Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  Five

  GAHAR WAS NOT AT HOME BUT NABIN WAS VERY PLEASED TO SEE me. On my enquiring after his master he pulled a long face. ‘He hasn’t come home all night. If you want to see him, go to the akhra * at Muraripur where the Vaishnavi harlots are selling their wares.’

  ‘Vaishnavis! Where did they come from, Nabin?’

  ‘Things are no longer the same, Babu,’ Nabin sighed. ‘When old Mathura Das Babaji died, a young man called Dwarika Das came in his place. He is a colourful personality and surrounds himself with women. My master has struck up a great friendship with Dwarika Das. He spends all his time in the akhra.’

  ‘But your master is a Mussalman. Don’t the Vaishnavis object?’

  ‘These belong to the lowest sect of auls ** and bauls. + They don’t make any distinction between Hindus and Mussalman. All they want is to strengthen their numbers.’

  ‘But when I was here last time, Gahar didn’t mention the akhra or visit it even once.’

  ‘That was because of Kamal Lata. He was afraid of the truth coming out. The moment you left he went back.’

  In the course of my conversation with Nabin I gathered that Dwarika Baul was a poet and composer and that Kamal Lata was a young Vaishnavi who had recently come to the akhra. She was beautiful and intelligent and had a fine singing voice. Many men were attracted to her and much money had been poured at her feet.

  I had heard of the akhra of Muraripur in my childhood. It was reputed to be very old, the founder being a disciple of Mahaprabhu * himself and many generations of Vaishnavs had lived and died within its hallowed walls.

  I decided to go and investigate. ‘Will you take me to the akhra, Nabin?’ I asked.

  ‘No, Babu,’ he answered with an emphatic shake of his head. ‘I have a lot of work to do this morning. If you take the road going north you’ll come to the akhra in half an hour. There’s a lake with a bakul tree growing by it. The dalliance that goes on there is equal to that of the gopis of Vrindavan. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘What do they do at the akhra, Nabin? Sing kirtans?’

  ‘Day and night. Their drums and cymbals never get a rest.’

  ‘There’s no harm in that surely,’ I said smiling. ‘I’ll go fetch Gahar.’

  ‘Do that,’ Nabin said with a smirk. ‘But take care not to fall into Kamal Lata’s web. Men can’t resist her.’

  ‘I’ll go and try my luck,’ I said and, leaving the house, strode purposefully towards Kamal Lata Vaishnavi’s akhra.

  Twilight was falling by the time I came to the bakul tree by the lake. It was an ancient tree, gnarled and black, with a circular platform around its base. But that too was old and crumbling and totally worn away in places. There was no sign of anyone and no sounds of singing or beating of drums was borne upon the wind. I stood, uncertain, for a minute or two, then discerning a faint track in the foliage at my feet, I followed it till I came to the river. Here, on a bit of raised ground, neatly swabbed with cow-dung, sat Gahar and a man who, I presumed, was Dwarika Das—the present incumbent of the akhra. I could see him clearly even though the light was failing. He was a young man—in his mid-thirties perhaps—tall, slim and dark. His hair was swept up into a knot on the top of his head and a dark, velvety stubble covered his cheeks and chin. His eyes were large and bright with suppressed laughter.

  I stood by them, unnoticed, for both were absorbed in the scene before them. Across the shadowy streak that was the river, the sky had taken on the hues of sunset. And, out of the rose and gold, a thin slice of a crescent moon glimmered, pale and watery, with the evening star beside it winking like a jewel. The woods stretched away, blue-black in the weird light, as far as the eye could see. The tattered clouds tossed and turned, changing colour and form as though at the whim of any unruly child who, gigantic brush in hand, dipped and splashed paint in reckless abandon. The painter would return, any moment, and snatch his brush away and the colours would dim and fade and turn to ashes in the deepening dusk.

  I glanced down at the river. The moon and the stars flickered in its depths and little flashes of light appeared on the surface like streaks of gold on a touchstone. Somewhere in the woods masses of wild jasmine were unfurling their petals. The air was full of their scent, sweet and heady. The branches above my head were astir with the flutter and hum of nesting herons. The water gleamed dully, still and soundless, in the enveloping twilight. And silhouetted against the greying expanse of sky and river, sat the two men.

