‘Will you have the time?’
‘Why not?’
Gahar thought for a while and said, ‘I’ve got an idea. You could lie down with your eyes shut while I read. I’ll go away the moment you fall asleep.’
‘No, Gahar,’ I begged. ‘Not tonight. I can’t insult your Ramayana by falling asleep in the middle of it. Tomorrow morning, when my brain is fresh and clear, I’ll hear it with full concentration.’
A shadow fell across Gahar’s face. My heart was saddened as I watched him leave the room. I realized that his ambition of a lifetime would never be fulfilled. No one would publish his work. Nor would anyone read it. He had hummed snatches from his Ramayana in the carriage as we came and I had known, instantly, that they held no promise. He had inherited a love of poetry from his fakir ancestors but had done nothing to cultivate it. He had little education and no knowledge at all of what lay outside his native village. All he had was faith—in himself and in the world. I lay on my bed and murmured to myself, ‘Twelve years of unstinted labour! Twelve years of unwavering devotion to an idea conceived in childhood! And what is it worth? Not even the cost of the paper it is written on.’
Gahar shook me awake early next morning. He wanted me to experience the full glory of a spring morning in rural Bengal. From the way he was behaving I might have come from England. Having had a taste of his insistence, I made no effort to shake him off. I washed my face and accompanied him to the yard where a partially blighted rose-apple tree stood in a corner. A madhavi vine had entwined itself in some of its branches and a few bunches of flowers bloomed half-heartedly right on top of the tree. A young malati vine, newly in bud, was seen climbing up the ancient trunk from the other side. My poet-friend wanted to give me some flowers but they were so far beyond his reach and such streams of black ants darted up and down the trunk that even he was daunted.
‘I’ll pull some down with a pole after the sun rises. Come along,’ he said, taking my arm.
Nabin, who had been puffing away at his early morning hookah in a corner of the yard, coughed and spat noisily. ‘Don’t go into the jungle,’ he said, shaking an authoritative hand.
‘Why not?’ Gahar asked testily.
‘Some mad jackals are on a rampage.’ He thrust his chin out in the direction of the jungle. ‘A number of children and cows have been bitten.’
I stepped back a pace. ‘Where are these jackals, Nabin?’
‘How can I say? They lurk about in the bushes. Keep a sharp look out if you insist on going.’
‘I’m not going, Gahar.’
‘Not going? Dogs and jackals get into a frenzy sometimes in this season but people don’t lock themselves in their houses because of that.’
Having no arguments to counter Gahar’s, I was obliged to follow him into the jungle to feast my eyes on the beauties of nature. As we walked through a mango grove, innumerable insects flew down from the globes of blossom, buzzing around my ears and getting into my eyes and hair. At my feet, masses of dry leaves, sticky with the dripping juice of new-forming fruit, clung to my shoes making them slip and slither uncomfortably. At places, the narrow track was overgrown with reeds and sprawling bushes of ghentu flowers and wild fig. I remembered Nabin’s warning and quickened my steps.
And thus we came to the edge of the river—the same river along whose banks we had played as children. I remembered it as broad and beautiful and swollen with monsoon rain. But now the banks stretched vast and dry on either side of a thin trickle and the bitter, pungent smell of drying lichen and rotting hyacinth was foul in my nostrils. Some silk-cotton trees on the opposite bank were splashed with scarlet blooms but even the poet was too discouraged by now to point them out to me.
‘Shall we go home, Srikanta?’
‘Yes.’
‘I love the earth and sky of the month of Chaitra. I thought you would too.’
‘I will—when I can see them with your eyes.’
‘Are my eyes different? Is that why the villagers—’
‘The poet’s eye is always different. It imbues the commonest reality with beauty and enchantment. That doesn’t mean your vision is defective. What you see is as true as what the rest of the world sees. Be satisfied with that, my friend.’
On the way back, we came across a tree whose trunk had been stripped of its bark—for medicinal purposes, presumably. Gahar started trembling at the sight and tears sprang up in his eyes. Looking at him I stumbled on a profound truth. Nayan Chand Chakravarty had not regained his property through flattery and wiles as I had thought. The reason for it lay within Gahar himself, his excessive sensitivity to suffering. Much of my anger and dislike of the old man melted away.
