by Basu, Bani
Aritra said, ‘Oh my god! What a lecture! Is this what you tell your students—with such passion? Is the life force of a nation banked with only a handful of people? In that case no real humans should have been born in post-war Europe.’
‘Their poet himself has told us Aritra that post-war Europe was a dead land, that its people were the hollow men. Post-war history belongs not to Europe but to America. But I do not know what magic Germany used to absorb its enormous damage, to overcome the splitting of the country, to stand up again so heroically with its head held high.’
Mahanam said, ‘There can never be only one reason for the degeneration of a country, Esha. India has always accepted defeat against external enemies because of its internal wars—Kauravas versus Pandavas, Ambhi versus Puru, Jaichand versus Prithviraj, Nehru versus Jinnah, and now, in recent time, Bhindranwale, Ghising . . . it goes on and on. Another big reason is the ancient practices of our caste-based social system. The Brahmin will only perform priestly tasks and teach, he will not know how to defend himself. The Vaishya will only be involved in agriculture and trade, he will not learn how to handle weapons. As for the Shudra, the less said the better. So in the event of being attacked, there will be no one but a handful of Kshatriyas to defend the country.’
Esha said, ‘Even the Kshatriyas were taught to lay down their swords. In the Vishwantar Jataka the prince relinquished his weapons. The subjects had reason to be infuriated—they were intelligent.’
‘It wasn’t like this at the beginning, though,’ said Mahanam. ‘Dronacharya, Parasuram, Ashwathama were all merchants of war despite being Brahmins.’
Aritra said, ‘But the Mahabharata spun plenty of tales to establish that they were exceptions.’
‘They could also be the remnants of the original classless society,’ said Mahanam. ‘They acquired the caste system from the Dravidian civilization at Harappa. Before the Aryans came to India, their men, women and children could all use weapons. That was why they could destroy such a well-established Dravidian civilization despite being far less knowledgeable and far more impoverished. But this particular disease of civilized life attacked them too. The women threw down their bows and arrows to take up spoons and ladles. The boys exchanged their sticks for balls. As a result we have so much specialization now that the dentist cannot treat the ear.’
Mahanam jumped to his feet. ‘Give me a few minutes. Let me do my exercises.’ He went into his room, which he was sharing with Aritra. They were talking in Esha’s room. The bed was on one side, and there was a desk and two chairs. Aritra and Mahanam were on the chairs and Esha, on the bed, swinging her legs.
‘Let me ask for some tea or coffee, all right?’ said Aritra.
‘All right,’ said Esha.
When Aritra returned, Esha said, ‘Do you remember Ari how you collected me at Hedua and took me to Mahanamda’s house in Duff Lane as a huge surprise? There was so much trouble and notoriety because Mahanam-da had superseded many of his seniors to become a professor immediately on his return from Oxford. Meanwhile the students were lapping up his lectures. Do you remember how I used to argue with him as an equal even though I was only an immature undergraduate?’
Aritra said, ‘The best moment came when Mahanamda dismissed Rabindranath’s prose, and called Sudhin Dutta’s writing stilted. You asked for an example of good prose, and he quoted from The Religion of Man. On the brink of being deceived, you won, jumping to your feet and clapping, saying, “Rabindranath, Rabindranath!” I can still see it.’
‘How angry you were,’ said Esha. ‘Mahanam-da laughed and said no great writer can be rejected in entirety, I think it very artificial to create categories like so-and-so’s prose or so-and-so’s poetry. Think of it this way, Vasundhara is marred by too much dialogue, Ashambhav is a brilliant opera, the sermonizing in Gora is lifeless, the incomparable narrative has lifted Noukadoobi from a romance to a novel—what could have become another Radharani had almost become a Chandrashekhar instead.’
‘You remember everything. How amazing,’ said Aritra.