  ‘Gahar!’ I called softly.

  Gahar came out of his trance and stared at me with unseeing eyes. His companion nudged him with an elbow, ‘Gosain! * Isn’t that your friend—Srikanta?’

  Now Gahar sprang up and clasped me to his bosom in a passionate embrace. I extricated myself with some difficulty and, walking over to where Dwarika Das sat, I asked, ‘How did you know me, Babaji? ** You haven’t seen me before.’

  ‘Of course I have seen you,’ came the reply. ‘You are no stranger, gosain! We were together in Vrindavan, don’t you remember? I recognized you by your eyes. They hold oceans of love—like Kamal Lata’s eyes. I knew her the moment she stepped into the akhra. “Kamal Lata,” I cried, “where were you all these years? Why did you go away from me?” “I’ve come back,” she said. “I’ll never leave you now.” She became mine all over again. Our love encompasses the three worlds. It flows like an unending stream, eternal and infinite. True love is religion, gosain; true love is God consciousness.’

  ‘But where is Kamal Lata? I have come all the way to see her.’

  ‘And so you shall. Though it won’t be for the first time. You’ve seen her often enough in Vrindavan. You’ve forgotten her, haven’t you? It was so long ago. Gahar gosain! Go call Kamal Lata from the akhra. Tell her Srikanta has come to see her.’

  ‘You’ve heard of me from my friend, haven’t you?’ I asked as soon as Gahar left.

  ‘Yes. When I asked Gahar gosain why he hadn’t come to the akhra for a whole week, he answered, “Srikanta was here!” He told me you would come again before leaving for Burma.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I had feared, for a moment, from his recognition of me, that he possessed superhuman powers. But now I knew that he had guessed my identity from Gahar’s description. So far so good. Dwarika Das seemed a nice man, simple and uncomplicated, though slightly addled by his passion for Vaishnav philosophy. I took an immediate liking to him.

  In a little while, Gahar reappeared with the Vaishnavi. Kamal Lata was about thirty, dark, slim and taut, with quick, graceful movements. She had bangles on her wrists, whether of gold or brass I could not say. The long hair flowing down her back was held by a knot at the end. She had a string of basil about her throat and another in a little pouch in her hand. She may have marked her brow and the ridge of her nose with sandal paste, as Vaishnavis do, but most of it had rubbed off. I glanced up at her and was startled. I was convinced that I had seen her before. Even her walk seemed familiar.

  Kamal Lata looked straight into my eyes and said without a trace of self-consciousness, ‘Do you remember me, gosain?’

  ‘No, but I think I’ve seen you somewhere.’

  ‘You’ve seen me in Vrindavan. Hasn’t Bara gosain told you that?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve never been to Vrindavan in all my life.’

  ‘Of course you have. It was so long ago that you’ve forgotten. You drove the cows out to the meadows and picked fruit from the trees. You wove garlands of flowers and hung them around our necks. Don’t you remember?’ And she pursed her pretty mouth and smiled. I smiled with her, admitting her pleasantry.

  ‘It is getting dark,’ she said presently. ‘We had better go in.’

  ‘I must leave you now. I have a long way to go. I’ll come tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Who showed you the way to the akhra? Nabin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t he tell you that men get caught in Kamal Lata’s web and can’t escape?’

  ‘He did.’

  The Vaishnav
i’s laugh rang out like a peal of bells. ‘He has your welfare at heart,’ she said. ‘You should have heeded his warning.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  Kamal Lata didn’t answer my question. She said, instead, ‘Gahar gosain tells me you are leaving the country to take up a job in Burma. Why should you do that? After all, you have only yourself to fend for.’

  ‘What else can I do? How else do I make a living?’

  ‘You can live as we do. On Govindaji’s prasad. No one can deprive us of that.’

  ‘I know. I have been a bairagi * once.’

  ‘I knew it the moment I saw you,’ the Vaishnavi cried. ‘Why did you give it up? Didn’t the life suit you?’

  ‘Not for long.’

  ‘It is better so. Come into the akhra and meet the others. I’m only one in a wilderness of kamal (lotus).’

