Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  We had come out of the shadows but the light was still faint. I could discern the shapes of jasmine bushes glimmering white and pure and knew that they were covered with flowers. A champa tree, just within the gate, stood stark and leafless with not a bloom on it, but a sheaf of tube roses, somewhere near at hand, made up the deficiency with its overpowering scent. In the centre was a little cluster of sthal-padma—some five or six trees growing thick and intimate, their leaves and branches entwining and their innumerable, crimson buds gleaming like eyes in the dim light. I had never left my bed so early before. Like a hibernating animal, I had slept off the best hours of the day. I realized what I had missed. The sights and scents of dawn overwhelmed me. I felt uplifted, pure.

  ‘Kamal Lata,’ I said in a gush of sentiment. ‘Life has treated you cruelly. I pray that your sufferings cease and some happiness falls to your lot.’

  The Vaishnavi had hung her basket on the champa tree and was opening the gate. She turned around and asked, ‘Is anything wrong, gosain?’

  My own words had taken me by surprise and her startled question embarrassed me. I had no answer. We stepped into the garden and she commenced her work. After a few minutes she said gently, ‘I’m quite happy, gosain. I have dedicated myself to one who will never reject me.’

  I was not sure of her meaning but I dared not ask. The Vaishnavi swayed her head and sang:

  Kalo maniker mala ganthi nibo gale

  Kanu guno jash kane paribo kundale

  Kanu anurage ranga basan pariya

  Deshe deshe bhoromibo jogini hoiya

  Jadunath das kahe—

  (The dark jewel’s garland will I string around my neck

  Kanu’s fair name will hang in rings from my ears

  Crimson robes will I wear for love of my Kanu

  And like a wandering mendicant, roam from land to land.

  Jadunath Das says—)

  I stopped her in the middle of her song. ‘Leave Jadunath Das for the present. Can’t you hear the cymbals? It is time we returned.’

  Kamal Lata smiled archly at me and went on singing:

  Dharam karam jauk tahe na darai

  Maner bharame pachhe bandhu re harai….

  (I care not for piety, service or creed

  For losing myself in thee

  I might forget my beloved one.)

  ‘Respectable men find the singing of women offensive to their ears. Do you know that, Natun gosain?’

  ‘I do. But I don’t belong to that class of respectable barbarians.’

  ‘Then why did you stop me in the middle of my song?’

  ‘Because the arati has begun. And without your presence the ritual will be marred.’

  ‘This is a fine bit of deceit, Natun gosain.’

  ‘Why should I deceive you?’

  ‘That—only you can tell. Anyway, what makes you think that my absence from the shrine affects the worship of the Lord in any way?’

  ‘I have eyes to see.’

  She threw me a strange glance, then went on filling her basket with the freshest of blooms. At last she turned. ‘That’s enough. Let’s go.’

  ‘You didn’t pluck any sthal-padma blooms?’

  ‘No. We dedicate those to the Lord from the trees. We don’t touch the blooms.’

  The sky was filling with light but the woods were still dark and lonesome. As we walked along, I asked, ‘Are you really leaving the akhra, Kamal Lata?’

  ‘Why do you ask me the same question over and over again? What is it to you?’

  Once again I had no answer. I wondered why I felt this compelling urge to stop her from going. What would I gain by her staying on?

  On entering the math we found everyone awake and going about their tasks. The mangal arati had not yet begun. The cymbals I had heard were part of the ‘Waking the Lord’ ceremony. Several pairs of eyes looked up at us as we walked in together but there was no curiosity in them. Only young Padma giggled a little as Kamal Lata put down the basket by her side. ‘How dare you laugh, you wicked girl!’ Kamal Lata rolled her eyes at her in a mock threatening manner. Padma giggled some more but didn’t lift her head. Kamal Lata went into the shrine and I entered my room.

  I was to catch the evening train to Calcutta. Before leaving for the station I went to say goodbye to Kamal Lata. I found her in the shrine dressing the Lord. She looked up as I entered and said urgently, ‘Padma has a headache and Lakshmi and Saraswati are both down with fever. I can’t manage all this by myself. I need your help, Natun gosain. Do sit down and crimp this yellow material for me.’

