Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  “Didi,” Sunanda said lifting her chin and looking straight into my eyes, “I will neither cook nor eat in this house if you do not return what is not yours. I cannot snatch the food from the mouth of a defenceless child and feed it to my husband and son.” And she walked into her room and shut the door.

  ‘I knew Sunanda well. I knew that honesty was basic to her nature. I also knew that her father had educated her in the Shastras as thoroughly as the best of his pupils. But I was still to find out how far she could go. She did not leave the room even after I started cooking the midday meal and her husband and son returned. But the moment my husband sat down to his simple meal she came and stood outside the door. “Sunanda,” I begged with folded hands, “say what you must after he has eaten.” But she turned a deaf ear to my pleas.

  ‘She spoke in a voice as brittle as glass. “I wish to know the true circumstances of the transfer. From where did you get the money to buy the weaver’s property? I have heard you say, often enough, that my father-in-law left nothing when he died.”

  ‘This was the first time that my husband had heard Sunanda speak. He asked in a surprised voice, “What do you mean by such talk, Bou Ma?”

  “You know what I mean well enough. The weaver’s widow was here this morning. There is no point in repeating what she said. If you do not return what is not yours—we have nothing more to do with you. Not a grain of rice from this house of sin will pass through the lips of my husband and child. Not while I have breath in my body.”

  ‘I couldn’t believe my ears. “Either I’m dreaming,” I thought, “or Sunanda is possessed by a demon.” My husband was too shocked to speak for a while.

  ‘Then he answered her, his eyes blazing, “The property is mine—not your husband’s or son’s. If you do not wish to stay here you are welcome to leave.” He left the meal uneaten and went out of the house.

  ‘I ran, weeping, to Thakurpo. “I have tended you like my own child,” I said. “Is this the reward I get?”

  ‘His eyes were full of tears. “Bou Than,” he said, “You are the only mother I’ve ever known and Dada the only father. But my conscience is more important to me than anything else in the world. Sunanda was right in what she said and I support her. Her father’s only gift to her on our marriage was the blessing: Seek the truth with honesty and purpose and a way will be shown to you. I have known her from childhood onwards. She does not compromise with her conscience.”

  ‘The day was Bhadra Sankranti. * The sky was overcast and rain fell in torrents. Sunanda took her son by the hand and walked out of the house in the pouring rain. I ran after her screaming, “Where are you going?” But she didn’t answer. There’s a crumbling old house at the end of the village that had once belonged to a disciple of my father-in-law. It had been abandoned many years ago and was crawling with toads, snakes and jackals. If was to this house that she was taking her husband and son.

  “What will you eat?” I asked in despair.

  “My father-in-law left two bighas of land. One bigha is legally mine.”

  “Accursed wretch!” I wailed. “That won’t feed you for a day. Starve to death if you will. But why do you punish my Binu?”

  “What about the son of Kanai Basak? Don’t you ever think of him, Didi?” And, with that, she walked away.

  ‘The house became like a house of death. I didn’t have the heart to light the lamps or cook the evening meal. My husband spent the whole night leaning against that post and staring up at the sky. Tears rushed into my eyes everytime I thought of Binu. I had reared him so tenderly. What was he eating now? Where was he sleeping? As soon as dawn broke, I sent the cowherd over with a cow and a calf but Sunanda returned them with the message that she was going to change Binu’s diet and train him to eat the coarse food of the poor.’

  The elderly voice trembled and the pain of parting with those she loved so dearly was stamped on every line of her motherly face. A deep sigh escaped Rajlakshmi. Our hostess cleared her throat, wiped her eyes and nose and continued. ‘The whole village was talking. My husband became pale and thin with worry and humiliation. He had brought up Thakurpo as his own son and the child was dearer to him than life. “They can’t go on like this forever,” he would say at first. “They’ll have to come back.” But I knew Sunanda. She would break but not bend. After some days he sent them a message asking them to return. He promised to see that the weaver’s family was provided for. But Sunanda’s condition was not to be shaken. Either all was returned or they lived apart.’

  I had stopped eating for a long while. I dipped my hand in a glass of water and asked, ‘What do they live on?’

