Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

I couldn’t see her face but the voice that answered was suffused with pain. ‘I said some unforgivable things last night. Don’t take them to heart, son. Hardship and constant anxiety have worn away all my patience. Don’t go to the hospital—that hell of hells. Stay here with me. The sick are not bound by any rules—so the Shastras say. I’ll cook you sago and barley water and nurse you till you are well.’

  I stayed in her house for four days and during that period I had first hand experience of the oppressions inherent in the Brahminical hierarchy. As if the grinding poverty was not bad enough, life was made hell for these Agradanis by other Brahmins of a higher order. I heard from my hostess that Chakravarty moshai had once been a prosperous landowner but, owing to his excessive generosity and lack of a sense of self-preservation, he had lost all he had. Loss of prestige had followed and they were living in a state of excommunication from the Hindu order. And their chief persecutors were those very Brahmins who were in their debt.

  On the second day of my stay I proposed shifting myself to the outer room but my hostess shook her head. ‘It is going to rain and the roof leaks. You’ll catch your death.’

  ‘Why didn’t you get the roof repaired before the rains came?’ I asked.

  She pointed to a pile of straw standing just outside my window. ‘No Hindus will work for us—such is the rule of the village. We hire Mussalman peasants from the neighbouring village to thatch our roof every year. This year no one came.’ Then, bursting into tears, she continued, ‘There’s no end to our troubles, Baba. When my eight-year-old daughter died of cholera, not a soul came forward to console us or help to take the body to the burning-ghat. My husband carried her in his arms and my younger son went with him. But he wasn’t allowed to cremate the body. He had to dig a hole and bury the child—his own child—’ She broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.

  My fevered brain pulsed and pounded and pain tore at my eyeballs as I heard this terrible tale of suffering and humiliation. Centuries ago a Brahmin ancestor of theirs had committed the heinous crime of accepting alms in return for performing the pre-cremation rites of a dead man. That single act had branded him and his descendents as Agradanis and relegated them to the lowest rung of the Brahmin caste ladder for all time to come. Yet the acceptance of alms is mandatory. Without it the rites are incomplete, according to the Shastras. This paradox is embedded in the system to this day and given unquestioning respect, leaving Agradani Brahmins vulnerable to all kinds of social and moral pressures. The moral perversity that is reflected in the treatment meted out to Agradanis is peculiar to Hinduism and is not to be found in any other religion of the world.

  Controlling herself with an effort, the woman said, ‘Sometimes I wish we would move to a Mussalman village. We might be better off.’

  ‘But you’ll lose caste—’ I began.

  ‘My husband’s uncle went away to Dumka and became a Christian. His troubles are over,’ she said by way of an answer.

  I was silent. The thought of Hindus defecting to other religions was painful. But what were the alternatives? I had believed that only the lowest of the low, the untouchables, suffered persecution on this scale. I realized, now, that it was inherent in the system and not a single caste was protected against it.

  I found out years later that some enlightened Hindus do admit to this defect in our religion. Yet they are prepared to live with it and perpetuate it. Not even one of the men I conversed with even tried to offer any viable alternatives or proposals of constructive change. It has left me speculating on the future of Hinduism. I’m convinced that a religion that saps the moral fibre of its followers to the extent that Hinduism does cannot last for long.

  On the fourth day I got ready to depart. ‘Bid me farewell, Ma,’ I said, ‘I’m going.’

  My hostess came to the door. ‘We are poor, wretched folk,’ she said, her face flushed, eyes swimming. ‘All we’ve given you is a share of our suffering.’

  I was silent. Formal speeches of thanks never come easily to me. I remembered Ananda’s words, ‘This is a strange country, Dada. Here, mothers and sisters are strewn on the streets. There’s no escaping them.’

  Chakravarty moshai had procured a bullock-cart with great difficulty. As I took my place in it his wife called upon the gods to protect me from harm and made me promise to come again if I was ever in these parts. I never saw her again. Later, much later, I learned that Rajlakshmi had paid the mortgage on much of their land and helped to bring the family back to a position of comparative stability.