  I obeyed her command and missed my train. I stayed on the next day and the day after. Early dawn saw me out in the garden picking flowers with the Vaishnavi. Afternoons and evenings were spent in her company helping her in her innumerable tasks. The days passed, one by one, in a dream of contentment. Bird-song and evensong; laughter and prayer; the perfume of incense and flowers became a part of my life. I floated on a sea of love and tender care. Sometimes I asked myself what I was doing, why I was shutting out the real world and wasting my time in the service of a graven image. But try, as I would, I couldn’t break away.

  One morning I awoke by myself. Kamal Lata had not come into my room singing her song of awakening as she always did. At first I thought it was still night but when I opened my door I found the courtyard bathed in pure, clear light. Kamal Lata stood before, me, unbathed and dishevelled. I had never seen her like that before.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked anxiously. ‘Are you all right?’

  A smile flickered on the pale face. ‘I don’t feel too well this morning. I couldn’t rise at dawn.’

  ‘Who is picking the flowers?’

  She pointed to a straggling oleander growing in the yard. It had a few blooms on it. ‘We’ll make do with those for the morning puja.’

  ‘And the garlands for Radha Govinda?’

  She shook her head. I felt my heart go out to those stone images. I couldn’t deprive them of their garlands.

  ‘I’ll have a quick bath and pick your flowers for you,’ I offered.

  ‘Do that,’ she answered. ‘But don’t bathe at this hour. You’ll catch a chill.’

  ‘I don’t see Bara gosain. Where is he?’

  ‘He left for Nabadweep the day before yesterday. He is visiting his gurudev.’

  ‘When does he return?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea, gosain.’

  Despite my prolonged stay in the math, I had not come any closer to Dwarika Das Babaji. This was partly owing to my own lack of initiative and partly to his temperament which was austere and aloof. But I had noticed several traits in him that interested me for they didn’t fit with my preconceptions of the head of an akhra. He was a man of very strong morals. He was not a hypocrite and he didn’t bore his audience with long recitations and analyses of Vaishnav texts. Although I didn’t share his religion or philosophy of life I found much in him that was admirable. His voice was gentle, his looks frank and honest and his living clean and disciplined. He commanded respect and, barring one occasion when he shamed me by fixing his benevolent gaze on me for a long while, I never entered into any argument with him. In fact, I avoided him as best as I could.

  However, something continued to intrigue me. He was the only man in the akhra. He was surrounded by females eager to serve him. He practiced a religion that placed human love above all things in the world. Yet he succeeded in living the life of an ascetic. I had planned to ask him the secret of his strength the day I left the akhra. But that, evidently, was not to be. I decided that if I ever returned, I would put the question to him.

  A couple of days went by. I pulled myself together and took a decision. Now was the time to leave. If I didn’t go today I would never go. Kamal Lata had recovered from her illness. Padma and the two sisters, Lakshmi and Saraswati, had taken up their duties. There was no excuse for tarrying. Bara gosain had returned the night before. I went to take leave of him.

  Babaji said, ‘You leave today. W
hen do you return?’

  ‘I can’t say, for sure, gosainji.’

  ‘Kamal Lata will weep her eyes out.’

  I was annoyed at the insinuation. I said, a little roughly, ‘Why should she weep?’

  ‘Don’t you know, gosain?’

  ‘Indeed I don’t.’

  ‘It is her nature. She can’t bear to see anyone leave the akhra.’

  That annoyed me even more. ‘If that is so,’ I said, ‘who can help her?’ I caught Dwarika Das Babaji’s glance and turned around. Kamal Lata stood behind me.

  Dwarika Das hastened to say, ‘Don’t be angry with her, gosain. I hear she made you work very hard when some of the Vaishnavis were ill. It was wrong of her and she admits it. We are humble folk who beg for a living. You have been uncomfortable living among us but we love you and wish you well. When you are in these parts again do not forget to visit us.’

  I nodded my head and came out of the room, my heart heavy and dull. I had anticipated the tenderest of leave takings from Kamal Lata. I had wanted to hear so much from her and say so much. But it was all ruined by my own foolishness. My weakness was feeding inwards, turning me harsh and bitter. That I knew. But I never dreamed that it would burst out into the open with such shameless hostility against the woman who loved me. I was filled with self-loathing.

  Nabin came to the akhra looking for Gahar. His master hadn’t come home for two days, he said.