  The poor woman covered her ears and answered with a trembling lip, ‘Don’t ask me that, Baba. It is too distressing to bear thinking or talking about.’

  A clatter of wooden clogs in the distance announced that Kushari moshai’s meal was concluded. But he did not come near us. We sat in silence for a while—till it was time to depart.

  As we took our places in the cart, Kushari moshai’s wife gripped Rajlakshmi’s hand and whispered urgently, ‘They are your subjects, Ma. The land from which they get their living is in Gangamati. And the house in which they live is at the edge of the canal. You can see it from your house.’ Rajlakshmi nodded.

  The cart started moving. Neither of us spoke. Rajlakshmi seemed deep in thought. I interrupted her reverie with the words, ‘Trying to help a person who is self-sufficient is a futile exercise, Lakshmi.’

  Rajlakshmi smiled at me and said, ‘I know that very well. I’ve learnt it from you.’

  Seven

  A NALYSING THE PAST, AS I OFTEN DO THESE DAYS, I DISCOVER THE presence of several women whose personalities are marked indelibly in my memory. One of them is Kushari moshai’s rebellious sister-in-law. I have not forgotten Sunanda to this day. Neither have I overcome my gratitude to Rajlakshmi whose sensitive concern and generosity made this acquaintance possible.

  Jadu Nyaya Ratna’s dilapidated dwelling stood right across the bleak, barren field that stretched westward to the edge of the canal. It was only a minute’s walk over the bridge to the cluster of mud rooms that huddled together in the shade of an ancient tamarind tree. I had often seen it from my window but had never known that it was inhabited by a fiery female who defied social norms with impunity. Looking on it, the morning after my visit to Porhamati, I thought how true the maxim was that nothing could be judged from the surface. Who would ever have thought that classics like Kumar, Raghu, Shakuntala and Meghdoot were contained within those crumbling walls? Or that serious discourses on the nature of morality and law took place between a young preceptor and his pupils? Or that a young woman’s personal vision of right and truth dominated the entire household, compelling its members to embrace a life of want and struggle?

  As I looked at the shapeless mass with an inexplicable pain and yearning in my heart, I became aware of voices in the yard. One, loud and enquiring, was Rajlakshmi’s. The other, low and indistinct, was Ratan’s. But the moment she saw me, Rajlakshmi put the responsibility for the disturbance squarely on Ratan. ‘Really, Ratan!’ she said. ‘You must learn to lower your voice. You woke Babu up with your shouting.’

  Ratan and I were both used to being blamed for what we hadn’t done. So neither of us bothered to contradict her. On the ground, at Rajlakshmi’s feet, was a large basket filled with rice, lentils, spices, oil, salt, sugar and a variety of vegetables. I gathered that Rajlakshmi was trying to persuade Ratan to carry the basket over to somebody’s house and that he was mumbling excuses about its size and weight.

  ‘Why don’t you get someone from the village to carry the basket? Ratan can go with him wherever you’re sending it,’ I said, realizing that it was the indignity of carrying a load that was upsetting Ratan.

  ‘Go then,’ Rajlakshmi commanded. ‘Fetch someone from the village since you are too grand for such lowly work.’

  ‘Where is all this going so early in the morning?’

  ‘If foodstuff is to be
sent to anyone—it must be done first thing in the morning.’

  ‘But where are you sending it? And why?’

  ‘I am sending it to the house of a Brahmin. As to why—the answer is simple. So that the family may eat.’

  ‘And who, may I ask, is the Brahmin?’

  About to mention a name, Rajlakshmi thought the better of it and smiled. ‘One shouldn’t brag about one’s good deeds or name names. Go wash your face. Your tea is ready.’

  Around ten o’clock that morning, as I sat in the outer room lazily leafing through an old journal for want of anything better to do, an unfamiliar voice fell on my ears. ‘Namaskar, Babu moshai.’

  ‘Namaskar. Please take a seat.’

  I took stock of the stranger who stood before me. That he was a Brahmin was obvious. That he was exceedingly poor was even more so. He wore no shirt and his feet were bare. A fold of his frayed dhoti was taken around his shoulders and a couple of knots were clearly visible where the material had given way. He lowered himself on to a bamboo stool and said, ‘I am one of the humblest of your subjects. I should have come to pay my respects much earlier. Do forgive me for the lapse.’

