by Basu, Bani
The walls of Daulatabad fort began a long way away from the citadel. Nothing behind them was visible. Only the dilapidated wall kept flowing endlessly. The bus had stopped. Armed with sunglasses, umbrellas, flasks and camera, the tourists had got off. After Bikram had parked, Esha stood by herself at a distance. She did not want to enter. The others were walking on ahead. Why waste time on a historical object like this fort, whose testimony you had already taken, which would offer you nothing by way of capital for living? How do you know it won’t? Instinct. You could be wrong. Intuition doesn’t make a mistake all of a sudden. Bringing this little debate with herself to a close, Esha remained outside the fort. There was a shop beneath a makeshift roof, with a few scattered wooden benches. For the first time on this journey, Esha asked for a glass of Maharashtra’s famous sugarcane juice, not so much out of thirst as out of the need to pass the time. People stared if you sat idly. She would have to ask for another glass if necessary.
Esha had been prepared to sit by herself for a long time. However, she saw a few members of her group returning. Not together, but each at their own pace.
Bikram was the first to arrive. Settling his bulk on a plank of wood, he began to sing a ghazal. Bikram had been introduced to Esha, but they had not become acquainted. What little he had seen had stoked his curiosity enormously. Containing it was a precondition of civility, but Bikram cared nothing for it. The slightest encouragement from Esha would have led him to express his naked inquisitiveness, but Esha was not encouraging him. She wasn’t ignoring or rebuffing him either, realized Bikram, so he wasn’t angry. The fact was that, like the alligator that knows nothing of fragrant flowers or the Great Bear, Bikram knew nothing of Esha. And yet, because externally they belonged to the same human species, he considered knowing her part of his natural rights.
Bikram was followed by Aritra. He could be seen returning before Bikram was even halfway through his song. His brows were creased. Sounding annoyed, he said, ‘Just dust everywhere. Rubbish. Not every stone is hungry enough to talk.’
‘You’re underestimating the fort, Dada,’ said Bikram. ‘There are several defence mechanisms in there. At some places footsteps echo in secret chambers at the top, elsewhere two open blades descend to decapitate intruders. The guide even demonstrates some of these in thrilling ways. In the darkness he takes away matches and torches from everyone, then announces dramatically that he’s about to show them something spectacular. When the crowd surges forward, he says, don’t move, anyone. Then he lights a single matchstick and a pit is revealed, so deep that its bottom cannot be seen.’
‘Really?’ said Esha. ‘I’m scared just to think of it. Is it safe in there? The other three are still inside.’
‘They’ll be fine,’ said Bikram. ‘Chowdhury-da here could have fallen though, he’s both restless and reckless.’ Holding his palm up in assurance, he said, ‘No Esha-ji, no one can fall in, the pit is fenced off.’
‘You’ve seen it before, then?’
‘Of course. That’s why I didn’t go inside. Have you any idea how many steps one has to climb? People used to go up on horseback—once is enough.’
‘Have you been too, Ari?’
‘No,’ said Ari grimly.
‘Why didn’t you, then? It seems interesting.’
‘Why didn’t you, for that matter?’
Bikram practically rolled with laughter. ‘See, Esha-ji, since you didn’t go, Chowdhury-da didn’t either.’
Esha only said, ‘I’m preserving my energy for Ellora and Ajanta.’
Neelam was seen returning a little later, her face red with exertion. Flopping down in the shade of the tree, she said, ‘Uff! This isn’t for me.’
Seema did not return because she was sure that Neelam and Esha would guard each other. She followed Mahanam up the steps as he went forward with unruffled but indomitable curiosity. He had to find out where it was leading him. And so, when they reached Ellora, he followed the official guide slowly past the Buddhist caves, the Jain caves, and the multistoried viharas and arrived at the courtyard of the Kailash temple, where he observed his companions looking closely at what Ellora had to offer, while the official party of tourists lagged behind, for the guide was delivering detailed lectures at the entrances to several of the caves. Since the group included two young Japanese men, the guide had to resort to broken Japanese from time to time. Mahanam brought his notebook out. Bikram and Aritra were taking photographs.
