Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  ‘Then, I’d rather you didn’t tell me. I’m leaving tomorrow and I would like to remember you as I see you now. Knowing you has been a beautiful experience. Why spoil it, Kamal Lata?’

  Another long silence. I wondered what she thought and felt as she stood there in the dark. ‘What are you thinking of, Kamal Lata?’

  ‘I’m thinking,’ she said clearing her throat, ‘that I won’t let you go tomorrow.’

  ‘When will you let me go?’

  Her answer took me by surprise. ‘Never,’ she said firmly, adding, ‘It is very late. You had better go back to sleep. Is the mosquito net properly tucked in?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It must be.’

  The Vaishnavi laughed. ‘You are a strange man, gosain.’ Then, moving forward, she ran her hands deftly around the bed and said, ‘I’m going now. Try and get some sleep.’

  She tiptoed away, shutting the door gently behind her.

  Seven

  ONE DAY, THE VAISHNAVI MADE ME SWEAR A SOLEMN OATH THAT I would listen to the story of her life even if it meant abhorring her ever afterwards.

  ‘I don’t wish to hear it,’ I said, ‘though I will if you insist. But I won’t hold you in abhorrence—ever.’

  ‘Why not? Everyone does. Men and women equally.’

  ‘Women are less forgiving than men when one of their own sex goes astray. I know the reason for it though I shan’t tell you. When men condemn women—it is mostly a pose. I may tell you straight away that I’ve heard of worse crimes than the one you are about to charge yourself with. Yet, I’ve never found myself hating or despising anyone.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m made that way, I suppose.’

  Kamal Lata was silent for a minute or two. Then she said, quite out of context, ‘Do you believe in reincarnation, Natun gosain?’

  ‘No. I have better things to believe in.’

  The Vaishnavi fixed her eyes, dark and sombre, on my face. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ she said. ‘Look, I have my face turned towards the shrine. I shall not lie.’

  ‘I know you won’t, Kamal Lata.’

  ‘Then listen carefully. About a month ago, Gahar gosain came to the akhra after a week’s absence. He said that a childhood friend had come to visit him. I wondered who it was who had the power to keep Gahar gosain away from the akhra for six whole days. I also marvelled at the fact that a Brahmin thought nothing of spending a week in a Mussalman household. When I put the question to Gahar gosain, he answered, “He is alone in the world and a law unto himself. He fears no one.” “What is your friend’s name, gosain?” I asked. When he told me your name I was startled. You know, don’t you, that I mustn’t utter that name?’

  I smiled. ‘I’ve heard you mention the fact.’

  ‘I asked him a lot of questions about you—your age, your looks and he answered them faithfully. But my head was in a whirl and my heart beat loud and fast and I saw nothing and heard nothing. You must be laughing at me, gosain! You must think me insane to react so over a name. But it is true. Utterly and absolutely true! I’m not the first woman in the world to be driven to madness by a name.’

  ‘And then—’ I prompted, smiling.

  ‘After a while I became myself again. I even laughed at my foolishness. But, try as I would, I couldn’t drive you out of my thoughts. “He’ll come to me,” my heart sang. “I’ll see him with my own eyes.”’

  The smile left my face. There was something in her eyes that I couldn’t fathom.

  ‘I saw you for the first time only yesterday. But, today, no one in the world loves you more than I do. Isn’t that proof enough that we were very close in a previous incarnation?’ The Vaishnavi paused for a few moments and added, ‘I know you haven’t come to stay and stay you won’t however hard I beg. You will go away from me in a day or two. How shall I bear the pain of parting?’ And she raised the edge of her sari and wiped her streaming eyes.

  I was so shocked that I didn’t know how to react. Here was a young woman declaring her love for me as openly and unashamedly as the sun was shining in the sky. Far from having encountered anything like it in my life, I hadn’t even read about it in books. Yet, I could swear that this was no play-acting. I felt dazed and acutely depressed. I wondered if I had done anything to deserve the situation. It was perfectly true that Kamal Lata’s beauty and sweet singing voice had attracted me and I had told her so out of a sense of indulging in a mild flirtation. She had looked after my comforts with genuine concern and, in return, I had paid her lavish compliments and sought her company. But the fact that she was nurturing a secret passion for me was beyond my wildest dreams.

