Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  What had happened was this. The priest attending the groom’s party had alleged that his counterpart from the bride’s party was pronouncing the mantras incorrectly and that the marriage that was being performed was not a true marriage. Not content with making this allegation he had actually clapped his hand over the other’s mouth and had swept away his flowers and gangajal, scattering them in the dust. I had heard of many grisly crimes being committed by the priesthood but to burst in from an alien village, insult a fellow-priest and prevent him from uttering the ‘living’ mantra must surely be the worst of them all.

  Rajlakshmi was struck dumb by this strange communication but Ratan, more conscious than ever of his caste superiority in this village of Doms and Bauris, thundered, ‘Priest! You dare talk of priests! Since when has a marriage between Doms become equal to one between Brahmins or Kayasthas or Nabasakhs that a real priest will solemnize the rites?’ And he glanced from my face to Rajlakshmi’s, his own bursting with pride. Here it is appropriate to remind the reader that Ratan was a barber by caste.

  Madhu Dom was not present (he had been at the point of giving his daughter away when the fight started) but his brother-in-law spoke up. He admitted the truth of Ratan’s statement that Doms are too low to be united in matrimony by a proper Brahmin priest but added that their own Rakhal pandit, though a Dom, was as good a priest as any Brahmin. He wore the sacred thread, knew all the mantras and followed the sacred laws as strictly as any Brahmin. He led a life of such purity that not a drop of water touched by a fellow Dom ever passed through his lips. In the face of this evidence of Rakhal pandit’s greatness even Ratan’s arguments about true priests and false priests lost their force.

  By this time the wedding clamour had risen to alarming proportions. I prepared to go, and Rajlakshmi, unable to contain her curiosity, agreed to accompany me. As we stepped into Madhu Dom’s yard we saw the two rival factions in full battle. About thirty men of the groom’s party were screaming abuses and gesticulating wildly at an equal number from the other side while the powerful, hefty Shibu pandit held the pale, emaciated Rakhal pandit firmly in his grip. He let go as soon as he saw us and stood glumly in a corner. Lowering myself on the mat that was respectfully placed for us I asked Shibu to explain his behaviour.

  ‘Huzoor!’ he replied. ‘This rascal here is ignorant of the first letter of the mantra. And he calls himself a pandit. He was reducing the rites to a mockery.’

  ‘Rites to a mockery!’ Rakhal echoed, sticking out his tongue and grimacing fiercely at his opponent. ‘I have been conducting all the marriages and funerals in these five villages for the last thirty years. Who are you to come in from nowhere and teach me my mantras?’

  I had come to mediate and I did so. After a prolonged argument it was decided that Rakhal would be given another chance but that if he made another mistake Shibu would take his place. Rakhal marched up triumphantly to his seat and thrusting some flowers into Madhu Dom’s hand, he began his recital of the Vedic mantras in a manner that I have not forgotten to this day. Hearing him I could not help wondering if the mantras that had come down to us had retained the forms given them by the rishis of old. I was also quite sceptical about their immortality. Even if I were to admit Rajlakshmi’s assertion that they had been animate when first created, I had not a shadow of doubt that, like all created beings, they had died a natural death in due course of time.

  Rakhal pandit said to the groom, ‘Repeat after me: Madhu Domaya kanyaya namaha.’ (Madhu Dom’s daughter, salutations!)

  The groom obliged.

  Rakhal now turned to the bride. ‘Repeat after me: Bhagwati Domaya putraya namaha.’ (Bhagwati Dom’s son, salutations!)

  The little girl looked frightened and burst into tears. Her father was on the point of helping her out when Shibu jumped up and announced in a thundering voice, ‘All wrong! The mantra is all wrong! The marriage has misfired.’

  I felt a tug at my sleeve. It was Rajlakshmi. She had stuffed the edge of her sari into her mouth to prevent herself from laughing out aloud. Her face was red and her eyes bright with suppressed laughter. The rest of the company now begged Shibu to take over, to give Rakhal a quarter of the dues and keep the rest. Rakhal was about to plead his case but the crowd would not let him. However, at this moment of supreme triumph, Shibu decided to be magnanimous. ‘There’s no use blaming Rakhal,’ he said kindly. ‘The truth is that, barring myself, no one in these parts knows the right mantras. I’m not greedy for money. I’ll recite the mantras from here and Rakhal can repeat it after me.’