  ‘I believe so. But I can’t come in now. It is getting dark and I have a long way to go.’

  ‘You think we’ll let you cross the jungle at this hour? The night may be long and dark, gosain, but dawn is sure to follow. Go home in the morning.’

  ‘As you say.’

  ‘Gour! Gour! *’

  ‘Gour! Gour!’ I chanted after her. And we both entered the akhra.

  Six

  THOUGH NOT A RELIGIOUS MAN MYSELF, I HAVE NEVER BEEN irreverent towards the religion of others. The academics of Hinduism are too convoluted for me to understand, but I do not doubt the veracity of those who claim that they do. Thus, the universally acclaimed swamiji (the guru) is as much the object of my devotion as the self-proclaimed sadhuji (the ascetic). I am prepared to listen to their discourses with equal attention.

  Many scholars of antiquity believe that the true spirit of Hinduism is contained in the Vaishnav tradition and that, among all the provinces of India, it is in Bengal that this tradition is preserved in its purest form. I have rubbed shoulders with the sadhus and sants of Bihar without much enlightenment, as my readers may remember. But here was the real thing! I decided not to miss the opportunity of getting to the heart of our spiritual heritage. Since I had promised to attend Putu’s wedding reception I could not leave for Burma just yet. Why spend the few days left to me in the boredom and isolation of my lodgings in Calcutta when I could employ them, far more profitably, in pursuit of a higher knowledge? I decided to stay on in the akhra.

  On entering it I found that Kamal Lata’s claim was not without foundation. Here, indeed, was a wilderness of kamal. But the blooms were ravaged and scattered as though a herd of elephants had passed over them. There were Vaishnavis of every age, appearance and colour—each employed in her own allotted task.

  One was engaged in cooking milk into a delicious-smelling kheer. Another was kneading a large pat of dough. Yet another was rolling coconut and sesame balls between her palms while a fourth sliced and stoned a heap of fruit. All this was, obviously, in preparation for the bhog (cooked food offered to a deity) that would be offered to Sri Sri Govinda Jiu, the presiding deity of the akhra. A young Vaishnavi sat in one corner, stringing flowers into a garland while her companion (another young woman) smoothed and folded bits of bright satin and silk. I understood that these were to be worn by Govindaji after his ritual bath the next morning. The women were all equally absorbed in the work they did but their lips moved, soundlessly, at the same time, in silent incantation of the 108 names of Krishna. Darkness had set in and a lamp or two flickered here and there.

  Kamal Lata said, ‘Come. Let us make our obeisance to Govindaji. But I haven’t found a name for you. What shall it be? Natun gosain?’

  ‘Yes. If Gahar can become a gosain in your akhra, why can’t I? I am a Brahmin, after all. But what is wrong with my name? Why not call me Srikanta with a gosain added on?’

  ‘Oh no.’ The Vaishnavi dimpled and smiled. ‘It is not for me to utter that name. I would be guilty of misconduct.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘You are very persistent. Do you have to have answers to all your questions?’

  At this, the young Vaishnavi in the corner giggled and bent her head over her garland. I followed Kamal Lata to the shrine where half a dozen images of Radha and Krishna in black marble and bronze stood in a semicircle. Here, too, I saw Vaishnavis at work busy preparing for the evening arati. After bowing my head before the images, with the correct amount of reverence, I followed Kamal Lata through several rooms and courtyards till I came upon a veranda facing east. Here, Kamal Lata spread an asan and invited me to sit.

  ‘Rest yourself, Natun gosain, while I get your room ready. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Do I stay here tonight?’

  ‘Of course. Why do you ask? You won’t suffer any discomfort while in my care.’

  ‘I know that. I’m worried about Gahar. He might take offence.’

  ‘Leave that to me. When your friend hears that it was I who prevented you from going back, he won’t be offended in the least.’ And she walked away, laughing.

  I sat and watched the Vaishnavis. So busy were they that not one deigned to cast a glance at me. By the time Kamal Lata returned, they had completed their work and left.

  ‘Are you the mistress of the akhra?’ I asked.