‘Why shouldn’t I remember Ari, it was Mahanam-da who taught me how to apply the fundamental theories of literary criticism—those things were never taught in class. What do they teach besides the use of some vague terms? I might not agree with him on everything, but it was he who showed me the way. I should have asked Mahanamda whether he’s revised his opinion on “Vasundhara” as a poem and Sahitya and Sahityer Pathey as prose.’
Aritra said, ‘Judging from the way he was reciting Meghdoot, it seems he quite likes emotion and hyperbole in poetry these days. Anyway, are we going to discuss Mahanam-da all the time, Esha? Don’t we have anything to say about ourselves?’
Smiling, Esha recited:
Everywhere in life, in every song, there are things to say
But even after that words hold silence.
Esha had bathed before they had begun talking. She had been exuding a mild fragrance for a long time, as though from the era of Kalidas himself. Her thick hair was untied, billowing. Had she too dried her hair in incense smoke? Her hair as dark as Vidisha’s ancient nights . . .
‘No Esha, if you have indeed come after all these years, I cannot imagine that you have nothing to give me besides silence in words.’
Esha recited:
Perhaps I give, not poetry or song
But the tears of the bird with broken wings
An evening face to face like a massive star
An eternal fragrance
If nothing else, as far as the eye can see
Sunlight on the earth the colour of grain . . .
‘I have given you so much, Aritra. The revival of old memories, forgiveness for an old injustice, imperishable friendship, what more can I give you?’
Aritra was almost on his knees. ‘Please, Esha,’ he said inarticulately.
‘You want more?’ Esha was not smiling. There was sadness in her eyes. Self-absorbed, she said distantly, ‘I give you those silk-cotton trees without leaves or fruits, which shine like lighthouses even in glaring sunlight, I give you the grey dust on this pilgrimage, I give you the strange smile and sorrow on Amitava’s face, neither of which I have understood properly, nor want to. What else do you want?’
Aritra had drawn Esha’s feet, like tender silk-cotton leaves, to his breast—such soft, smooth, generous petals of feet. Rubbing his cheeks against them, Ari smothered them with kisses.
Esha turned stock still. Her eyes and eyebrows held astonishment. Withdrawing her feet roughly, she stood up, saying with anger and disappointment, ‘Go away, Ari. Do you also think like Seema that you can do anything with me just because I am alone?’
‘Why don’t you understand?’ said Ari softly. ‘I have surrendered myself to you, I am surrendering to the first and last love of my life. I will take only as much as you give. You don’t know how much of your life has been deposited with me, Esha. How will you be fulfilled if you don’t have me?’
Esha said, ‘Nothing but a past experience of mine lies with you, Ari. And that experience belongs to me. There is no question of my fulfilling myself by getting something from you. I came away long ago from the truth that existed between us. Try to understand, Ari, for me you’re no different from my girlfriend Piku. There is no difference of gender in our relationship.’
Aritra said, ‘My blood is testifying just the opposite. It couldn’t be this way unless it was mutual. You’re lying, Esha. It’s just that you cannot reject your conditioning.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Esha emphatically. ‘If it had been a case of my conditioning, I would have told you as much. It’s your vanity that won’t let you admit that I have totally outgrown you, Ari. Even with an extraordinarily beautiful and talented wife like Neelam you’re behaving like a beggar with me. How can you? Shame on you, Ari!’
‘Alas, Esha, even with all her beauty and talents added and multiplied, Neelam cannot match up to you. How can I forget you!’
‘Leave the room, Ari,’ said Esha. �
�I’m going to bed now. I’m not enjoying myself anymore, I’m not enjoying any of this. I have made an unpardonable mistake in coming here.’
Esha shut the door, not opening it the rest of the night, as though she was trying to leave no sign of herself behind the silent door. At dinner Mahanam said, ‘What’s this? Isn’t she eating?’ Aritra had tried in vain to talk to her from outside her door. ‘She won’t eat,’ he said.
Mahanam said, ‘Well then, it’s just the two of us flickering in this huge dining hall. But I’m famished, and they do a delicious daal-bhaji here. Let’s eat.’