  Fourteen

  IT WAS TEN O’CLOCK BY THE TIME I REACHED THE HOUSE IN Gangamati. As I stepped down from the cart, I noticed that the doorway was hung with a garland of mango leaves. Banana fronds were placed on either side and consecrated pots stood next to them. The outer room was full of men, many of whom came crowding in at the door on hearing the sound of the cart. One of them came rushing out with a happy laugh. He was no other than my old friend, Swami Bajrananda. While he plied me with questions, informing me mischievously that search parties had been sent in all directions to look for me, Rajlakshmi came and stood quietly by the door.

  ‘Where were you all these days?’ she asked. ‘We were all sick with worry. Ananda, I told you he would come today, didn’t I? I felt it in my bones.’

  ‘You did?’ I asked, smiling. ‘Is that why you’ve placed these auspicious symbols at the door? To welcome me home?’

  ‘No, no, Babu,’ Ratan intervened enthusiastically. ‘Ma is feeding Brahmins today to mark her return from the holy pilgrimage of Bakreshwar—’

  ‘Ratan,’ Rajlakshmi fixed him with a stern glare. ‘Stop jabbering and go and attend to your work.’ Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright.

  Ananda threw a brief glance in her direction and said, ‘Didi found it impossible to endure the worry of your disappearance. She organized the Brahmin bhojan to take her mind off—for a short while at least. You know how it is. The idle mind is a breeding ground for all kinds of tensions and fears. But you still haven’t told us where you were all these days. The cart driver’s boy told us he had dropped you off on the road to Gangamati.’

  I recounted the history of the last four days. He heard it carefully and said, ‘Don’t repeat the disappearing trick, Dada. You have no idea of what Didi has suffered.’

  I knew it well enough so I did not contradict him. In a little while Ratan brought me a hookah and a cup of tea. Ananda rose to leave. He said, ‘If I sit here a moment longer I’ll earn the curses of a good woman. Why take the risk?’ He left the room and Rajlakshmi came in.

  ‘It is very late,’ she said. ‘I suggest you don’t bathe at this hour. Have a wash and change your clothes.’

  ‘I’m very hot and sticky. I must have a bath.’

  ‘Then let me help you. You are still so weak—you can’t manage by yourself.’ She burst out laughing and added, ‘Don’t try to punish me. You’ll only end up punishing yourself. Take my advice. Don’t bathe. The fever will return if you do.’

  This was typical of Rajlakshmi. I have not known her equal for foisting her wishes on others. This was a small thing she asked of me, but she dominated, equally easily, in other, more important areas of my life. Yet she was never offensive, never jarring. And it wasn’t only in her relation with me that she wielded this power. It was apparent everywhere. As she rose to fetch me my meal I said, ‘Let the good work be concluded first. I’ll eat after your Brahmins have been fed.’

  ‘Oh no, you won’t,’ she answered instantly. ‘That may go on till late in the evening. If I keep you starving till then I’ll end up in hell instead of heaven,’ and she left the room, laughing.

  Sitting down to eat I noticed that I was served with the very light food that is usually given to convalescents. I realized that Rajlakshmi had prepared it especially for me with her own hands. She sat by my side encouraging me to eat as she had always done. But the old habit of command had gone. She begged humbly where she had protested passionately—even a few days ago. ‘She’s a ch
anged woman,’ I thought and a wave of melancholy swept over me.

  Late that night Rajlakshmi tiptoed into the room and, dimming the lantern, moved towards her bed. ‘Your Brahmins were fed long ago,’ I spoke from out of the dark. ‘What were you doing all this time?’

  Rajlakshmi gave a little start. ‘I thought you were asleep. That’s why I walked in as quietly as I could.’

  ‘I kept awake on purpose. I wanted to talk to you.’

  Rajlakshmi lifted the mosquito net and sat on my bed. Then, running her fingers through my hair in the old manner, she asked tenderly, ‘Why didn’t you send for me, then?’

  ‘Would you have come if I had?’

  ‘Do I have the power to disregard your call?’

  I knew she didn’t but, weak as I was, I lacked the power to admit it.

  ‘Why are you silent?’ she asked after a while.

