going. As for the “or” part of it—he has said nothing. I have no hopes of his return.’ I paused a little and asked curiously, ‘Did you know Ananda before we met him in Sainthia? Is he someone you recognized the way you recognized me in the prince’s tent?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever seen him before.’
‘I often get confused about people,’ Rajlakshmi answered smiling. ‘I think I’ve seen them before when I really haven’t. It was like that with Ananda.’ She thought for a few minutes and added, ‘I’ve promised myself that if he ever comes back I’ll make him go back to his parents.’
‘What do you hope to gain by that?’
‘A boy like him cannot be allowed to waste himself the way he’s doing. You became a sanyasi once. Did you find anything of true worth in the calling?’
‘I was a fraud. My impressions would not be worth repeating. Ananda is different.’
‘Is it necessary to leave the world in order to realize God? Is spiritual enrichment out of bounds in the lives of ordinary men and women?’
‘Since I’ve never been interested in either, I cannot answer your question.’
‘It seems strange to me that a boy of Ananda’s years, one who had everything to live for, could detach himself so easily from the world. You couldn’t.’
‘No. For one thing I didn’t have a world to renounce or not renounce. For another, I was not attracted in the least to that Omnipotent, Omnipresent, Omniscient Being who rules the Universe. I’ve lived all my life without Him and will continue to do so. As for Ananda, I don’t really believe that he is on a spiritual quest. None of the sadhus I’ve known—and there have been quite a few—believe that God is to be found among the starving millions. And not one of them has ever dreamed of substituting prayer and ritual with a box of medicines. And you’ve seen with your own eyes how much Ananda loves good food—’
‘Are you implying that he left the world on a whim? Is everyone like you?’
‘Oh! No. Ananda, unlike me, has a definite mission. He has pledged himself to his country. His path may not be a short cut to heaven but it will encompass it. His leaving his home and family, therefore, doesn’t amount to leaving the world. He has merely renounced a smaller family for a larger one.’
Rajlakshmi looked thoughtful. I wasn’t sure she had comprehended. Then she asked again, ‘Are you sure he said nothing—nothing at all before he left?’
‘Nothing of any consequence.’
I didn’t know why I hid the truth from her, why I didn’t repeat the sadhu’s words, ‘Ours is a strange country. Here mothers and sisters are strewn in the streets. There’s no escaping them.’ I marvelled at the boy’s sensitive understanding of our miserable land, and many half-buried memories came up to the surface clamouring for light. I thought of the innumerable sins of omission and commission whose accumulated weight, through the centuries, had buried our motherland in the slough of degradation in which we now live. And, though only a boy, Ananda had perceived the truth about her.
Rajlakshmi sat up with a jerk and said, ‘If that is true, if he has left home on a mission to serve his fellowmen, he will have to return. He has no idea of the terrible frustration that falls to the lot of one who strives unse
lfishly for another’s good. I’ve been through it, so I know. A day will come when his cup of agony will brim over as mine has done.’
‘You may be right,’ I answered. ‘But I have a feeling that he has had a taste of it and knows what to expect.’
‘No. Never!’ Rajlakshmi shook her head violently. ‘No one could suffer the same humiliation over and over again.’
Banku had told me of Rajlakshmi’s efforts at community welfare in her husband’s village and of the humiliations she had suffered in consequence. I realized, of course, that her position vis-à-vis the villagers was quite different from Ananda’s. But knowing how deep her hurt was, I refrained from telling her that. I sat silent, wondering why it was in the nature of man not to accept his own good simply and without question. I decided to ask Ananda for his opinion if he ever came back.
One morning, a few days later, I woke to the melancholy strains of a flute floating in through my window. ‘There’s a wedding in the village,’ I said to myself.
As I rose from my bed I saw three or four men step into the yard followed by Ratan who called out in a hearty voice, ‘Ma! These good men are here from the village to pay you tribute. Come, don’t be afraid. Come forward and speak to the mistress.’