  With that the great pandit, renowned for his knowledge of the Scriptures, started his recital in a booming voice. Rakhal, recognizing defeat when he saw it, argued no more.

  Shibu said, ‘Repeat after me: Madhu Domaya kanyaya bhujya patrang namaha.’ (Madhu Dom’s daughter, leaves and food offerings! Salutations!)

  ‘Madhu Domaya kanyaya bhujya patrang namaha,’ echoed the groom.

  Shibu said, ‘Madhu, repeat after me: Bhagwati Domaya putraya sampradanang namaha.’ (Bhagwati Dom’s son, I give thee away! Salutations!)

  And so it went on. The company looked respectfully on. At last the marriage was being conducted as a proper marriage should! Shibu thrust a couple of flowers into the groom’s hand and said, ‘Bipin, repeat after me: Jata din jibanang tata din bhat kapadh pradanang swaha.’ (As long as I live I’ll give away rice and clothes into the sacrificial fire.)

  Bipin stammered and stuttered and made a mess of this most wonderful of mantras. But Shibu was satisfied. He pronounced the final, the climactic mantra with considerable aplomb.

  ‘Bride and groom repeat together: Jugal milanang namaha.’ (Union of two, salutations!)

  ‘Hari! Hari!’ the crowd chanted. Conch shells blew and the bride and groom were taken into the house. People whispered to one another, ‘Did you hear the mantras? Rakhal pandit has been cheating us all these years.’

  The nuptials over, I rose solemnly and departed with Rajlakshmi. As soon as we reached home Rajlakshmi threw herself on the bed and, doubling over with laughter, mimicked what she had just heard. ‘What a great pandit! What knowledge of the scriptures! Rakhal has been cheating us all these years.’

  I, too, burst out laughing. Then controlling myself I said, ‘Rakhal must be a great pandit too since his mantras have been forging those “firmest of unions” you spoke of, for the last thirty years. Don’t forget that the girl’s mother and grandmother were married by Rakhal.’

  Rajlakshmi stopped laughing. She sat up and glanced sharply at my face, then, turning her own away, she fell into a reverie.

  Six

  WHEN I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING RAJLAKSHMI INFORMED ME that we had been invited to have our midday meal in Kushari moshai’s house.

  ‘Am I to go alone?’

  ‘No. I’m coming too.’

  Her answer surprised me. The act of eating, in Hindu society, is hemmed in by innumerable rules and restrictions. Rajlakshmi was aware of them and had respected them all these years. I didn’t know much about Kushari moshai but it was obvious that he was a practising Brahmin. It was also obvious that he knew Rajlakshmi’s history. Yet he had invited her to a meal in his house. And, most surprising of all, she had accepted his invitation.

  The bullock-cart arrived. I came out to see Rajlakshmi standing near it. I stared at her and asked, ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  ‘I was waiting for you,’ she said and climbed in. Ratan, who was to accompany us, stared too. Rajlakshmi wore little jewellery at home, as a rule. But this morning, it seemed to me, she had deliberately denuded herself. Only a thin gold chain hung around her neck and a pair of plain gold bracelets clasped her wrists. Even the bangles she had worn till yesterday, or so it seemed to me, had been removed. Her sari was of simple cotton—one she kept for everyday use.

  I took my place next to her and remarked. ‘You are giving up all your luxuries, one by one, Lakshmi. I’m the only one left.’

  ‘It may be that everything worthwhile is contained
in the one that is left. That is why all that is redundant is drifting away from me.’ Rajlakshmi glanced behind her to make sure that Ratan was not within earshot and continued, ‘You know that you mean more to me than anything else in the world. Help me to find the power to renounce even you in favour of Him.’ I was so startled that I couldn’t think of an answer and Rajlakshmi did not press me for one. She picked up a pillow and curled up with it close to my feet.

  Porhamati was only a ten-minute walk if one went over the bamboo bridge that spanned the canal. By bullock-cart it was a good two hours distance from our village. Not a word did we exchange during that time. But she put out her hand, took mine, and held it close to her neck. For the rest of the journey she lay motionless, pretending to be asleep.