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘What of?’ She lowered her head till the soft cheek rested on my forehead. ‘You were angry with me. That’s why you left home, didn’t you?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you know if you were in my place?’

  ‘Perhaps I would.’

  ‘There’s no “perhaps” about it. These feelings are instinctive.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If you do, why do you say things that hurt me?’

  ‘I don’t. I haven’t for a long time now. Only you haven’t noticed it, have you?’

  The old Rajlakshmi would have reacted violently to this statement. She would have sulked and probed and asked a hundred questions. Now, silence fell between us. After a while she sat up and said, ‘I’m told you had a fever. Why didn’t you send for me?’

  ‘There was no one to send. Besides, I didn’t know where you were.’

  Then I recounted my experience of the last few days. Tears of gratitude and humility coursed down my cheeks as I described the poor woman who had nursed me as tenderly as she would her own child even while bowed down by toil and care. Rajlakshmi wiped them away and said softly, ‘Why don’t you send her some money?’

  ‘If I had the money I would.’

  Any suggestion that her money was not mine had always offended Rajlakshmi. She would reject it outright and the argument would end, invariably, in a quarrel. But, as before, today she was silent. When she spoke her voice was changed. ‘A letter has arrived for you—from Burma. It was in an official envelope so, thinking that it might contain some urgent message, I asked Ananda to open it.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘The manager of the company informs you that your request for re-appointment has been granted. Your old post is open for you any time you choose to claim it. Shall I fetch the letter?’

  ‘There’s no hurry. I can read it tomorrow morning.’

  Another silence fell between us, pregnant with meaning. I felt torn apart. I didn’t know what to do, what to think. I wanted to speak but didn’t know how. Suddenly a teardrop fell on my forehead. I said softly, ‘I have been offered my old job again. That is not bad news, Rajlakshmi. Why do you cry?’

  Rajlakshmi wiped her eyes and said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were planning to go back? Did you think I would stop you?’

  ‘No. I’m convinced you wouldn’t have stopped me. You may even have encouraged me. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you would care to waste your time on trifling matters like these.’

  The hands in my hair stiffened and became cold and rigid and her voice, when she spoke, sounded far away, insubstantial. ‘I deserve your reproaches. I realize, now, that in dragging you here to Gangamati I have sinned grievously against you. This aimless, idle existence into which I’ve pushed you is akin to death—for a man. I can never forgive myself for destroying you as I have done.’

  ‘When did this realization dawn on you?’

  ‘I went on a pilgrimage but I didn’t find God. Wherever I looked I saw your face—broken, vulnerable. You have suffered enough at my hands. It is time I released you. Go back to Burma. Live your own life with meaning and purpose.’

  At these words the anger melted away from my heart and I became whole and pure again. ‘You, too, have suffered, Lakshmi. Gangamati is no place for you. You belong—’ I stopped myself in time. What I was about to say would offend and humiliate her.

  But, though my unspoken words hit her where it hurt most, she forgave me this time. ‘On the contrary,’ she said gently. ‘I’m not fit for Gangamati. Others may believe that I’ve paid for my love by surrendering the pleasures of the city. But you should know better. You should know that I’ve lost nothing that I valued: I’ve only shed the terrible weight that people hung round my neck and forced me to carry from childhood onwards. And you—whom I’ve desired above all else from the beginning of memory itself! In possessing you, did I not acquire ten thousand times what I surrendered? You should know that.’

  I tried to speak but words would not come. My breast heaved with indignation for Rajlakshmi. ‘Fool, fool and thrice fool!’ I chastised myself. ‘You have misjudged her! You don’t deserve her love.’

  ‘I thought I would keep this knowledge from you in your own interest,’ she continued. ‘But I couldn’t help myself. What hurts me most is your belief that I’ve neglected you in the hope of a place in heaven.’ A shower of tears fell on my face. I took one of her hands in mine and pressed it without a word. She wiped her eyes with the other and stood up. ‘I had better go and see if the servants have eaten. Try to sleep.’ And, gently pulling her hand away from mine, she left the room.

  I lay awake for hours after that. Innumerable thoughts chased one another in an unending circle. But the one that dominated, recurring over and over again in an unchanging pattern, was that she had truly cut me loose at last and, in doing so, had set herself free.