The elderly man, to whom the latter part of his speech was addressed, now stepped forward. He was wearing a dhoti of ceremonial yellow and had a string of wooden beads around his neck. In his hand was a sal leaf with a silver rupee and a betel nut on it which he laid humbly at Rajlakshmi’s feet with the words, ‘My daughter is to be wedded tonight, mistress.’
Rajlakshmi picked up the gift and asked in a bright voice, ‘Is this what is given when one’s daughter gets married?’
‘People give what they can,’ Ratan the know-all said philosophically. ‘These men are Doms. They hardly have anything for themselves. How much can they spare for their zamindar? Even the one rupee—’
At the word ‘Dom’ Rajlakshmi put down the leaf and exclaimed, ‘Then why are you giving it to me? Take it back and use it for the wedding expenses.’
The rejection of the profferred tribute disconcerted Ratan even more than it did the bride’s father. He declared vehemently that Rajlakshmi would have to accept it; that she would be violating an age-old custom if she didn’t, that the rites of a marriage could not be solemnized if she refused the tribute, and much more in the same strain. I also understood why Ratan was so loud in his protestations. It was obvious that he had constituted himself the guide and guardian of the Doms and that they knew and he knew that if the tribute were to come through the proper channels, that is through Kushari moshai, one rupee would not suffice. Hence Ratan’s alarm at Rajlakshmi’s refusal.
I walked quietly up to the group and picked up the rupee saying, ‘I accept it. Now you may go back and attend to your duties.’
Ratan beamed at me and Rajlakshmi relaxed visibly. Madhu Dom twisted his hands obsequiously and said, ‘The rites will be solemnized soon after dusk. If you would have the kindness to step into my humble dwelling I—’
We assured him we would. Rajlakshmi said, ‘Open the big trunk, Ratan, and bring one of my new saris for the bride. Are there no sweets to be bought at the village? Then buy some sugar puffs and give them to her.’ Then turning to the Dom she asked, ‘How old is your daughter, Madhu? And where is the groom from? Are lots of people invited to the wedding? How many of you are there in the village?’
Taken aback by so many questions, all together, from no less a personage than the zamindar’s lady, Madhu folded his hands humbly and stuttered out that his daughter was nine years old, that the groom was in his prime—not more than thirty or forty; that they lived in a village ten miles north of Gangamati where a flourishing community of Doms lived, that they were not practising Doms but farmers with enough money to live on. It was obvious, therefore, that his daughter would be happy. It was not the girl’s future that was worrying him but the anticipated events of the night. His arrangements were all complete. The chire had been bought and the curds and molasses. He had even procured a large sack of sugar puffs to feast the bridegroom’s party. Still he was not sure that all would go smoothly. He was relying on us to help him out if anything untoward happened.
‘All will go well.’ Rajlakshmi smiled sweetly at him. ‘Your efforts will not go waste. The groom’s party will be pleased with your arrangements.’ Madhu touched his forehead to the floor of the yard in great reverence and departed. His face, however, was no less worried and anxious than when he had first come.
In spite of our promise we had no intention of actually attending Madhu’s daughter’s wedding. But that evening, as I lay idly on my bed listening to Rajlakshmi’s account of her expenditure of the day, the clamour of the wedding festivities took on a harsher, more alarming note. Rajlakshmi raised a laughing face and said, ‘What is that? Are quarrel and assault included in the rites of a Dom wedding?’
‘Why not? After all, Doms have emulated their superior castes for centuries. Have you forgotten what happened at your own wedding?’
Rajlakshmi’s face reddened. She sighed and said, ‘The way we treat our women in this wretched country! From the highest to the lowest it is the same story. I found out from the men who came this morning that Madhu has sold his daughter to the groom’s father for twenty-four rupees. She’s their property now. They will take her away tomorrow morning and she may never see her parents again. How she will weep for her mother! What does a nine-year-old know of marriage?’
