Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  ‘You haven’t got over your annoyance with Didi. That’s what it is.’

  ‘Can’t you think of any other reason?’

  ‘Frankly, I can’t.’

  I felt like asking him why he involved himself in something that didn’t concern him. But, fearing unpleasantness, I desisted.

  When Rajlakshmi came in again, Ananda said to her, ‘Dada says that enslaving oneself is a good habit. My question is that why go to distant Burma, why not do so right here? We could work together for our country.’

  ‘But he is not a doctor, Ananda,’ Rajlakshmi pointed out.

  ‘There are other ways of serving the country. We must build schools, dig wells and teach the villagers to value themselves as human beings. The poor are deprived in so many ways.’

  Rajlakshmi glanced at me out of the corner of her eye and shook her head gently. She was afraid, perhaps, that I would agree.

  ‘Why do you shake your head, Didi?’

  ‘No, Ananda,’ she smiled. ‘I know our country is in a shocking state. But I don’t see what a single man can do about it. If you take him with you you’ll spend all your time and energy looking after him. You’ll have nothing left with which to serve the country.’

  Ananda laughed at her fears. ‘Rest assured, Didi. I won’t steal him away from you. But you were wrong when you said that a single man can do nothing. It is not the number of people who rise at the call of the motherland but the strength with which they rise that matters. The power of the will is a tremendous power. Do not underestimate it.’ He was silent for a while. Then he continued, ‘It is true that I can achieve very little by myself. But one thing I can, and do. I share the misery of the poor and degraded to the best of my ability.’

  ‘I know that. I have known it from the very beginning.’

  ‘I needn’t have done it. My father is a wealthy man. I could have had a life of ease and comfort. But I turned my back on it. The fact that I have overcome the desire for good living is virtue enough for me. My conscience is at rest.’

  At this point, Ratan came in and announced that the evening meal was ready. Rajlakshmi ordered him to start serving and turned to me. ‘I am very, very tired. I’ll retire as soon as you have eaten.’ Weariness was stamped upon her face but it was the first time that she had admitted it. We stood up and followed Ratan without a word. Suddenly the bright, beautiful day was over and a wraith-like gloom descended on the house. My old depression returned.

  Ananda left the next morning. Rajlakshmi accompanied him to the door. I remembered the last time she had bidden him farewell. How bitterly she had wept! How inconsolable she had been for so many days! Now her calm, clear gaze rested on his face as she asked, ‘When do I see you again, Ananda?’

  ‘I’ll come as soon as I can. I promise.’

  ‘But we’re leaving Gangamati. Will you come to me, wherever I may be?’

  ‘If you command me, can I disobey?’

  ‘Then give me your address. I’ll write to you as soon as we reach—’

  Ananda fished in his pocket for a pencil and paper, and writing his address, handed it to Rajlakshmi. Then bidding us farewell he walked slowly away.

  Fifteen

  WHEN SWAMI BAJRANANDA LEFT WITH HIS TIN TRUNK AND CANVAS bag, he took away with him all the joy of living that had remained with us. Not content with that he had, it seemed to me, packed the vacuum created by his absence with the deepest and most active gloom. Our lives had been like a stretch of sea water that had retained a measure of clarity by dashing against the coral reef that was Ananda. With its removal, the water stagnated and became foul and evil-smelling. A week went by. Rajlakshmi went out every day—where, I did not know. Nor did I want to ask. In the evenings she spent hours discussing business with Kushari moshai. I yearned for Ananda as I had never yearned for anyone before. I knew Rajlakshmi did the same. At times the irony of the situation was too much to be borne. We, who had loved one another and had sought to create a little world of our own away from the public eye, were reduced to seeking a stranger’s presence in our midst.

  One day, Ratan came in beaming from ear to ear. He looked around him surreptitiously, even though Rajlakshmi was away from home, and whispered, ‘Have you heard the news, Babu? We are leaving Gangamati in a day or two. Pray to Goddess Durga that Ma doesn’t change her mind.’

  ‘Where are we going, Ratan?’

  Ratan threw another furtive glance at the door. ‘That I don’t know, yet. It has to be Kashi or Patna. Ma has a house in each of these cities. Where else could it be?’