  It was well past noon when the bullock-cart finally stopped at Kushari moshai’s door. Quite a crowd had gathered to see us. The master and mistress of the house came forward and took us in with great ceremony. I realized that the norms of the city were not applicable in this remote village of Bengal and that it was perfectly in order for inquisitive neighbours to mill around the guests of the house.

  Rajlakshmi and I were led right inside to a veranda, overlooking the yard, where two asans were laid ready, side by side. Our host and hostess, still busy with the preparations, left us in the care of their widowed daughter who stood behind us waving a palm leaf fan above our heads. Despite Rajlakshmi’s presence, several men crowded around me making inane remarks and plying me with questions about the nature of my illness, the length of my stay in Gangamati, and the difficulties of running a zamindari in an absentee state. I answered briefly and looked around me with some curiosity.

  There was no doubt that I had entered a household of plenty. The house itself was built of earth but it was large and sprawling, with many rooms. Two immense paddy bins built of straw stood in the yard with a couple of husking pedals between them. A spreading shaddock tree bearing globes of glistening fruit stood in one corner. Beneath it were several grates for boiling paddy, now cold and clean and raked of their ashes. Two plump calves, tethered to the tree, slept in the shade. Their mothers were not to be seen but I hadn’t a doubt that they were somewhere close at hand, ready to provide the household with vast quantities of rich creamy milk. Against one wall of the veranda on which we sat, stood several enormous jars balanced on coils of straw. They shone clean and bright in the afternoon sun. It was easy to see that they were not abandoned or empty. I was sure that they were filled to the brim with lentils, spices and treacle. Rows of hooks on another wall had bundles of jute and flax hanging from them.

  Kushari moshai came hurrying in and, apologizing for the delay in attending to us, announced that the meal had been served. I rose instantly, glad of the respite from the curiosity of his neighbours. However, I discovered to my dism y that a single place had been laid and that I was to eat alone. My host explained, with shy pride, that he was a vegetarian and that he had continued the observance of eating in seclusion and silence that he had been initiated into during his thread ceremony. I accepted his explanation without comment but when I heard that Rajlakshmi was fasting that day and would not partake of cooked food, I was both surprised and amused. Was there really any need for such a pretence, I thought. Rajlakshmi, who always read my thoughts even before they were properly formulated, said instantly, ‘Don’t let that spoil your appetite. Enjoy your meal. Everyone here knew of my fast.’

  ‘Only I didn’t,’ I said. ‘But why did you take the trouble of coming then?’

  Kushari moshai’s wife answered for her. It was the first time she spoke that morning. She said, ‘It was at my insistence, Baba. I knew the mistress would not eat here but I couldn’t resist the temptation of receiving our patroness in my humble dwelling. Isn’t that true, Ma?’ And she smiled at Rajlakshmi.

  I looked at her with some curiosity. I had not expected to find such dignity and grace in the speech of a simple, unlettered village woman. But there was another surprise awaiting me. I had not dreamed that there was another woman in the same village whose acquaintance would turn out to be the memory of a lifetime.

  ‘We are hardly what you call us,’ I said. ‘And if we are, we give so little that you wouldn’t miss it if it were withheld.’

  She shrank a little at these words and her benign, motherly face paled and grew solemn. After a brief silence she said, ‘It is true that we enjoy God’s bounty as few people do. But I feel, sometimes, that it would have been kinder to us if He had given us less. What use are all these riches to me when I have no one of my own to enjoy them with except a widowed daughter? My loved ones have been taken away from me—’ Her voice broke and her lip trembled. She must have lost a grown son, I said to myself, and was silent, respecting her grief. Rajlakshmi took her hand and held it without a word. But her next sentence jerked us out of our speculations. ‘They are your subjects just as we are. Make them come back to us I beg of you.’ And she lifted the edge of her sari and touched it to her eyes.

  Rajlakshmi and I exchanged glances. I realized that she was as much in the dark as I was. But the situation was so strange that neither of us knew how to react. After a while our hostess collected herself and slowly, haltingly, told us the whole story. How much of it was true, I cannot say. But there was no doubt that it was a strange one. The facts, as she related them were as follows.