I had seen so many marriages of this kind that they no longer had the power to move me. Receiving no answer she went on, ‘A Hindu marriage, whether a Brahmin’s or a Dom’s, is part of our dharma. If it were not for that—’
Words trembled on my lips. I wanted to ask her why she complained if she truly believed all Hindu marriages to be sacrosanct. What was the worth of the dharma that brought rebellion and anger in the minds of its upholders instead of peace and serenity? But, before I could utter a word, Rajlakshmi said in a tone of finality, ‘The ancient rishis who wrote the Shastras could look into the past, the present and the future. The laws they made were for the good of mankind for all time to come. Who are we to question their dictates? How much do we know—ignorant mortals that we are?’
Her speech effectively silenced the retort I was about to make. It was not for the first time that Rajlakshmi had expressed such sentiments. As at the other times, I was silent. I knew that a bitter quarrel would ensue if I even hinted that no code of laws could ensure the welfare of humanity for all time to come. I have mentioned elsewhere in this narrative, that Rajlakshmi had a gift of reading my thoughts as if my face were a mirror in which they were reflected. The soft lamplight in which we sat may have dimmed her vision but did not obscure it.
‘You doubt my words,’ she continued after a pause. ‘You do not believe that anyone can predict the needs of the future. But I say that our rishis could and did. If it were not so, the mantras that still govern our lives would have been lost in oblivion ages ago. You do agree, don’t you, that our Hindu mantras are living and dynamic? How else could they have withstood the onslaughts of time and history? Why is it that the most mismatched of Hindu marriages evolve, with time, into the firmest of unions. I don’t deny the presence of unholiness and immorality among us. But isn’t that true of every race? Besides, where else in the world will you find female chastity of the high order that exists in our country?’
‘Nowhere,’ I answered dully, knowing that I was up against a blind faith I could not fight with reason. Had this been an objective discussion I could have named several countries in the world in which female chastity is held in equally high esteem. I could have reminded her of Abhaya and asked why the mantras that had been pronounced at her marriage had not had life enough to bind her husband to her. Why did this ‘firmest of unions’ hold good only for the woman and not for the man? But, knowing argument to be useless, I was silent.
I had a dim notion of the direction in which her thoughts had be
en drifting of late. She had suffered, as few had, from the laws she upheld so steadfastly. She had known the pain and guilt of bringing down one she loved above life itself, to her own level of self-indicted degradation. A desperate battle was raging within her, between a slowly awakening fundamentalism and the overwhelming needs of her heart. These two, like turbulent rivers, washed over her, turn by turn, shaking her to the core of her being. Would they ever come together to form a cool and tranquil sheet of water over which her tortured soul could float, calm and pure and free? She herself saw no such prospect. But I did. I had a sense, a very faint one, that the passionate yearning that had driven her all these years, intoxicating her body and firing her mind, had dimmed in these few months of possession. Some subtle, scarcely perceptible, manner of speech and look told me that she was now taking stock of her losses and gains. I wondered what would become of me if her scales weighed down in favour of the former. My life, as far as I could see, had taken on the quality of a discarded fishing net—torn and flimsy and heavy with dust. Where, among all these holes, would I find a space to tie a knot and begin again? There was only one ray of hope. I had been a wanderer for many years. I could take up that life again. If all else came to naught there was always the road.
The strange thing was that even as we were arguing about the power of the marriage mantra, a drama was being enacted around it in the house of the Doms. We knew nothing of it, till a crowd of men, carrying sticks and lanterns, burst into the yard calling, ‘Huzoor! Babu moshai!’ I started up and ran to the veranda. Rajlakshmi came and stood by me but we could make nothing of their clamour. Ratan shouted to them to talk one at a time but, delirious with excitement, they all shrieked together in high voices. It took me a long time to understand what they were saying but when I did I was both shocked and amused.
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