Esha said, ‘I’m going to take just a few pictures, Mahanam-da. Please guide me.’
Mahanam said, ‘Just follow me. I’m not going to take too many either.’
Neelam was finding it difficult to climb on to the high terrace. Slinging his camera round his neck, Bikram ran up to her, picking her up in his arms and depositing her on the terrace. Holding his hand out to Esha, he said, ‘I can use my other arm to pick you up too.’ Seema was skipping up the steps lightly. ‘How many times can Sita cross the Lakshman rekha and submit herself to Ravana?’ she said. Aritra shouted in Mahanam’s direction, ‘Don’t go so far ahead, Mahanam-da. The guide is out of sight, who will show us around if you’re not here?’
Mahanam had indeed walked on ahead. He had understood Bikram’s motives. The way Bikram had held Neelam in his arms to hoist her on the terrace had appeared distasteful to him. He stopped to let Aritra catch up. Appearing at the edge of the terrace, he said loudly, ‘Look up, all of you. You’ll see that the temple has been carved out of the hill. The hill is made of soft basalt. The architects had done their homework before starting on the temple. These temples or caves were not built upwards from the foundations, as is usually the case. The artists carved their way down the hillside. You can see the marks left by the chisels and hammers if you look upwards.’
Proceeding along the corridor on the left, he addressed Seema. ‘Don’t miss the relief sculptures depicting Shiva and Parvati playing dice. Parvati is rising to her feet with the support of her arm, which rests on the ground. A rustic pose. The artist has demonstrated how well he knows it. Here’s the scene of their marriage. Look at Parvati’s expression, Neelam, here too she takes the form of a bashful woman. Look at the Tripurantak Shiva, Bikram. Have you noticed, Ari, how different the imagination here is from the familiar Chola period figure of the Nataraj dancing symbolically within a ring of fire, or from the folk art figure of a pot-bellied Ashutosh? This Shiva is not four-armed. And much younger, too. These different versions of Shiva are probably the missing links in the history of the blending of Aryan and non-Aryan cultures. Like Mahishashurmardini, even in the time of war he has a reassuring smile on his face.’
‘Shiva was actually a young man at the time,’ said Bikram. ‘Don’t you see his slim waist? This was when Parvati or Durga fell in love with him. Later he became paunchy with age, and though she didn’t divorce him, Parvati lost interest. That was it, Shiva turned into a mendicant. The beggar god. I roamed the village roads seeking alms.’
Seema said, ‘Why are you bringing age into it? Many so-called young men also grow bellies. Especially considering how much the gods drank.’
‘That’s true,’ said Mahanam. ‘When the churning of the ocean created sura, or nectar, it was because they rejected it that asuras were named “asuras”, while the gods were named “suras” because they accepted it. But there is debate over whether this nectar was liqueur, liquor, or wine. It is usually considered a symbol.’
Esha said, ‘But it isn’t impossible that an ancient Aryan race would consider alcohol a necessity of life. They came from very cold areas, after all. What if they expressed the folk memory of this addiction as myth?’
Aritra said, ‘I think the myth of the churning of the oceans is a fertility myth. The sea is the vagina and Mandar hill is a symbol of the penis. Those who emerged— Lakshmi, Urvashi, Apsara, Dhanwantari—are the results of this sexual act.’
Bikram had been listening open-mouthed. ‘Bravo, Chowdhury-da, bravo!’ he said. ‘You’ve beaten even the latest American porn hollow.�
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Mahanam asked in surprise, ‘Did you read this somewhere, Aritra? Or is it your own conclusion?’
Aritra said, ‘Someone else may have said it too. But I don’t recall reading it. It occurred to me right now.’