As soon as we reached home Gahar took out his manuscript—the size of which would have daunted men far more daring than I. ‘You’ll have to read the whole of it,’ he said, ‘and give me your opinion. Promise me you won’t leave before you’ve reached the end.’
I didn’t make any promises. Nevertheless, seven days passed before I took my leave. This period was spent in reading and discussing, sessions which were neither educative nor entertaining. But, during those seven days of close companionship, I gained something of great value. I gradually awoke to a true sense of the beauty of Gahar’s character.
One morning, Gahar said, ‘Do you have to go to Burma, Srikanta? We are both alone in the world. Why don’t we spend our lives together, here, where we were born?’
‘I’m not a poet like you, Gahar,’ I said with a laugh. ‘I don’t understand the language of the trees. I would get stifled to death in this dense jungle.’
Gahar’s face grew solemn. ‘You are right, Srikanta. Trees have a language of their own. And I know it. You don’t believe me, do you?’
‘I find it difficult, I must confess.’
‘Yes, it is difficult,’ Gahar murmured. Suddenly he posed a question, ‘Have you ever been in love, Srikanta?’
I looked up, startled. I had been up half the night writing a long letter—perhaps my last—to Rajlakshmi. I had described my meeting with Thakurdada and the circumstances in which I was caught. I had also sought her permission to marry Putu. With that letter still in my pocket I laughed and answered, ‘No.’
‘If you ever do, if such a day comes in your life—write me a letter.’
‘Why, Gahar?’
‘I’ll come and stay with you for a few days. And if you ever need money, don’t hesitate to ask. Baba left me a lot of money. I have no use for it—but you may.’
Tears pricked my eyelids. I said, ‘I’ll remember your offer, Gahar. But, if you truly love me, pray that the need never arises.’
On the day of my departure, Gahar came with me to the station my bag slung, once again, across his shoulder. I tried to take it away from him. So did Nabin. But he clung to it as if it were his dearest possession. As I stepped onto the train, he burst out crying loudly and unashamedly—like a woman.
‘Come and see me, Srikanta, once at least, before you leave for Burma.’
I couldn’t turn down his appeal. ‘I promise,’ I said.
‘Write me a letter as soon as you reach Calcutta.’
‘I will.’
When I reached my lodgings, late that evening, I found Ratan outside, on the steps.
‘Why, Ratan? What brings you here?’
‘I’ve been here since yesterday waiting for you, Babu. I’ve brought a letter.’
I understood that the letter was in reply to mine. ‘It could have been sent through the post,’ I said. ‘Why did you have to come all the way to Calcutta?’
‘The post is for ordinary people like you and me, Babu. Ma’s letters have to be carried by a special messenger or they get lost. It doesn’t matter if he starves and dies on the way—’
I found out, later, that Ratan’s allegation was false. It was he, himself, who had begged and pleaded with Rajlakshmi to send him to me. The discomfort of the journey and the long wait outside my door had harassed him to a point of gross injustice to his m
istress.
‘Come in, Ratan,’ I said. ‘Have a bath and something to eat. The letter can wait.’
Ratan touched my feet and stood up.
‘Yes, Babu,’ he said.
Three
THE SOUND OF A LOUD BELCH MADE ME LOOK UP. RATAN STOOD IN the room patting his stomach lovingly.
‘Had a good meal, Ratan?’
‘Yes, Babu. A very good meal. Our Bihari maharaj can learn a thing or two from the Calcutta cooks, whatever you may say.’
I don’t remember ever holding a brief for the maharaj either before Ratan or anyone else. But I did not point that out. I understood that this was in a manner of speaking, an expression of his supreme satisfaction at the meal he had eaten.
‘The journey was rough,’ he continued, suppressing a yawn. ‘I need some rest.’
‘Spread your bedding in a corner of the veranda and go to sleep. We can talk tomorrow morning.’
For some reason I was not anxious to see the letter. I knew what it contained and the knowledge depressed me. However, when Ratan brought it out from the pocket of his fatua(a cotton vest), I put out a hand and took it. It was in a long envelope heavily sealed with lac. I turned it over in my hand, hesitating.
