Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  ‘Of course it was. They are my constant companions and will remain with me till the hour of my death. I’ve tried to die but I couldn’t—because of you.’

  ‘I know that, Lakshmi. But if you keep hurting me like this, over and over again, I’ll go away—so far away that you’ll never find me again.’

  Rajlakshmi shivered and, clutching my hand, laid it on her breast. ‘You are too cruel,’ she said. ‘Don’t ever speak those words again.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘You mustn’t even think them. And promise me you’ll never leave me—’

  ‘I didn’t leave you because I wanted do. You asked me to go.’

  ‘That wasn’t your Lakshmi. That was someone else.’

  ‘But I’m still afraid of that someone else.’

  ‘You needn’t be, anymore. She’s dead—the wicked ogress.’ And she gripped my hand with all the force of her delicate flower-like one. We sat, silent, for a few minutes, then she asked, ‘Are you really going to Burma?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why are you going? We are just the two of us. How much do we need?’

  ‘However little we need—it must be earned.’

  ‘God will provide. I won’t let you take up a job. You’re not strong enough.’

  ‘If my health breaks down, I’ll come back. What else can I do?’

  ‘You will come back. I know it. But must you torture me by dragging me away to the end of the world?’

  ‘You don’t have to be tortured. You needn’t go.’

  ‘Don’t joke—for God’s sake.’ Rajlakshmi’s eyes flashed fire.

  ‘I’m not joking. It will be a hard life. You’ll have to cook, clean, sweep and swab, make beds—’

  ‘What will the servants do then?’

  ‘There won’t be any servants. I won’t be rich enough to afford them.’

  ‘I don’t care. I will go with you no matter how hard you try to dissuade me.’

  ‘Come then. We’ll go together—you and I. There’ll be so much to do that you’ll have no time for your innumerable prayers and fasts or for quarrelling with me.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of work.’

  ‘Very true. But it will be a different kind of work. I doubt if you’ll stay even a week.’

  ‘I’ll go with you and come back with you—if I don’t like it there. I don’t have to leave you behind.’ She thought for a minute and said, ‘As a matter of fact, it might be rather nice. Just the two of us in a little house with no servants to disturb us. Keep me as you will. I won’t complain. And I won’t want to come back either.’ She put her head down on my lap and shut her eyes.

  ‘You seem deep in thought,’ I remarked after a while.

  She opened her eyes and smiled. ‘When do we go?’

  ‘You’ll have to make arrangements for your house and servants. We’ll go as soon as you are ready.’

  She nodded and closed her eyes, then opened them again. ‘Let’s go to Muraripur before that, and spend some time in the akhra.’

  ‘I did promise to do so before leaving the country—’

  ‘Then, let’s go tomorrow.’

  ‘Will you come?’

  ‘Why not? Kamal Lata loves you and Gahar Dada loves her. This is a fine state of affairs.’

  ‘Who told you all this?’

  ‘You told me.’

  ‘I did nothing of the sort.’

  ‘Oh yes, you did. Only—you don’t know when.’

  I was alarmed and tried to retrieve the situation. ‘I’d rather you didn’t go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll make fun of the poor girl and worry the life out of her.’

  Rajlakshmi drew her brows together. ‘Is that your reading of my character? After all these years? Am I likely to make fun of Kamal Lata because she loves you? Am I not a woman? Is loving you a crime? It is quite possible that I may grow to love her myself.’

  ‘Nothing is impossible for you. Come along, then.’

  ‘We’ll go by the morning train tomorrow. Don’t worry, dearest. I won’t give you cause for a moment’s unhappiness. Not anymore. I promise.’ She lay down again and shut her eyes. Her breathing grew slow and measured; her breast heaved gently. She seemed to have gone far away—very far. I was frightened and gave her a little shake. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘No, nothing.’ Rajlakshmi opened her eyes and smiled. But even her smile seemed strange, for some reason.

  Eleven

  WE DIDN’T LEAVE THE NEXT DAY—I DIDN’T FEEL UP TO IT—BUT THE day after saw us on our way to Muraripur. Rajlakshmi’s faithful retainer, Ratan, without whom she wouldn’t stir a yard, left by the morning train with a vast quantity of luggage and Rajlakshmi and I followed with another lot of bundles and baskets and the kitchen maid, Lalur Ma, in attendance.