  I was silent. Mistaking my lack of enthusiasm at his great news for Jack of faith in his communication, he continued, ‘It’s true, Babu. It’s absolutely true. We are leaving. Ma has finalized the arrangements with Kushari moshai. All we need to do now is pack up and leave. It’s wonderful news, isn’t it?’ And, bursting with the anticipated pleasures of the city, Ratan left the room.

  It was obvious that Ratan looked upon me as a mere member of the retinue that went with Rajlakshmi wherever she chose to go. He knew that my likes and dislikes held no ground before hers and that, like the rest of the company, I was completely dominated by the will of the mistress. Ratan, in his innocence, was unaware that he had filled my cup of agony and humiliation to the brim with his words. ‘How weak I am,’ I thought and marvelled at her strength. I saw now, more clearly than ever before, that I was merely a pawn in the game Rajlakshmi was playing—that of testing her own strength. She had employed all the force of her magnetic beauty and overwhelming desire to bring me to her feet. And I had been powerless to resist. But now I was redundant. Fool that I was, I had allowed myself to be dragged through the dust and believed I was flying on golden wings. I had valued myself against the riches she had discarded for my sake not knowing that, for her, they had no value.

  Ratan’s words were confirmed the next morning. After her morning bath and prayers, Rajlakshmi came up to me and asked softly, ‘If we leave tomorrow morning, around this time, we can catch the train going west, can’t we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve concluded the arrangements here. Kushari moshai will continue to look after the property as he has been doing.’

  ‘Very good.’

  Rajlakshmi hesitated a little and said, ‘I’ve written to Banku. I’ve asked him to reserve a compartment and wait for me at Sainthia. I’m not sure—’

  ‘You needn’t worry. Banku will never disobey you.’

  ‘He’ll try not to. But—would you like to come with us?’

  I didn’t know where she was going or why. But I could not ask. I answered hesitantly, ‘I’ll come—if you want me to.’

  Rajlakshmi couldn’t reply for a few seconds. Then she spoke, changing the subject all of a sudden, ‘Where is your tea? Hasn’t Ratan brought you your tea?’

  ‘Not yet. He must be busy.’

  Such an aberration, in the early days of our relationship, would have been enough to spark off a domestic disturbance lasting for days. But now Rajlakshmi did not even call Ratan and demand an explanation. She hung her head, as if in shame, and quietly left the room.

  On the day of our departure, Rajlakshmi’s subjects came to pay their respects. I missed Malati in the throng but I knew that she had left Gangamati and was now happily settled with her new husband in his ancestral village. The Kushari brothers arrived with their families at crack of dawn to bid us goodbye. Rajlakshmi had managed to bring them together—how, I did not know. But it was evident from their faces that the quarrel over the weaver’s property was at an end and amity and concord had been restored.

  Sunanda brought her son over to me and said, ‘Asking you not to forget me is unnecessary. So I won’t do that. I seek your blessings for my son.’

  ‘Even that is unnecessary, bon,’ I replied. ‘A child of yours is blessed in his birth. He needs no other blessing.’

  Overhearing the conversation, Rajlakshmi said, ‘Pray that he grows up to acquire a heart and soul like yours.’

&nbs
p; ‘Like mine?’ I laughed. ‘You must be joking.’

  ‘A mother doesn’t joke when the good of her own child is in question,’ Rajlakshmi’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I love the boy as if he were my own and that is my prayer for him.’

  We left Gangamati amidst tearful farewells. Even Ratan wiped his eyes unashamedly every now and then. The inhabitants of Gangamati clamoured about their mistress begging her not to forget them, to return as soon as she could. Only I stood apart, like a spectator watching the last scene of a play—poignant and bittersweet. Soon it would be time to ring the curtain down. The lights would go out, one by one. The viewers would rise and shuffle out of the theatre to take up the separate burdens of their everyday lives. But I was not one of them. I stood alone, apart, like a star wrenched out of its socket. I drifted aimlessly in space, apathetic and lustreless. Trapped in a maze of clouds, I had lost my sense of direction.