‘I’ll lie down just below the window,’ Ratan said. ‘There’s a fine breeze blowing. Thank God there are no mosquitoes here like in Kashi.’
‘How are they all in Kashi, Ratan? Well, I hope.’
‘Well, enough, I suppose,’ Ratan pulled a long face. ‘Thanks to Gurudev the outer rooms are crammed with people from dawn to dusk. And, within the house, Banku Babu and Bou Ma(his wife) hold court with their servants and maids. And Ma? Well, you know Ma. I’m a very old servant and a barber by caste. No one can fool me. That’s why I offered to go with you to Burma. I knew that serving you would be the best way of serving her.’
I looked at him in surprise. I didn’t understand.
‘Banku Babu is a grown man now—a married man,’ Ratan continued. ‘What is more, he has had some education and takes himself very seriously on account of it. He is his own master and he wants everyone to know it. He has managed to acquire quite a bit of property in his own right—thanks to the deed of gift. But how long can that last?’
I still didn’t understand, though an idea was slowly forming in my mind. But, by now, Ratan was on a different track. ‘You’ve seen, with your own eyes, how often she has asked me to leave her service. I can go back to my village. I have enough to live on. But I don’t. Do you know why? Because it is through her generosity that I acquired whatever I have. And if I cause her pain it will all vanish before my eyes. I have never told anyone about my past because Ma has forbidden me to talk about it. But I’ll tell you, Babu. I had to leave my ancestral village, in search of a living, after my uncles cheated me out of my inheritance. It was my great good fortune that I found service with Ma. After a year, when I asked for leave to see my wife and children, Ma put a bundle of notes in my hand and said, “Don’t quarrel with your uncles, Ratan. Buy back your share with this money.” There were five hundred rupees—can you believe it, Babu? I thought I was dreaming. And Banku Babu! He contradicts her to her face and says cutting things and grumbles within her hearing. I tell myself that his spell of luck is coming to an end.’
I was shocked, for I hadn’t anticipated anything like this. Ratan went on, his breast heaving with indignation. ‘Ma has never stinted over anything. She has given Banku more than he ever dreamed of having in seven lives. That is why he has lost his head. He treats his benefactress like a liability. After one has drained out all the honey, of what use is the comb? Fool that he is, he does not know that with even one of the jewels she still has in her possession she could buy five houses of the kind she has given him.’
I hadn’t known either. ‘Really!’ I exclaimed. ‘Where does she keep them?’
‘In safe custody,’ Ratan smiled. ‘Ma is not a fool. The only person for whom she would willingly give up everything is you. Banku does not know that, while you live, Ma needs no other protection. And while Ratan lives—no other servant. Ma’s heart was torn to pieces the day you came away from Kashi. Only I could see it. Not Banku. Not even Gurudev.’
‘But your mistress didn’t want me to stay. You know that well enough.’
Ratan touched his ears and bit his tongue, a gesture that apologized for his presuming to contradict me. ‘I’m only a humble servant, Babu. But I’ll say that’s a lie. I won’t hear a word against Ma.’ He left the room. He was fatigued with the journey and needed his sleep.
I sat up for a long time after Ratan’s departure, mulling over the news he had given me. I had first seen Banku in Ara when he was a boy of sixteen. I remembered his loving tenderness for the stepmother who had taken him out of an obscure village, brought him to the city, educated him and given him an identity. Now he was twenty-one, married, and a man of means. If his complacency outweighed his gratitude who could blame him? Was it not the way of the world? If he was insensitive to Rajlakshmi’s deepest feelings—so was Gurudev, if one was to believe Ratan.
I slit open the envelope and drew out the letter. Rajlakshmi had evidently taken great pains with her writing for it was much more legible than her usual hand. The reason was obvious. This was one letter she wanted me to read from beginning to end, word by word. I didn’t expect anything much beyond a permission to marry Putu and a few words of sympathy and advice. Nevertheless, my hand trembled as I held it. This is what she wrote.