  Any reference to me as a landlord or zamindar embarrassed and annoyed me and this was no exception. I answered coldly, ‘You needn’t apologize for the “lapse” as you call it. I am not in the habit of demanding courtesies. What is your business with me?’

  My guest looked bewildered at these words. ‘I have come at the wrong time,’ he said, rising. ‘I am disturbing you, perhaps. I’ll come some other day.’

  ‘But what have you come for? What do you require from me?’ I cried not caring to hide the impatience I was feeling. He was silent for a while. Then he spoke with a simple dignity. ‘I am a small man and my requirements are few. The mistress sent for me. I have not come out of any need of my own.’

  The answer was sharp but not rude, considering my question. It would not have disturbed me anywhere else. But, steeped in adulation as I was in Gangamati, I had lost the capacity for taking a rebuff. Such is the power of authority, albeit surrogate, over human beings! I was suddenly, violently angry. A harsh rejoinder rose to my lips. But, before I could make it, Rajlakshmi walked into the room.

  She touched her forehead to the ground in reverence to the unknown Brahmin and said humbly, ‘Please don’t leave. I have something important to discuss with you.’

  ‘Ma!’ the stranger said, equally humbly. ‘You have sent enough food to tide us over the next fifteen days. But, considering that this is a lean time of the year for religious rites and observances, my Brahmini wondered—’

  Rajlakshmi cut him short with a laugh. ‘I’m sure your Brahmini is well versed in the dates of religious observances. But if she wishes to learn the correct timings for interacting with one’s neighbours let her come to me.’

  I was afraid that the arrogant Brahmin would take exception to such talk and make an insulting remark but Rajlakshmi did not give him the chance. She threw him the sweetest of her smiles and said, ‘I’ve heard that your Brahmini has quite a temper. She might object to my visiting her without an invitation. If I were not afraid of her I would have gone to your house myself.’ At this reference to his beloved’s temper (I had realized, by now, that the young man was Jadunath Kushari) his own anger melted. He burst out laughing with a happy sound that filled the room.

  ‘You are quite wrong, Ma!’ he said at last. ‘She is not bad-tempered at all. She is a simple, straightforward girl. We are too poor to offer you the hospitality due to you, should you come to us. It is more fitting that she comes here to pay her respects. I’ll bring her here myself.’

  ‘How many pupils do you have in your care, Nyaya Ratna moshai?’

  ‘Five. It is not easy to find scholars in these parts.’

  ‘Do you have to provide them with food and clothing?

  ‘Not all of them. One stays with my brother and another with his parents in Gangamati. Three have made their home with us.’

  Rajlakshmi digested this information in silence. Then she said in a voice as tender and melancholy as the smile that flitted across her face, ‘It must be hard for you—in the circumstances.’ The genuine concern in her voice shattered what was left of the Brahmin’s reserve.

  He admitted his poverty and cares quite openly, adding, ‘Only my wife and I know how hard it is. But what can I do to make things better? Being a scholar and preceptor is the Brahmin’s caste vocation. He owes it to society. I must return to others what I’ve received from my acharyas.’ He paused a little, then added, ‘There was a time when maintaining the Brahmin was the responsibility of the lord of the land. Now things are different. The zamindar has lost his power and with it his sense of responsibility. All he does now is squeeze the life blood out of his subjects and wallow in the lap of luxury.’

  ‘There may be one or two,’ Rajlakshmi said, ‘who genuinely wish to take up their responsibilities. I hope you won’t stop them.’

  ‘I quite forgot whom I was addressing.’ Kushari’s thin face reddened with embarrassment. ‘But why should I stop you? It is your duty to take care of your subjects.’

  ‘You have a duty too—to deprived women like me. I use Sanskrit mantras for worship but I neither know the meanings nor the correct pronunciations.’

  ‘I’m ready to teach you whatever you wish to learn.’ He glanced at the sky and, seeing that it was nearing noon, he took his leave.