Bikram was about to toss away the cigarette he’d been smoking. Seema grabbed his elbow from the back, saying, ‘How can you pollute a temple?’
‘Where should I get rid of this then?’ asked Bikram irritably.
‘Give it to me.’ Seema stubbed it out on the handle of her umbrella, and then put it in a polythene packet which she took out of her bag.’
‘How resourceful you are,’ said Mahanam with a smile. ‘Do you always have packets like that?’
‘I have no choice,’ said Seema. ‘Given his habits, he could litter anywhere, who else but me will clean up after him?’
Mahanam exchanged glances of astonishment with Esha. ‘Really Seemachalam, you are fantastic,’ said Aritra.
They continued viewing the relief sculptures on the walls of the temple, eventually joining the other tourists. Carved in rock but delicate, frozen in stone forever but soaring. They had no wings like the angels in Christian images, and yet there could be no doubt from their postures that they were completely free of terrestrial gravity. The scientist’s way of converting solid matter to energy leads to explosions that can destroy the world, but the artist’s way results in explosions of pure joy. This flying, living stone had made humans feel lighter in their hearts for aeons.
The others had walked on ahead. Even after Esha had photographed the statue of the dancing Shiva, she remained standing before it. Bowing to it in her head. When she saw Bikram return, she started moving again. Almost like the figure of Nataraj.
When they came out of the Kailash temple, Neelam said, ‘I have no wish to see the Jain caves. I’m going to sit in the car.’
The guide said, ‘Come in December or January next time, Madam. Aurangabad is hot in any case because it is in the shadow of the monsoon, and moreover these regions are built on lava. The soil is not very deep here.’
They stood in the open expanse. Bikram and Aritra took group photographs. Esha said, ‘You took so many pictures of architecture and sculptures, Mahanam-da, but not a single one of people. So human memories have no value for you?’
When Mahanam pointed his camera like an embarrassed, obedient adolescent, even Bikram started laughing. Hiding her face with her hands, Esha said, smiling, ‘I won’t let you photograph me.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Ari. ‘All of you are in my photos. Neelam ran away, but I know a studio, you’ll see how I can include her too.’
‘Are you a very good photographer, Ari?’ asked Mahanam. ‘What camera do you use?’
‘A very old Roliflex.’
‘If some of my photographs don’t turn out well, will you give me some prints of yours?’
‘Of course,’ said Aritra. ‘I should give them anyway as fees for your services as a guide. To tell you the truth, Mahanam-da, it was this Kailash temple that appealed to me the most. Any idea why?’
Mahanam said, ‘When art reaches a great height, it acquires a new dimension. The statue of Bahubali at Shravanabelagola or the chariot at Mahabalipuram made me realize this. We consider the sky and the earth, mountains and oceans, the creation of god—but all these sculptures and architectural works approach them in greatness.’
‘Doesn’t talent count?’ said Esha. ‘The expressions, postures, hand movement. The Mukteshwar temple in Orissa might be a plaything compared to Konark or Lingaraja, but it’s exquisite.’
‘Of course it counts. If the sky and the sea and the mountain are the backdrop, trees and creatures and fruits and flowers are the details. The Kailash temple is a manifestation of this enormous global backdrop, and all the carvings, sculptures and figures on its walls are the details.’
Esha said, ‘Mahanam-da, all the art in the world, especially from the ancient world, are based on religion, and yet this same religion, the bearer of the magnificent, is now the most hostile to us.’
‘Actually, Esha, religion too is another expression for our desire for find excesses in our lives. I believe the same inspiration is at work behind religion and behind art. Wonder, reverence, our humble submission to vastness— all of these found one form of expression in religion, and another in art. Naturally, the two merged. But with the passage of time, the more religion acquired the weaknesses of institutionalization and of narrow rituals, along with flawed principles, the more its gulf with art widened.’