  My face burned with shame and my heart beat thick and fast. I sensed danger around me. I had no idea that a beautiful woman’s love could convey such unpleasant sensations. It was indeed an ill wind that blew from Kashi, I thought. First Putu, then Kamal Lata. And, all the while, Rajlakshmi held me in the hollow of her hand refusing to relax her grip even infinitesimally. I wondered why such a flood of feminine passion was engulfing me at my time of life when youth and health were things of the past. The need to escape was urgent. ‘To hell with Vaishnav philosophy, Putu’s wedding and the rest,’ I thought, and decided, there and then, to leave for Calcutta the next day.

  ‘Oh! My goodness. I nearly forgot. I must fetch you your tea.’ The Vaishnavi rose.

  ‘Tea? Is there such a thing in the akhra?’

  ‘There isn’t—usually. I sent someone to the village to buy the leaves. I’ll make it in a minute. Don’t run away.’

  ‘I won’t—but do you know how to make tea?’

  In answer, Kamal Lata smiled and left the room. I looked at her departing figure and something clutched at my heart. I knew that tea-drinking was not part of the akhra routine. It may even have been forbidden. But Kamal Lata had discovered my preference for it and taken the trouble to procure the leaves and make it herself. I knew nothing of her past or present and what had been hinted at by the man in the woods was unsavoury enough. She, herself, believed that I would despise her if I knew the truth about her. Yet, she had wanted to tell me! I had refused to listen but she had insisted. I could see that her need to unburden herself was great. And, till she did so, she would know no peace.

  One thing puzzled me—her statement that if she uttered my name she would be guilty of misconduct. I wondered who this other Srikanta was in her life. He was, undoubtedly, at the root of my present troubles. A chance meeting, a common name and the Vaishnavi had escaped into an imaginary world. She had created a myth of love through many incarnations and had drowned herself in it. The real world and its claims meant nothing to her now. My feelings changed. I experienced a flash of intuitive understanding. I realized that she, who had submerged herself in the religion of love, had never known love in the flesh! Her unfulfilled body and soul were weary with years of whipping up emotions that did not spring from the heart. The fount was running dry. Hence her bewilderment. Hence her fear and pain. Her unsatisfied cravings sought a path of escape but she knew not where it lay. I was her only hope. If I understood her, if I admitted her—her life would have a direction and a meaning. My name, Srikanta, would be her password. Clutching it tightly in her hands she would set sail for an unknown destination.

  The Vaishnavi brought me my tea and I drank it with pleasure. The depression and distaste of a little while ago vanished and my heart was light.

  ‘Kamal Lata,’ I asked, ‘Are you a Sunri?’

  ‘No.’ She smiled. ‘We are Sonar Bene. But surely that is unimportant. It is all the same—to you.’

  ‘True. I don’t believe in caste.’

  ‘So I gathered. I’ve heard you’ve even eaten food served by Gahar’s mother.’

  ‘She—she was a wonderful woman, Kamal Lata. Gahar is exactly like her. Have you ever seen anyone with a sweeter, gentler disposition than Gahar? He got it from his mother. I’ll tell you of an incident I remember from my childhood. Gahar’s mother had given away some money to some
one—I don’t remember who—and his father had discovered it. He was a hot-tempered man and very worldly. There was a violent quarrel and I ran away, frightened. When I returned, a few hours later, I found her sitting, downcast, in a corner. I asked where Gahar’s father was. She sat, glum and silent, for a few minutes. Then, suddenly, she burst out laughing. Tears rolled down her cheeks but she couldn’t stop laughing—’

  ‘Why? What was there to laugh at?’ Kamal Lata looked puzzled.

  ‘That is exactly what I asked her. When she had collected herself she wiped her eyes and said, “I’m laughing at my own foolishness, Srikanta. Your uncle has had a good lunch and is snoring away happily in his bed. And here I am—sitting and sulking. What have I gained but an empty stomach and a host of bitter feelings?” And, with that, her troubles were over! It is a great quality in a woman—this ability to make light of a quarrel. Only those who have experienced the opposite can appreciate it.’

  ‘Are you among them?’