  ‘Are you planning to settle down in Muraripur?’ I asked Rajlakshmi.

  ‘I’ll stay for a while. You went and saw the woods and fields and river of our childhood all by yourself like the selfish creature you are. Don’t they belong to me too? And don’t I yearn for them the same as you do?’

  ‘That’s understandable enough. But do we need so many things? And so much food?’

  ‘We can’t go empty-handed to a place of God. Besides, you haven’t been asked to carry anything. Why do you worry?’

  As a matter of fact, that was the least of my worries. What I feared most was Rajlakshmi’s reception of Govindaji’s prasad and the effect it would have on Kamal Lata. Rajlakshmi would treat it with the utmost reverence but not a morsel of it would pass through her lips for it would be touched by bairagis and Vaishnavs. She might start fasting all over again or she might, just possibly, set up a kitchen of her own. Both would be acutely embarrassing for me. But I knew that she would do whatever she did gracefully and courteously. She would be so charming and vivacious that the inmates of the akhra wouldn’t dream of taking offence. That was the only thought that comforted me.

  I watched her as she put away a variety of things in two tall almirahs that had been brought in the day before. Her body had always been light and slim and supple of movement. And the prolonged fasts and deprivations of the last few years had given it a glow that nearly dazzled the eyes. She had bathed early this morning and draped a Vrindavani sari about her form. It was of catechu brown silk woven over with fruits and flowers and leaves and buds whose colours matched the streaks of sandal, vermilion and saffron that the Oriya panda at the bathing-ghat had marked, carefully and tastefully, upon her brow. The jewelled eyes of her shark-headed bangles flashed fire with every movement of her hands and the diamonds and emeralds around her neck glittered and sparkled between the borders of her sari. A blue flame darted from the jewels in her ears. She wore no blouse—she rarely did, in the house—(she always said that, being a simple village girl, she found these newfangled articles of clothing constricting and irksome) and her neck and arms and part of her breast were bare. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  She shut the door of the almirah and locked it. Then, turning around, she caught my eye and, drawing her sari quickly about her shoulders, laughed ruefully. ‘Why do you stare at me so? Do you see anything special?’

  ‘I see God’s handiwork. I wonder who gave him the assignment.’

  ‘You. Who else has such perverted taste? You came into the world some five or six years before me. You told Him to make me for you just before you came. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘No. But how do you know all this?’

  ‘Because God whispered it in my ear just before packing me off. Have you finished your tea? We’ll miss the train if you don’t hurry.’

  ‘What if we do?’

  ‘You don’t seem very enthusiastic about going. Tell me why.’

  ‘Because I’m afraid of losing you in the crowd.’

  ‘You won’t lose me. On the contrary, I may lose you.’

  ‘That isn’t desirable either.’

  ‘Don’t put me off, please. Let’s go. I hear Natun gosa
inji has a room of his own in the akhra. The first thing I’ll do when I’m there is to break the bolts of the door. As for me—your slave girl will be there for you whenever you want her.’

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  It was mid-afternoon by the time we reached the akhra. Govindaji’s bhog had just been concluded. We had arrived without any intimation and there were so many of us but the inmates of the akhra were delighted to see us. Bara gosain was away, I was told, on a visit to his gurudev in Nabadweep and a couple of bairagis had taken possession of my room.

  ‘I never dreamed you would come back to us so soon, Natun gosain,’ Kamal Lata said in a voice thick with emotion.

  ‘He would have come sooner, Kamal Lata Didi,’ Rajlakshmi replied for me. From the way she spoke, one might think she had known Kamal Lata all her life. ‘I am responsible for the delay. Blame me, if you will.’

  Kamal Lata’s face reddened at these words and Padma let out a squeal of laughter. From Rajlakshmi’s appearance and manner, it was obvious that she was a gentlewoman of good birth and breeding. What the Vaishnavis wanted to know was her connection with me. The intelligent Rajlakshmi perceived this in a moment and proceeded to satisfy their curiosity. ‘Do you recognize me, Kamal Lata Didi?’ she asked brightly. ‘Have you never seen me in Vrindavan?’

  The joke was not lost on Kamal Lata. She smiled and answered, ‘I don’t seem to remember, bon.’