Kashidham
With her humblest greetings your servant presents:
I’ve just read your letter for the hundredth time. And I wonder which of us has gone mad—you or I. I didn’t pick you off the trees as I did my bainchi berries. God gave you to me after a long and arduous struggle. Thus the right to abandon me does not rest with you.
In my earliest childhood I strung garlands of bainchi and gave them to you as tokens of worship. My little hands bled from the thorns and the rose-coloured berries were stained with the hues of the deepest crimson. But, blind as you were, you could not read the letters that were etched in blood over your neck and breast. God could and he did. My garland reached his feet though it did not touch your soul.
Then a terrible storm burst over my head. Dark clouds spread like a stain over my moon-washed sky. I look back and wonder. Was it a dream? Was it really I who was so grievously afflicted? I do not search too deep for fear of losing my sanity. But, at moments, when memory is rudely awakened, I try to drown it by muttering a name over and over again. I cannot mention that name. No one can. But I have not a doubt that if he forgives me—God will, too. Here my courage does not fail.
What was I saying? Oh! Yes. A storm burst over my head. Shame and humiliation blotted out the light of my eyes. The garb of disgrace was flung on me. But it was only a garb, wasn’t it? The real me eluded the world and lay waiting in silence, in secret. If it wasn’t so, if the demon of my past had truly swallowed me up, would I have had the power to receive you when you came?
Twenty-seven summers have passed over this frame. Youth is a thing of the past and so are its desires. Don’t misunderstand me. If you do, the shame would be too grievous to be borne—even though my life admits nothing but shame. Banku is no longer a child. I have a daughter-in-law. How shall I face them on the day of your wedding? With what shall I support the humiliation? And if you are sick or in trouble who will look after you? Putu? And I? Shall I receive your news from the servant and come away from your door? Will I ever live down the disgrace?
Now you may pose a question. You may ask if you are, then, to be condemned to a solitary existence for all time to come. But whatever be your question, it is not for me to provide the answer. That task is yours. If you can’t, if your mind and brain are truly dead, I can lend you some of mine. You needn’t repay the loan but don’t forget to acknowledge it. You believe, don’t you, that Gurudev has educated me in the value of renunciation, the Shastras have shown me the path and Sunanda has instilled in me her ow
n devotion and piety. And you—you have been the burden on my back. How blind you men are!
I have a question I want you to put to yourself. We parted when I was but a child. When you came back to me I was a woman of twenty-three. Where, in all those years, was Sunanda? Or Gurudev?
I had thought I would wipe out my sins. I had wanted to purify myself. Not in the hope of heaven but in the hope of being reborn. Do you understand why? The stream of my life had become muddied and foul. I had sought to cleanse it. I never dreamed that it would dry up at the source. If it does, of what use are my prayers, my fasts, my penitential rites?
I have no desire to take my own life. But I can’t live the life of an outcast. I can take poison from your hand but banishment—never. You know me. If the sun sets I shall not have the patience to wait for another dawn.
Rajlakshmi
I breathed a sigh of relief as I folded the epistle. Its commanding tone hurt but the words fell like a blessed rain on my heart. By withholding her consent, Rajlakshmi had saved me from marriage with Putu. But what was I to do now? How I was to elude my captors, was a problem she had completely ignored. Thakurdada would be here any day for I had promised him that the permission would be forthcoming. Preparations for the wedding would have started and the unfortunate girl, past marriageable age, would be ecstatic at the prospect. Her parents would have given over cursing and lamenting their fate and started treating her with kindness and consideration. I knew what I would tell Thakurdada but I didn’t know how. The ruthless dunning and irrational insistence that I anticipated hardened my heart but the thought of Putu and her treatment at the hands of her baulked and infuriated relatives melted it and brought tears to my eyes. I lay awake in bed hour after hour. Memories of Gangamati wove in and out with thoughts of Putu and Thakurdada. Gangamati! Those brief weeks of tasting the forbidden fruit. Those honeyed days of sunshine and laughter. Those nights—deep and tender and poignant. There had been moments of pain, of separation even, but we had borne them with dignity. No taunts or recriminations ever darkened the sky of Gangamati. The villagers loved us. They awaited our return not knowing that the blossom of dawn wilts and withers by dusk and is blown away by the wind.
Srikanta Page 38