  We reached Sainthia before dusk. Banku had obeyed Rajlakshmi’s instructions and was waiting at the station. As soon as the carts rolled in, he got busy stowing away the luggage and directing the servants to their third-class seats. Then, taking his place with his stepmother in their reserved compartment, he proceeded to converse with her in a low voice. He ignored my presence but not very overtly. I knew why. He was now a full grown man, wealthy and powerful in his own right, and he had no use for such as me.

  As I walked up and down the platform (my train to Calcutta was not due before midnight) my eyes fell on Rajlakshmi beckoning me through the window of her compartment. She grasped me by the hand the moment I reached her and said, ‘Won’t you come and see me once—before you leave for Burma?’

  ‘Certainly—if you desire it.’

  ‘I don’t desire it,’ she answered with a sigh. ‘At least not in the way I did. But I would like to see you once before you leave. Will you come?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Write to me as soon as you reach Calcutta.’

  I nodded. The final whistle sounded and the green light came on. Rajlakshmi released my hand and I stepped off even as the train moved with a jerk and glided away from the dim light of the station towards an enveloping darkness.

  On reaching Calcutta, I wrote my promised letter to Rajlakshmi. Then I started preparations for my departure from the country. A fortnight went by. I had promised Rajlakshmi that I would visit her but my heart quaked at the prospect. I hadn’t a clue to her present state of mind. She might take it into her head to stop me from going to Burma. It was true that in the letter that she had written from Kashi, she had not reminded me of my promise. But, weak as I was, I persuaded myself that that was normal in the circumstances. Even I, I reasoned, would not humble myself to that extent. The truth was that Rajlakshmi had become so much a part of my life that I couldn’t live without her. Suddenly I longed to see her again, so passionately that I was lost to all sense of propriety. Glancing up at the clock I saw that, if I made haste, I could catch the train to Kashi. I didn’t even pack a change of clothes. I told myself that she, to whom I was going, knew my requirements better than I did. I rushed out of the house and, buying a ticket, boarded the train to Kashi. All night I tossed and turned on my narrow berth. Then morning came. A fierce sun rose and blazed white hot in the sky. Everywhere, the light was pitiless and glaring. But a mist lay over my eyes and coiled its damp and streaky strands around my heart. And so I arrived at my destination.

  The first person I saw, on entering the house, was an elderly Brahmin smoking a hookah.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked, fixing his tranquil gaze upon my face. ‘Are you looking for someone?’

  ‘Is Ratan—?’ I murmured—my heart sinking.

  ‘Ratan has gone to the market. He’ll be back in a few minutes.’ His eyes took in my dishevelled hair and clothes grimy with smoke and sweat. ‘Please sit down.’

  ‘Is Banku Babu at home?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ The old man called a servant and instructed him to fetch Banku. Banku was extremely surprised to see me. ‘We thought you were in Burma,’ he said, not specifying who ‘we’ were. ‘Are your things in the carriage?’

  ‘I have no luggage with me.’

  ‘No luggage? Are you returning tonight, then?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I had planned.’

  Banku rose and went about his work. A servant came in with water, towels and fresh clothes but no one else came near me. After a long while, a message came from within that my meal had been served. I followed the servant to a flagged veranda where two thalas were laid side by side. As I took my place beside Banku someone entered from a side door and everything—Banku, the shining thala with its surrounding bowls, and the black and white marble of the floor—swam before my eyes. Only for a moment, however. Then, recovering myself with a desperate effort, I commenced eating.

  Rajlakshmi came forward and sat by me. She was wrapped in widow white from head to toe and not a speck of gold remained on her person. Not only had she stripped herself ruthlessly of all adornment—she had even cut off the long black river of her hair. The shorn locks tumbled about her face—now harsh and worn with prolonged austerities. I had parted from her only a month ago. She had aged ten years in the interim.

  My eyes burned and the rice stuck like glue in my throat. I wanted to get away from her—far, so far away that I need never see her again. I couldn’t bear to look at her face or even hear her voice. I swallowed mouthful after mouthful in a fierce determination that she should not get a chance to comment on my lack of appetite.