  ‘That’s just as well, Didi, because I’ve never been to Vrindavan in all my life. I lived here, in these parts, as a child.’ Pointing to me she continued, ‘We went to the pathshala together. We were so fond of one another—we were like brother and sister. I called him Dada and he loved me as tenderly as a little sister. He never laid a finger on me!’ And, turning to me, she asked, ‘Isn’t that true?’

  ‘I knew it,’ Padma said with her customary giggle. ‘That’s why you look alike—both tall and slim. Only you are fair and Natun gosain is dark. I knew it the minute I saw you.’

  ‘Yes, Padma,’ Rajlakshmi replied gravely. ‘We have to be alike. There’s no other way for us.’

  ‘You know my name?’ Padma cried out in wonder. ‘Who told you? Natun gosain?’

  ‘Yes. That is why I’ve come to see you. “Take me with you to the akhra,” I said to your Natun gosain. “Your reputation won’t suffer with me by your side. And, even if it does, no harm will come to you. The poison will stick in your throat as it did for Neelkanth. * It won’t spread to the rest of your body.”’

  ‘Why do you talk such nonsense?’ I asked angrily. ‘That too before a child.’

  ‘It isn’t nonsense. I’m absolutely serious.’

  ‘Don’t believe her, Kamal Lata,’ I said. ‘She’s eternally plotting and planning mischief.’

  ‘Oh I am, am I? Why do you malign me, gosain? It must be you who is plotting something—in connection with me.’

  ‘I don’t deny it.’

  ‘But I have nothing to do with it. I’m as innocent as a new blown flower.’

  Kamal Lata laughed at her manner but I could see that she was bewildered and didn’t know what to make of this exchange. I hadn’t told her about Rajlakshmi. After all, what had been there to say, then?

  ‘What is your name, bon?’ she asked after a while.

  ‘My name is Rajlakshmi. Your gosainji has dropped the first syllable and shortened it to Lakshmi. I had no name for him till you gave him one. He tells me to call him Natun gosain these days. “I’ll feel better if you do,” he says.’

  Padma laughed and clapped her hands. ‘I know what that means,’ she said happily.

  Kamal Lata glared at her. ‘What do you know, you nitwit?’

  ‘I know. I know. Shall I tell?’

  ‘There’s no need. Run along now.’ Then, taking Rajlakshmi’s hand, she said, ‘It is very late, bon, and you look tired and hungry. Wash your hands and feet and come to the shrine. Then we’ll partake of prasad together. You, too, Natun gosain.’

  The crucial moment was upon us and I waited, tense with inner conflict. Rajlakshmi’s mania for purity and sanctity, particularly where food was in question, had become so much a part of her that logic and reason held no ground before it. It wasn’t a question of belief—it was habit, pure and simple. Her set of standards was for herself alone. She didn’t expect it of others, least of all, me. Whenever I reported some particularly unholy or unscriptural conduct of mine (as I enjoyed doing) she would cover her ears and pretend not to hear, or laugh and shake her head. ‘Honestly! I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you. You’ll drag me to hell at this rate.’

  But the situation here was different. Here she was up against a group of intensely religious beings who had given up the world and embraced a doctrine of love and brotherhood. Caste and its hierarchy meant nothing to them for, in their code, birth was an accident and the past insignificant. What mattered was the present—the association of a group of people drawn together by a religion of love. No one had, to this day, insulted them by refusing to partake of Govindaji’s prasad. If such a thing happened, and through me, I could never hold my head up again. I knew Kamal Lata. She would not utter a word of reproach. Nor would she allow me to explain. She would hold my eyes with her own for a brief moment before walking away. And her unspoken comment would sear my soul!

  ‘Come, Natun gosain,’ Padma came to call me. ‘Have you had your wash? They’re all waiting for you. Prasad is being served.’

  ‘What is the prasad today, Padma?’

  ‘Today is Govindaji’s anna bhog. *’

  ‘Worse and worse,’ I thought. Aloud I said, ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘To the eastern veranda. Your thala has been laid beside Babaji moshai’s. We women will eat later. Rajlakshmi Didi is to serve us.’

  ‘Isn’t she going to eat with you?’

  ‘No. She’s a Brahmin. She’ll lose caste if she eats anything touched by Boshtoms like us.’