In his bed at night, Aritra Chowdhury felt a menacing wind from the direction of Ajanta. A terrible, revengeful wind. His heart began to ache and swell in his chest, to a point where he felt it would burst out of his body. So this was how Esha had taken revenge? Arousing him in body, mind, and memory, making him clutch her feet in passion, and then throwing him away with skilful indifference. It was for this that she had come back eighteen years later. Wonderful! Lying in bed, Aritra could see his own humiliated face in the mirror. A mendicant Shiva with matted locks. Pounding and crushing him with her feet, the goddess Kali had hung dozens of heads of a dead Aritra around her neck, Esha was staring at her, stupefied.
Mahanam was not as much of a detached sage as Aritra had thought. When Esha didn’t come down to dinner, and when he saw her door irrevocably shut while passing her room through the corridor, Mahanam had realized that something was wrong. And that Aritra was probably the cause. Coming out of his room very early in the morning, he found Esha walking down the stairs with her suitcase. She had bathed already, and tied her hair up. Dressed in a grey chiffon sari with floral prints, she was ready for the day. Startled by Mahanam, she came up to him quickly and said as though offering an explanation, ‘I’m not going up to Ajanta, Mahanam-da. I stayed the night, that’s all. I’m going to leave my suitcase at the counter and look around a little by myself.’ After some hesitation, she added, ‘I won’t go back to Pune with the two of you either. I’ll go to Bombay directly from Aurangabad. Then we’ll see.’
‘Sudden change of plans?’ said Mahanam. ‘What’s the matter, Esha?’
‘Things get complicated wherever I go, Mahanam-da, that’s just my luck.’
Mahanam said gravely, ‘You ran away back then, this time too you’re running away. Must Aritra Chowdhury win every time?’
Esha said regretfully, ‘He’s created a situation where Neelam will be very upset unless I go away. Didn’t you see how she left yesterday? As though leaving the field clear for me, her condemnation written all over her face. But I’m not here to play. If Neelam doesn’t understand this, how will Ari? Neelam has been deeply hurt by his behaviour. And it’s all because of me.’
Mahanam said, ‘No one can tell when sadness can prove useful to someone. And if Neelam suffers a bit because of you, that will settle accounts. What’s the use of letting the poor woman be in your debt forever?’
Now Esha’s heart broke, the tears welling up in her breast. She lowered her face in a desperate effort to stop them at her throat. Mahanam said, ‘At that time you didn’t dare come to me Esha, I had acquired a terrible reputation. If you can trust me this time, I’ll be at your side. Join battle with Aritra. Don’t run away from the battlefield. Unless you can break him once and for all you will not find release from one another.’
Esha stood with her back to him. Mahanam could make out that she was weeping in silence. Love had died. But its wounds were still fresh in some places. Mahanam had brought fresh pain to the raw welts. Esha was a young woman of nineteen now. Who had been used and discarded. Samiddha. The tilt of the flawless pearl-coloured neck, the stray wisps of hair near her ears. An infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing. Mahanam felt his hands trembling with sympathy. But she was also an independent spirited woman. He could not belittle her with consolation. She had to be given courage. More courage. When his own hands would no longer shake with hesitation, when they could be steady but be backed by his heart, then, only then would he have the right to offer her comfort in the form of courage.
‘What was your original plan?’ asked Mahanam.
‘Go back to Pune, spend two days there, then go to Bombay, take the ship to Goa, return to Bombay and take the Geetanjali Express back to Calcutta. That’s to say, I was supposed to. I bought my return ticket accordingly.’
‘All right,’ said Mahanam, ‘I’m going to maintain your itinerary. I’m going to accompany you throughout, all the way back to Calcutta. I’m here. But it is you who’ll have to fight the battle and win it, Esha.’