  ‘You must have your bath and meal a little earlier than usual,’ Rajlakshmi said to me as soon as our guest left the room.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re going over to Sunanda’s house this afternoon.’

  ‘Why me?’ I asked, surprised. ‘Why don’t you take Ratan with you?’

  ‘No. I’ve decided not to go anywhere without you.’

  ‘As you wish—’

  I closed the argument.

  Eight

  RAJLAKSHMI STEPPED ACROSS THE THRESHOLD OF JADUNATH Kushari’s dwelling house leaving me standing outside by the broken wall.

  In a minute or two a good-looking boy of about seventeen appeared. ‘The acharya is not at home,’ he said. ‘But Ma asked me to take you into the house.’

  Leading the way through an arch, which may have had a door once but didn’t anymore, he took me across a crumbling yard with an ancient husking pedal in a corner, to a high earthen veranda where Rajlakshmi was sitting. A slim, dark woman of about twenty was engaged in puffing rice at an earthen stove in a corner.

  She rose and, spreading a strip of blanket on the ground, pointed to it with a hand as divested of ornament as the house itself. Smiling shyly she said, ‘Please sit.’ Then, turning to the boy, she said, ‘There is some fire left in the stove, Ajoy. Prepare a hookah for the master. I’m sorry I can’t offer you a paan, Didi,’ she glanced in Rajlakshmi’s direction. ‘There’s no such thing in the house.’

  ‘No paan in the house?’ the boy asked in astonishment.

  Sunanda laughed gaily and said in a voice like a bell, ‘You know very well we never have any paan. Why do you pretend?’

  Acutely embarrassed, the boy mumbled, ‘I’m not pretending. I only—’

  Rajlakshmi smiled at him and reprimanded Sunanda in a gentle voice, ‘He’s a man, Sunanda. How is he to know what you have in the house?’

  ‘You don’t know him, Didi!’ Sunanda doubled over with laughter. ‘My Ajoy is the real mistress of the house. He knows what we have better than I do. In fact he manages us all. Only he won’t admit that there is any poverty or hardship in the way we live.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I admit it,’ Ajoy cried, his face as red as the embers in the stove. ‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of in being poor. I only—’ and leaving the sentence unfinished, he dashed out of the yard in search, perhaps, of a hookah.

  Rajlakshmi took Sunanda’s hand and said, ‘Sit by me for a while and let me talk to you.’

  I glanced at Sunanda and thought, ‘Poverty means nothing at all if you learn to ignore it
. This girl—an ordinary village girl with nothing special about her—has managed to keep poverty at bay by simply refusing to acknowledge it. Before the glaring light of her personality all want, all hardship is reduced to a shadow. It cannot touch her or those about her. Yet, only a few months ago, her life was different. She had wealth, power over people, friends. But she cast it all away as easily as she would a torn garment in rigid protest over an act of treachery. Yet, there is no rigidity in her person nor any mark of struggle.’

  ‘I thought Sunanda to be a grown woman. But she’s no more than a child,’ Rajlakshmi said, addressing me.

  But, before I could answer, Sunanda pointed to Ajoy who approached, hookah in hand, and said in a bright voice, ‘You call me a child? A woman with hulking sons like that one? You make me laugh, Didi.’

  Ajoy handed me the hookah and asked her, ‘Shall I put it away then?’

  Sunanda nodded. Muttering something under his breath Ajoy walked up to where the yellowing pages of some ancient manuscript lay fluttering on a wooden plank. It was clear that the disturbance in his study session had not met with his approval.

  ‘What manuscript is that?’ Rajlakshmi asked curiously.

  ‘The Yoga Vashishtha.’

  ‘Were you reading it out to your Guru Ma?’

  ‘Oh no. She was taking a lesson.’

  Sunanda blushed and snatched the words out of his mouth, ‘A lesson indeed! As if I have learning enough for that. The boys come to me when their guru isn’t home. But I don’t have answers to half their questions, Didi.’

  There was a long silence. Then Rajlakshmi sighed and said gravely, ‘If my house were a little closer I would have become your pupil, Sunanda. I have had so little education that I can’t even pronounce my prayers correctly.’