  Kamal Lata bit her tongue in embarrassment. ‘We are all servants of the Lord. No one is higher than another. We have our appointed tasks. Mine is—’ And, turning her face in the direction of the shrine, she closed her eyes and folded her hands.

  ‘Where are Bara gosain and Gahar gosain?’ I asked.

  ‘They’ll be returning in a little while. They’ve gone for a dip in the river.’

  ‘In the river? At this time of the night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gahar too?’

  ‘Yes. Gahar gosain too.’

  ‘Why didn’t you send me with them?’

  ‘We don’t send anybody anywhere. People do as they think best. A day may come when you’ll follow their example—if Govindaji so desires.’

  ‘Govindaji is unlikely to be interested in me. I am not rich … like Gahar.’

  The insinuation was not lost on the Vaishnavi. She was about to burst into a passionate protest when she controlled herself and said quickly, ‘You are not poor either. One who can give away thousands of rupees in charity is not poor in the eyes of the Lord. It is possible that Govindaji may draw you to Him.’

  ‘That’s a fearful prospect. However, since I have no control over my destiny, all shall be as Govindaji wills! But tell me, from where did you get the news of my giving away thousands in charity?’

  ‘We beg from door to door. All the local news reaches our ears. We had heard of your generosity in paying a poor girl’s dowry long before we saw you.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I didn’t pay it. But that doesn’t seem to have reached your ears—yet.’

  ‘You didn’t pay it?’ the Vaishnavi asked in a surprised voice. Does that mean they’ve broken off the engagement?’

  ‘No,’ I smiled at her agitation. ‘The engagement stands. If anything is broken—it is Kalidas Babu’s ego. The groom’s father has realized that enriching himself at the expense of a stranger is inconsistent with his dignity as a zamindar and a man of means. And that was a stroke of luck—for me.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of anything like this in all my life.’

  ‘As Govindaji wills! Gahar gosain’s bathing in a stagnant river just before the evening arati is not the only manifestation of His power. After all, the whole universe is Govindaji’s sporting ground.’

  As soon as I uttered these words I realized that, this time, I had gone too far. But Kamal Lata did not react. She turned her face, once more, in the direction of the shrine and bowed her head as if begging forgiveness on my behalf. At this moment, a Vaishnavi crossed the veranda on her way to the shrine. She bore an immense thala piled high with luchis in her hands.

  ‘The bhog seems special tonight,’ I observed. ‘Is today a feast day?’

  ‘Oh no! It is the same every day. We have enough and to spare by
the grace of God.’

  ‘That is a happy thought. The arrangements are on a larger scale in the evenings, I suppose.’

  ‘No, again. The morning bhog too—if you stay with us for a few days, you will see everything with your own eyes. Slaves of slaves as we are, our lives are dedicated to His service. We work at His bidding from morn till night.’

  ‘What work do you do?’

  ‘You have seen some of us at work.’

  ‘I’ve seen Vaishnavis chopping vegetables, grinding spices, boiling milk, stringing flowers and dyeing bits of material. Is that all you do?’

  ‘Yes. That is all we do.’

  ‘But these are domestic tasks. All women do them. What are your hours for prayer and meditation?’

  ‘From dawn till dusk. Work is our prayer and meditation.’

  ‘Do you mean to tell me that fetching water, kneading dough and cooking are forms of worship?’

  ‘Work is worship, gosain. We are the lowest of mortals. What else do we have to serve Him with but our hands?’ Tears glistened in the Vaishnavi’s eyes and the lines of her face softened. I suddenly thought it the most beautiful face in the world.

  ‘Kamal Lata,’ I asked gently, ‘where is your home?’

  The Vaishnavi wiped her eyes with the edge of her sari and smiled. ‘Under the trees,’ she said.

  ‘But it wasn’t always so,’ I persisted.

  ‘No. I lived in a house of bricks and mortar—once. But that is a long story. We haven’t time for it now. Come, let me show you your room.’

  It was a charming room, clean and bright with lamplight. Against one wall stood a bamboo rack with a neatly folded tussore dhoti hanging from it.

  The Vaishnavi pointed to it and said, ‘Change into that and come to the shrine. Do not delay.’ And she walked rapidly away.