  I was taken aback for I hadn’t expected the question to rebound on me. ‘Everything needn’t be experienced personally,’ I said. ‘Many things are learned from strangers. What about the man with the eyebrows? Have you learned nothing from him?’

  ‘He is no stranger.’

  I stared at her, incapable of uttering another word. The Vaishnavi, too, was silent for a long time, then clasping her hands before me, she said, ‘I beg you, gosain. Allow me to tell you the story of my life.’

  ‘Well—do so, if you must.’

  But, in attempting to, she found it difficult. Her lips trembled and she sat with her head bowed, struggling with her feelings. Only for a few seconds, however. Then she raised her head. There was a glow on her face I had never seen before. She said firmly, ‘One’s ego stands between oneself and the truth, Natun gosain. It is like a fire of chaff that burns unseen. “Blow away the ashes,” Bara gosain says, “and you’ll see it smouldering in spasms.” But I dare not fan it into a flame, either. I must put it out or else the vows I took on my initiation will be rendered meaningless. I’ll tell you the truth. I may gloss over some details—I’m a woman, after all.’

  I felt embarrassed. I begged her, once more, not to tell me anything. ‘Forgive me, Kamal Lata,’ I said. ‘I have never been interested in female immorality. I feel no curiosity—in fact it distresses me terribly. I don’t know if your insistence on telling me about your past arises out of any desire for penitence. If that is so, if you Vaishnavis believe that to reveal one’s secret sins is equal to wiping them away, I request you to take your story to people who’ll enjoy listening to it. I’m leaving the akhra tomorrow and we may never see each other again.’

  ‘My insistence on telling you the truth about myself arises out of my needs—not yours. I thought I had made that clear. But I cannot accept your statement that we may never see each other again. My heart tells me otherwise. And I will live out my life with that hope burning in my breast. But tell me—are you really averse to hearing the truth? Rumours, doubts, speculations—will they always be enough for you?’

  ‘Then tell me, first, about the man I met today in the woods, the one you don’t allow into the akhra and from whom you are anxious to escape?’

  ‘So you guessed—’

  ‘It’s obvious isn’t it? But who is the man?’

  ‘If the agony and torment of hell can be personified—he is that. He hounds me and will continue to hound me from this life to the life hereafter. Do you know what my only prayer is these days? “Oh Lord, take pity on me. Remove this venom from my breast. My years of dedicated service, at your feet, are being wiped away by my hatred of Man. It chokes and pollutes me. Save me. Give me a breath of fresh air to breathe.” Yet, there was a time when no one was closer to me in the world—no one I loved more dearly.’

  I stared at Kamal Lata’s tormented eyes. I recalled the man’s cadaverous face and crude manners and marvelled that a lovely woman like her could ever have loved him.

  My disgust must have shown on my face for the Vaishnavi smiled. ‘What you saw was only the outside. You know nothing of him. Allow me to tell you.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  The Vaishnavi drew a deep breath and began, ‘I am the eldest of my parents’ children and the only daughter. We come from a village in Sylhet but my father had a flourishing business in Calcutta and that is where I lived from childhood onwards. My mother lived in the ancestral house with my two younger brothers. I used to visit her, from time to time, but I didn’t like it there and would come away as soon as I could. I was married at seventeen and widowed almost immediately afterwards. My husband’s name was the same as yours. That is why I call you Natun gosain.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The man you saw today was a steward in our household. His name is Manmatha—’ She paused, then went on with a kind of desperation, ‘When I was twenty-one I discovered I was pregnant. Manmatha had an orphaned nephew called Jatin. He lived with us and Baba paid for his education. He was younger than I and loved me more dearly than anyone else in the world. I had no one to turn to so, in my desperation, I sent for him. “Jatin,” I said, “I have never asked anything of you before. Don’t refuse me what I ask now. Get me some poison that I may kill myself before anyone discovers my shame.” He didn’t understand, at first, but when he did his face turned as white as a sheet. “Don’t delay, bhai,” I begged, “Get it as soon as you can. I haven’t much time.” Jatin wept as if his heart would break. How bitterly disillusioned he was in me—only I could tell. “Usha Didi,” he said, “taking one’s life is a grievous sin—even more grievous than the one you are guilty of. The first will not wipe out the second. I will obey you in everything, but not this. If you truly believe death to be the only path left to you—you must seek it alone. I cannot help you.” So I had to go on living.