  ‘That’s impossible!’ I cried. ‘He hasn’t been here either.’

  Nabin didn’t seem unduly alarmed. ‘He must be roaming about in the woods, then,’ he said stoically. ‘All we need now is the news that he’s been bitten by a snake. Then we can all sit back and relax.’

  ‘We must look for him, Nabin.’

  ‘Where? I have no intention of losing my life chasing him about in the woods. But where is she?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kamal Lata.’

  ‘How is she to know where Gahar is?’

  ‘She knows everything. If she doesn’t, who does?’

  I didn’t want to get into an argument with Nabin so I steered him gently out of the akhra with the words, ‘Believe me, Nabin, Kamal Lata knows nothing of Gahar’s whereabouts. She has been ill for the last three days and hasn’t stepped out of the akhra.’

  Nabin didn’t believe me. He said angrily, ‘She knows everything. Heaven knows what charms she practices on the wretched boy—she’s enslaved him completely. All the money his father left him has disappeared as if by magic.’

  ‘Kamal Lata hasn’t taken his money, Nabin.’ I tried to calm him down. ‘She’s a Vaishnavi and her habits are simple. She sings the name of the Lord and lives on what people give her. She’s not greedy or acquisitive.’

  ‘I didn’t say she has taken it for herself,’ Nabin said in a softened tone. ‘She’s a gentlewoman—anyone can see that. And the Babaji is a decent soul. But they need money to feed all the women who crowd into the akhra. And that too on fine foods—luchi and sweetmeats and milk and butter—in the name of the Lord. Nayan Chakravarty says that my master has signed away twenty bighas of land in Kamal Lata’s name.’

  ‘That may only be a piece of malicious gossip. Nayan Chakravarty is no angel. Hasn’t he wangled quite a bit of property for himself?’

  ‘You are right, Babu,’ Nabin admitted. ‘That rascally Brahmin is as cunning as a fox. But I can’t help believing him. I know my master, you see. Only the other day he signed away ten bighas of land in favour of my sons. I begged him not to but would he listen? “I know your father left you a lot of land,” I said, “but if you give it all away, how will you live?” “I come from a line of fakirs, Nabin,” he replied. “I can take up my ancestral vocation whenever I need to. No one can cheat me out of that.” This is the way he talks, Babu.’

  Nabin went away. I noticed that he didn’t ask me what I was doing in the akhra. I’m glad he didn’t, for the question would have embarrassed me. Just before leaving he gave me the news that Kalidas Babu’s son’s wedding had taken place the day before with much pomp and ceremony. The date—the twenty-seventh—had slipped my mind.

  I kept worrying about Gahar’s disappearance till the truth dawned on me, suddenly, like a bolt of lightning. Why was the Vaishnavi so eager to leave the ashram? And why was she hiding the reason from me? I was convinced that it was not the Vaishnav in the woods and his demand for the restitution of his conjugal rights that was worrying Kamal Lata. It was Gahar’s love for her. I remembered Kamal Lata saying, on my first day in the akhra, that Gahar would not mind my staying the night if he knew I had done so at her request. Gahar was a mild, gentle soul. He had nobody in the world and he cared for nothing—neither land and money, nor public disapproval. What was it that was keeping him away from the akhra he loved? The Vaishnavi knew the reason—I was sure of it. And it was out of a desire to release him from the pangs of an unrequited love that she had decided to go away.

  I sat on the bench beneath the bakul tree for a long time after Nabin left, these thoughts and many others flitting through my head. Then I took out my watch and looked at the time. If I meant to catch the five o’clock train I should start getting ready, I told myself. But planning to leave and staying behind had become a habit. A tremendous lassitude overtook me and I could not move. I told myself that it was my duty to look for the missing Gahar and that I had promised to attend Putu’s wedding reception. But I had no one barring myself, to remind me of my obligations. After a while Padma came with a message from Kamal Lata. Following her into the yard I came face to face with the Vaishnavi.

  She said, ‘The train won’t reach Calcutta before midnight. You’d better have something to eat before you go. I’ve got some prasad laid out in your room.’ There was not the faintest change in her voice or manner. She was the same Kamal Lata—warm and tender and loving.

  ‘You’ll come again, won’t you, Natun gosain?’ she said just before I left.