  Her husband’s parents had died many years ago leaving their infant son, the present Jadunath Nyaya Ratna, in her care. Although only fourteen years old at the time, she had taken the motherless child to her bosom and cared for him as her own. They were poor and life was a bitter struggle. All the ancestral property that her husband had inherited was a one-roomed earthen house, two bighas of land and a few families of disciples. What we saw now was his own acquired property. The younger brother had contributed nothing to it. Nor had anyone expected him to.

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘He’s demanding more than his fair share.’

  ‘Oh no!’ The kindly matron shook her head. ‘He demands nothing. He doesn’t have to. It is all his. He would have had it all if his wife Sunanda hadn’t stopped him. It is she who has taken him away from me and poisoned my whole existence.’ Her voice broke. She cleared her throat and continued. ‘God is witness that I’ve never failed in my duty to the boy. So are my neighbours. But he, himself, has forgotten the past altogether.’ She wiped her eyes and took up the narrative once again. ‘After Thakurpo’s thread ceremony my husband sent him to Mihirpur to study Sanskrit in the tol (a school where Sanskrit is taught) of the famous Shibu Tarkalankar. I loved him so much that I couldn’t bear the separation. I wept and wept till my husband took me to Mihirpur. Even that he has forgotten! Anyway, the years passed one by one and I got used to his absence. Then, when his studies were nearing completion and his brother had started looking around for a suitable bride, he came home. He had a wife with him. He had married Sunanda, the daughter of Shibu Tarkalankar, without informing us, leave alone asking for permission.’

  ‘Did he have a reason for doing that?’

  ‘Of course he had. Her family did not match ours in lineage or status. Besides, they are from a lower order of Brahmins. My husband was so disappointed that he didn’t speak to them for a whole month. But I wasn’t. I loved Sunanda from the moment I saw her sweet face. Then, when I heard that her mother was dead and her father had become a sanyasi, my heart went out to her. What that girl meant to me I cannot describe. And this is how she has repaid me!’ And the good woman burst into tears.

  ‘Where are they now?’ Rajlakshmi asked gently.

  Our hostess was so overcome that all she could do was shake her head helplessly. We understood that they were in that very village. But the mystery was still to be cleared. After a few minutes of struggling with her emotions she continued. ‘Our property, as you see it, belonged originally to a weaver of the village. He died some years ago and my husband acquired it. One morning, some months ago, his widow came to the house holding a little boy by the hand. Sh
e was in a state of great agitation and accused my husband of robbing her minor son of his inheritance. It may be that what she said was a lie but Sunanda believed every word. She was preparing to go for her bath when the commotion started. She stood where she was for a long time, even after the woman had left. I called out to her, “Chhoto Bou, * make haste and start the cooking. It is getting late,” but she didn’t move an inch. I looked at her face and was frightened. She was as pale as death but her eyes burned like living coals.

  “Didi,” she said, “You must return the weaver’s property. Will you deprive a fatherless boy of his rightful inheritance?”

  “What nonsense you talk,” I said angrily. “Kanai Basak was neck-deep in debt. His property was auctioned off and your brother-in-law bought it. Does one give away what is rightfully one’s own?”

  “From where did he get the money to buy such a large property?”

  “That I don’t know,” I snapped. “Go ask him!” and thinking that the matter had ended I proceeded to the prayer room.’

  ‘If the property was auctioned off,’ Rajlakshmi said in a wondering voice, ‘why should Chhoto Bou insist on returning it?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ said our hostess, but a shade of embarrassment came over her manner. She added feebly, ‘The property wasn’t auctioned in the usual way. My husband was the Basak family’s kul (clan) guru. Kanai Basak left everything in trust to my husband before he died. Who knew, then, that he was so deeply in debt?’

  At these words a strange feeling came over me. I felt the presence of something vile and treacherous all around. Suddenly the rich food lay heavy in my stomach. I looked at Rajlakshmi. Her face was pale and her eyes held a curious expression. But Kushari moshai’s wife seemed not to notice. She went on with her narrative.

  ‘A couple of hours later I returned to find Sunanda sitting at the same spot. She hadn’t had a bath or moved to the kitchen. My husband was about to return from the court-house. Thakurpo had left early to inspect the granaries and he had taken Binu with him. They too would be arriving any minute. And the cooking hadn’t even begun. “Have you decided not to enter the kitchen, Chhoto Bou?” I asked exasperated. “What is the matter with you? Do you trust that wicked woman more than us?”