  I awoke the next morning to find Rajlakshmi’s bed empty. She had either not come in at all last night or had left before dawn. I rose and went into the outer room where the ascetic, Swami Bajrananda, looked eagerly on as Rajlakshmi fried some delectable delicacies on a stove in the corner. Against one wall sat Ratan pouring tea out of an enormous kettle. Bajrananda greeted me heartily, ‘Come, Dada, let’s fall to while everything is piping hot.’ Then, peering into my face, he added, ‘You don’t look too good. Let me feel your pulse.’

  ‘No, Ananda,’ Rajlakshmi protested. ‘Don’t treat him like a patient. You’ll be recommending a diet of sago any minute.’

  ‘I’ve been living on sago for the last four days. I refuse to eat it now—even on doctor’s orders,’ I said, stretching out my hand.

  Rajlakshmi put some singaras (samosas) and kachauris on a plate and handed it to me. Then, pushing the vessel that contained the rest towards Ananda, she said, ‘Come, bhai. Eat.’

  ‘So many?’ he asked, amazed.

  ‘Why not? Why are you a sanyasi if you can’t eat more than ordinary men? You could just as well have been a householder.’

  Ananda’s eyes softened. ‘If it weren’t for sisters like you I would have torn off my saffron robes and thrown them into the river long ago. But I have a request, Didi. You have been fasting for the last three days. Why don’t you share our breakfast?’

  ‘Goodness, Ananda! Some of my Brahmins are yet to be fed. Not all could come yesterday.’

  ‘Then there is nothing for me but to go in search of them. Give me their names and addresses. Let me drag the rascals to your feet by the hair of their heads.’ He suited the action to the words by pulling the pot of snacks towards himself and falling upon it with a vengeance. Rajlakshmi smiled a crooked little smile and said, ‘What a fine sanyasi you are, Ananda! How deep is your respect for gods and Brahmins!’

  The morning was bright and clear and my spirits rose with Ananda’s banter. Rajlakshmi looked relaxed and happy. I persuaded myself that her mood of last night had been induced by her prolonged mental strain and her self-inflicted mortifications of the flesh. All my fears and worries drained away and a sense of
well-being flooded my body and soul.

  All day the Brahmins came, singly and in twos and threes, ate and departed. In the evening, her work over, Rajlakshmi came into the outer room where Ananda and I sat having our tea.

  ‘Welcome, Didi,’ Ananda called.

  ‘What makes the sanyasi so happy this evening?’ Rajlakshmi dropped down by his side.

  ‘Your wonderful snacks and sweets! We sanyasis never resist the temptations of the flesh. Householders have a different code. Just look at yourself. While we ascetics are enjoying one good meal after another you are killing yourself with your innumerable fasts.’

  ‘Killing myself? On the contrary! This wretched body flourishes day by day.’

  ‘That is the wonder of it!’ Ananda looked at her with admiring eyes. ‘Every day I see you, you are more beautiful. And your beauty is not of this world. It is unearthly, ethereal!’

  Rajlakshmi blushed and lowered her face. Ananda turned to me and said, ‘It is obvious you do not see with my eyes. If you did you would never have attempted to go back to Burma. I wonder which deity, in his malignance, planted this blind man in your path, Didi.’

  Rajlakshmi laughed and answered, ‘It was all my own fault, Ananda. I blame no one—him, least of all. He was the head boy of the village pathshala and I, a junior pupil. He had a whip which he laid about my shoulders whenever I forgot my lessons. That didn’t aid my memory in the least but it created—other feelings. Child as I was, I roamed the woods picking bainchi berries and stringing them into garlands to appease him. I wish I had strung the thorns in between.’

  ‘What a blood-thirsty woman you are, Didi!’

  ‘I would still do it—if he had someone to pluck them out for him,’ and laughing, she left the room.

  Ananda turned to me after she left. ‘Are you still planning to go to Burma? Didi will never go with you.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘But why must you go? You don’t need the money. Why tie yourself to a desk from morning till evening?’

  ‘It is a good habit I believe.’