  ‘If you promise not to leave the akhra.’

  ‘How long must I stay?’

  ‘You tell me when you want me back.’

  ‘No, I can’t do that.’

  ‘Then tell me something else—’

  ‘I can’t tell you that either. You must work out the answers for yourself.’

  I wanted, desperately, to stay. ‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ I wanted to say. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. As I rose to leave I saw that Kamal Lata had turned her face away. The gesture went straight to my heart. I walked out of the akhra without a word.

  Nine

  A BANDONING THE HIGHWAY, I WALKED THROUGH THE WOODS trying out one trail after another. I knew I would get a train, whenever that might be, and I was in no hurry. As I walked on, the unfamiliar woods became familiar. I remembered the trails from my childhood. Only what had seemed wide and clear then was cramped and confined now. Why, wasn’t that the garden with the haunted tree? It had belonged to the Khans if I remembered right. That meant I was walking along the southernmost fringe of my own village. I came up to the tree and stood below it. It was rumoured that a man had hanged himself from the topmost branch and had haunted the garden ever afterwards. I remembered how terrified I was of the tree, as a child. If I came upon it, unawares, I would run away, trembling. But now the tree was old and gnarled. It had fared no better nor worse than other tamarind trees of its years. It was bent over double and its roots stood out, monstrous and black. It wrinkled its old face into a smile and said, ‘How are you, friend? You haven’t passed by in many years. Are you still afraid of me?’

  I put out a hand and stroked the rough bark. ‘I’m well, bhai,’ I said. ‘I’m not afraid. Why should I be? You are my childhood friend—dearer to me than the closest of relations.’ The shadows of twilight gathered slowly around me. I turned reluctantly. ‘Farewell, my friend,’ I said. ‘It was my great good fortune that we could meet again.’

  I passed garden after garden on my way to the station. Then came a little clearing among the trees. Overwhelmed by childhood mem
ories, I would have walked through it but there suddenly came, wafting on the air, a rich scent, long forgotten yet maddeningly familiar. I looked around and saw that I stood on Jashoda Vaishnavi’s land. And, sure enough, there was her aush tree standing in its corner, gnarled and mossy with age. It was a dead tree but one branch still lived and breathed, and on it, tucked away in a nest of green leaves, were the tiny white flowers that gave out such a heady perfume. I remembered how I had loved those flowers as a child; how I had pestered the Vaishnavi to give me some, for this tree was the only one of its kind in these parts. The Vaishnavi’s Vaishnav was buried beneath it. Gahar and I had never seen him—he had left the world before we came into it—but his presence was made real to us by the mound of earth on which the Vaishnavi lit her lamp each evening. Whenever we worried her for aush flowers she would point to the mound and shake her head. ‘No, Baba Thakur. Those flowers are for my puja. My Lord will be offended if I let you touch them.’

  Jashoda made a living out of selling combs, ribbons, spools of thread, glass dolls, tin whistles, hair oil, vermilion, fishing-rods and tackle. It was her husband’s business but she had carried it on after his death. All her wares were contained in one barrel yet not a week went by without one or the other of us knocking on her door to buy something from her.

  I could see that Jashoda had found a place beside her husband, for now there were two mounds beneath the aush tree. But they were not clean and smooth as of old. Weeds and creepers grew on them, thick and lush with many rains and, coming closer, I found the lamp, rusty and blackened with age, lying face downwards on a bed of nettles. The hut still stood though the thatch had come down in several places and many of the posts were missing. I remembered Jashoda’s dwelling as I had seen it in my childhood, a neat, strong hut with an earthen yard, smooth and gleaming with cow-dung, behind it and a little garden with the aush tree in it, in front. A secure fence of bamboo rails had surrounded it on all sides. My heart was heavy as I surveyed the havoc wrought by time. But worse was to follow. A starved, mangy skeleton of a dog came creeping out of the shambles and, looking at my face with hollow eyes, tried to wag a feeble tail. This was Jashoda’s dog. The red flowered collar that she had made for him out of a sari border was still around his neck. The childless widow had reared him with all the tender care she would have lavished on a child. But now he was old and gaunt and left to fend for himself and he neither had the training for it nor the capacity. He stayed on in the only place he knew, waiting for the only person he knew to return. And all the while he was dying a slow death.