  ‘The news reached my father’s ears. He was an upright, honourable man and a true Vaishnav at heart. He didn’t say a word to me though the shock half killed him. Yet, overwhelmed with shame and grief though he was, he collected himself and, taking me with him, left for Nabadweep where his gurudev lived. On gurudev’s advice, it was decided that Manmatha would be sent for; that we would be initiated into the Vaishnav cult and then married, according to custom, by an exchange of basil strings. I felt a tremendous relief, not at the thought of becoming respectable again but because marriage would allow me to keep the child that had come unbidden into my womb. The initiation took place. I was given a new identity and a new name. I became the Vaishnavi—Kamal Lata. I didn’t know, then, that Manmatha had agreed to marry me on the promise of a payment of ten thousand rupees. I only knew that the marriage had been postponed for about a week. Why—no one cared to tell me.

  ‘I spent the days by myself in the house at Nabadweep. Manmatha was hardly to be seen. Then the auspicious day came. I rose early, bathed and entered the prayer room. I felt pure in body and my heart was light. My father came in for a moment. I noticed that his face was pale and careworn. And then I caught a glimpse of Manmatha in the garb of a new initiate. A tremor ran through my frame—whether of joy or sorrow I could not tell. I wanted to run to him and lay my head on his feet—so humble, so truly grateful did I feel. As I sat waiting, an old maidservant—she had nursed me in childhood—entered the room. And it was from her lips that I heard the reason for the postponement.’

  The Vaishnavi’s voice grew heavy with tears. What she was speaking of had taken place years ago but it still had the power to make her suffer. She turned her face away from me and wiped her eyes.

  I waited a little and asked, ‘What did she say was the cause?’

  ‘She said,’ the Vaishnavi went on, ‘that a day before the date fixed for the kanthi badal, Manmatha had declared that ten thousand rupees was too small a sum for what he was about to undertake and had demanded twenty thousand from my father.’

  “You mean Manmatha agreed to marry me on the payment of money? And Baba agreed?” I asked, amazed.

  “What else could
he do, didimoni?” * the maid answered. “He would lose everything if the truth came out—caste, position, prestige—”

  ‘Then she went on to tell me that Manmatha had disclaimed responsibility for my condition and accused his nephew—Jatin. He had said that accepting the paternity of another man’s child was not such a trifle that he would do it for the paltry sum of ten thousand rupees. Jatin was sent for and charged with the offence. He was too shocked to react at first, then he said in a trembling voice, “That is a lie.”

  “You worthless rascal!” Manmatha roared, “I took pity on your orphaned state and brought you over from the village. The master took you in, at my request, fed you, clothed you and educated you. Is this how you repay his kindness?” And the disgraced uncle beat his head and chest and shouted, “Don’t you dare deny it! Usha has admitted that you are the father.”

  “Usha Didi has admitted—” Jatin’s voice was a whisper, “but that’s impossible. She has never told a lie in her life.”

  “You dare open your vile mouth and deny it? Ask the master. Hear what he has to say.”

  ‘The master nodded his head.

  “Didi said that? You heard her say it?” Jatin asked, again and again.

  ‘The master said, “Yes.”

  ‘Jatin didn’t utter another word. He revered my father like a god. He stood silent for a while, then left the room. Nobody knows what he thought or felt. The next morning, his body was discovered hanging from a beam in the stable.

  ‘I don’t know what purificatory rites are laid down in the Shastras for a man whose brother’s son has taken his own life. Perhaps none at all. Perhaps a dip in the river—nothing more. Whatever it may be, Manmatha was back in Nabadweep in a few days, all set and ready to do his duty by a wronged woman—’

  The Vaishnavi’s lips twisted into a smile as she went on. ‘The garland I was to hang on his neck was in my hands as I heard the story. I tore it to shreds and flung it at God’s feet then rose and left the room. Manmatha’s purification was complete. But mine had yet to begin. The man was clean and whole but the adulterous woman had to burn for her sins till she was reduced to ashes. The burning goes on to this day, Natun gosain.’