  ‘Did she tell you that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wasn’t your Kamal Lata Didi offended?’

  ‘No. Why should she be? She laughed and said, “In our next birth we’ll be born sisters and we’ll eat together from the same thala. And if you brag about your caste, then, and try to be saucy, Ma will box your ears.”’

  I was pleased at Rajlakshmi’s discomfiture. She had met her match at last.

  ‘What was her reply?’ I asked Padma.

  ‘Rajlakshmi Didi laughed too. “Why should Ma box my ears, Didi?” she said. “You’ll be the older sister. You may punish me as you will.”’

  On seeing them together I found that this little exchange hadn’t soured their relationship. If anything, it had helped to forge a mutual bond that was pleasing to behold. Bara gosain arrived by the evening train, a group of babajis with him. Bara gosain was pleased to see me but not the others. One couldn’t blame them for they were all, without exception, wholeheartedly, even ostentatiously, Vaishnav, with intricately marked noses and foreheads. One was a famous kirtaniya (so I was told) and another—an expert on the mridanga.

  The meal over, I walked down to my favourite haunt in the woods. Pushing my way across great stretches of reeds and brambles that tore at my skin, I came upon the sun setting over the dying river. I sat on the bank watching the scene but not for long for somewhere, near at hand, a clump of the bulbous andhar manik * was opening its petals and the stench of putrid flesh came to my nostrils with every gust of wind. I returned to the akhra wondering why poets rated flowers so highly. If someone were to send them a bunch of andhar manik as a gift, what would they feel?

  Padma met me as I entered and said, ‘You love to hear kirtans, don’t you, gosain? Manohar Das Babaji will sing to us tonight after Govindaji’s arati. He has a wonderful voice. You’ve never heard anything like it before.’

  ‘I’ve loved the padavalis ** of Vaishnav poets from my childhood, Padma. I find them more melodious than any other music in the world. As a child I would walk miles and brave every kind of punishment t
o hear the songs of kirtaniyas. Won’t you be singing tonight, Kamal Lata?’

  ‘No, gosain. I have hardly any training. Singing before a great master like Manohar Das Babaji would be impertinent of me. Besides, my voice is not what it used to be. My throat was affected by the fever and is still heavy and hoarse.’

  ‘But Lakshmi must hear you sing. She thinks I exaggerate—’

  ‘I’m sure you do, gosain,’ Kamal Lata blushed and turned to Rajlakshmi. ‘I’ll sing, whatever little I know, some other time, bon.’

  ‘Do that,’ Rajlakshmi smiled. ‘Just send me word when you are ready and I’ll come to you myself. One other thing. Tell Bara gosain that I would like to sing tonight—after Babaji moshai’s kirtan—’

  Kamal Lata shook her head doubtfully and said, ‘I wonder if that would be wise. The Babajis are very particular—’

  ‘There’s no harm in taking the name of God—surely. No one could be more particular than my Durbasha muni * here,’ she laughed, pointing at me. ‘I’m not nervous of Radha Govinda or of the Babajis but I am of him.’

  ‘You’ll get a reward from me if you pass the test,’ I said.

  ‘Ma go! Don’t give me any rewards please. Not in front of all these people. I don’t trust you. You’re capable of anything.’

  The Vaishnavis giggled at her words and little Padma clapped her hands and sang joyfully, ‘I know what that means.’

  ‘Be quiet, you silly girl,’ Kamal Lata scolded her tenderly. ‘Take her away. One never knows what she’ll say next.’

  The singing commenced at dusk. The open space outside the shrine was packed with people from the neighbouring villages: bairagis and Vaishnavs for the most part. The inmates of the akhra sat at one end, guests and outsiders at the other. In the centre, under a blaze of hanging lamps, Manohar Das Babaji and his musicians sat, ready for their performance. The young Vaishnav who had dislodged me was to play the harmonium. The harmonium and mridanga belonged to the akhra, and were brought out on occasions like this one. Word had gone around that a young woman of high birth and surpassing beauty had arrived from Calcutta and that she would be singing devotional songs in praise of Radha Govinda. People whispered to one another about her wealth, the servants she had brought with her, the goods she had donated to the akhra and the young man who was her companion, one Natun gosain—a compulsive rover, born and bred in these parts.