Aritra said, ‘The number of religions keeps multiplying too. The Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist or Sikh faiths are not enough anymore. Shakta, Shaiva, Vaishnav, Orthodox Greek, Church of England, Unitarian— hundreds of branches. Now there’s a new faith named Ba’hai. Today’s Iskcon doesn’t seem to be the old Vaishnav sect either.’
‘These things are not as much a part of religious studies as they are of sociology, Aritra,’ said Mahanam. ‘The sects you mention are mostly the result of reforms in existing religions. Christianity was born to reform Judaism. The Brahmo and Sikh faiths were both revolutions aimed at reforming Hinduism. I believe even the Ba’hai faith is an attempt to reform Islam.’
THIRTEEN
Esha went for a bath after finishing her letter to Piku. Four multiplied by two: eight pages. Piku must have been expecting a letter much earlier. But Esha had not been in touch since sending a telegram after her arrival in Pune. The phase of her life with which she had been reconnected in Pune had no relationship with Piku. My friend and his wife are taking very good care of me, I like their daughter very much—she could have written a non-committal letter to this effect, but Piku wouldn’t have been satisfied. And yet, if she were to write, many other things would have crept in—how Priyalkarnagar had peeled layers of skin off her mind like an onion, the drama of unravelling the knots of memory, sadness, enjoyment and complexity, the joy and fear of being reunited with people she had known. Today’s experience had been much more impersonal in comparison. So she had no hesitation writing tonight. During her bath she had realized that even fatigue could be enjoyable. She had paused to explore all the important places in Aurangabad—Bibi ka Maqbara, Aurangzeb’s grave, everything—and collected scenes and information for Piku’s benefit. Roasted in the sun, their hair unkempt, half a dozen humans returned to the rest house. Bikram and Seema had sung songs all evening, their energy was inexhaustible. Fatigue had wrapped her in its arms. A luxurious idleness.
Esha entered the room she was sharing with Seema and Neelam, filling it with the lovely fragrance of soap and talcum powder. In her pink nightdress Seema looked like a nylon doll lying on the bed and cleaning the cream off her face. Neelam lay on her stomach, letting the fan cool her back. Taking in the scene with a single glance, Esha began to comb her hair. Watching others rest made her own body feel restful.
Sitting up, Seema suddenly asked, ‘Why didn’t you get married, Esha-di?’
Braiding her hair, Esha said, ‘Just didn’t get round to it.’
Seema said, ‘Women like you shouldn’t stay unmarried.’
‘But why?’ smiled Esha. ‘Do you want everyone’s wings to be clipped because you’ve chosen to clip yours?’
‘That’s not it,’ said Seema. ‘How else will you protect yourself in a male-dominated world?’
‘I’m doing it. Have been doing it all this while.’
‘You know,’ said Seema, ‘when an attractive object is unclaimed people assume it’s public property.’
Esha stopped smiling. ‘Do you consider yourself an object, Seema? As property? Still?’
‘Whether I do or not, Esha-di, it doesn’t stop people from thinking that way.’
Esha said sadly, ‘I cannot think of myself that way, so I don’t think about what people think either. I’m mortified to know you do. Please Seema, don’t think of yourself or me as an object.’
‘What choice do I have?’ said Seema. ‘That’s what the men in our society think.
Perhaps because they have to take the responsibility for protecting us.’
‘Maybe men don’t think that way, Seema, maybe we force them. You shouldn’t be too dependent on anyone. The police and the military for instance are there to protect us. Does that mean they should consider people objects or their own property? Society will always have a division of labour, according to each one’s strengths. Why not prepare yourself in a way that lets some people depend on you too?’
‘The person who’s supposed to depend on me, Tito, is learning to depend on other people in Dehradun, Esha-di. And Tito’s father? He is completely independent.’
‘If Tito’s father is independent, you should be, too. By not depending on you he’s ensuring you’re not a prisoner. What’s coming in the way of your independence, then?’