  ‘Banku tells me that you are leaving tonight,’ she said, after a while.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So soon? But your ship leaves on Sunday.’

  I glanced up at her face and she shrank before the look in my eyes.

  ‘There are still three days to go,’ she murmured.

  ‘Yes, but I have a few things to tie up before I leave.’

  She hesitated a little, then said, ‘My gurudev is here.’

  I gathered that the old gentleman I had met on my arrival was Rajlakshmi’s gurudev—the one she had talked about and wanted me to meet. Since my train was to leave at midnight, I had ample time in which to make his acquaintance. I found him a good, kind man, fiercely protective of his personal religion but also open to that of others. He knew the truth about us for Rajlakshmi had hidden nothing from him but, far from looking down on me, he sought my company and conversed with me for a long time. He spoke words of comfort and sympathy and gave plenty of advice. I have forgotten much of what he said but I remember that he expressed his faith in Rajlakshmi and said that he had anticipated the change that had come over her. ‘I have had many disciples but not one like her,’ was his comment. ‘Her unwavering faith and devotion to duty are incomparable.’

  The hour of my departure drew near. The carriage that was to take me to the station stood at the door. I took leave of Gurudev and stepped in. Rajlakshmi’s face appeared at the window. Her lips trembled but no words came. I thanked my Maker that my face was hidden from her view. Inside the carriage, everything was dark.

  The stinging tears poured down my face in blessed release as the horses bore me away from Rajlakshmi. ‘We cast ourselves adrift together,’ I murmured to myself. ‘I, hapless that I am, will never sight the shore but your goal is before you, fixed and immutable like the northern star. May it be ever so. May peace and happiness be yours.’ I repeated this prayer over and over again as the rushing wheels and galloping hooves took me further and further away from her. Suddenly I felt as I had that last day in Gangamati—a spectator watching the last scene of a play. It was a glorious conclusion to a sordid tale of human weakness and error. But even while the triumph and glory that were Rajlakshmi’s awed and uplifted me, I suddenly thought of Rohini Babu. He and I were two of a kind, floundering and sinking in a slough of base desire. But for him there was Abhaya. I remembered her as she stood at her door bidding me goodbye, tears trembling in her eyes, steadfast and unwavering in her love. The breadth of her vision,
the courage of her convictions and the innate purity of her soul came upon me in a flash. I would go to her and she would not forsake me.

  The moment the carriage stopped, a figure leaped nimbly from the box and touched his forehead to the ground at my feet.

  ‘Ratan!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, Babu. If you need a servant in that foreign land where you are going—send for me. I’ll serve you faithfully to the end of my days.’

  The light from the flare of the carriage fell on his face. ‘Why? What makes you cry, Ratan?’ I asked in genuine surprise.

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and walked away rapidly. I stared at his retreating back. Ratan offering to accompany me to Burma! Wonders will never cease.

  Journey’s End

  One

  ALL MY LIFE I HAVE REVOLVED LIKE A SATELLITE AROUND A luminary I never possessed but could not disown. I dared not go too near it but I lacked the power to wrench myself out of orbit. So it has been for me from early childhood. The years spent as a poor relation in my aunt’s house saw a physical transmutation. My frail child’s form expanded, filled out and became that of an adult’s. But a corresponding mental progression was denied me. My mind remained as it was in its infancy—dependant, trusting, vulnerable.

  I realized that Rajlakshmi was as good as dead in my life. I stood by the bank watching the dark waters swirl around the glorious image I loved, drowning it inch by inch till nothing remained. Then, when the last ripple was still, I came away—a sense of loss weighing heavily on my heart. I bore it alone for I had none of my own with whom to share it. It seemed only the other day that I first saw Pyari in Kumar Saheb’s tent and gained a whole world I had done nothing to deserve. Yet I hadn’t deserved to lose it either, as I had now. ‘The loss has outweighed the gain,’ I thought. ‘It encompasses the whole world. However far I go—to Calcutta, to Burma even, all is dark and unreal. Only the journey remains. May it never cease.’

  ‘… Aré! That is Srikanta! Look, look. It is Srikanta.’