Having stayed up most of the night, Aritra could not stave off sleep at dawn. He had overslept. Getting dressed and going downstairs for breakfast, he found Mahanam drawn up to his full height near the door, smoking a long cigarette. White shirtsleeves rolled up, black-and-white checked trousers. Bathed, neat and clean, hair and beard perfectly in place. Aritra looked scruffy in comparison with his sleepless reddened eyes and a greenish stubble on his face. It was Neelam who kept him well-groomed, for Aritra’s age-old habit was to crumple up his clothes and throw them away. Even when he was not in a hurry to go to office, Neelam went hoarse urging him to shave and bathe.
Mahanam sat down at the breakfast table with Aritra. Unfolding his newspaper, he said very casually, ‘Oh yes, Ari, Esha was saying she won’t go back to Priyalkarnagar. It seems she can make out you’re finding it difficult with her there. Not enough space. I’d better make arrangements for her to stay at Chandrashekhar’s house.’
Startled, Aritra said anxiously, ‘What! Our plans are all worked out. Besides, Neelam will be terribly disappointed if she doesn’t come back to our place. Please explain to her, Mahanam-da. Chandrashekhar’s house is a bachelor’s, how can she stay there?’
‘So what? I don’t think Esha cares for all that. And I’m there too. There won’t be any problems. Chandrashekhar has enough space.’
‘No, that’s impossible. Esha, Esha!’ Aritra leapt to his feet and went towards her room. He was knocking on the door. Mahanam smiled gently at his impatience.
Esha opened the door. Bowing his head, Aritra said, ‘Forgive me this time, Esha. What explanation will I give Neelam if you go away somewhere else?’
It was nine at night by the time they got back to Pune via Aurangabad. Accompanying them to their doorstep, Mahanam left, refusing to go in.
SEVENTEEN
Giving up things is easy to promise, hard to achieve. Besides, deviating from routine increases the possibility of mistakes. Impulses don’t last. Neelam returned to 233, Block B, Priyalkarnagar, and unlocked the door, fresh air filled the rooms soon after the windows were opened. The Marathi lady upstairs whom they had left the keys with had had the house cleaned every day. Neelam sprayed a freshener in every corner, switched the lights on, lit incense sticks. The surface of the table, the top of the chairs, the photograph of Goa on the wall all brightened. Neelam felt that she had had a delusional lapse of memory, for how else could she have considered this home, which she had built bit by bit herself with so much love, impure? She had come close to having her consciousness distorted by this distortion of memory, smritibhrangsad buddhinasa, saved only by remembering that a person perishes in that case, buddhinasat pranasyati. Pupu at eighteen was untainted, pure, sacred, how could she have considered introducing the poison of complications to her life? The first thing that Pupu had said when she had phoned was, ‘Is Baba all right? He’s not limping, is he?’ ‘Yes, come home, I’m back.’ ‘Why did you come alone Ma? Baba isn’t fully fit yet, and besides, you know he’s a bit cranky these days.’ Neelam felt like asking, ‘Doesn’t your mother mean anything to you, Pupu?’ But the question trembled on her lips and stopped. As it is Pupu would say, ‘You’re too sentimental, both of you.’
This time she was also on the verge of revealing the secret. ‘You know, Pupu, your father isn’t really your father. I was married earlier, you’re my daughter from that marriage.’ If she put it this way t
he impurity of the whole thing would go, but the hurt? The hurt would probably stay forever. Neelam could not gauge Pupu’s possible reaction. But her paternal assets were so valuable that she should be informed. Actually Neelam’s need was greater than Pupu’s. The burden of the truth was so heavy that Neelam could not bear it alone anymore.
That’s why Neelam breathed a sigh of relief when Esha and the rest of them returned. Aritra’s first words on entering was, ‘Where’s Pupe?’ Pupu came out of her room at once.
‘You’ve lost so much weight in just two days, Baba. So sunburnt too.’ Ari smiled, ‘This is known as a peachesand-cream complexion. Gets tanned easily. When was your father a white-skinned Englishman, Pupu? How did your exams go?’ Meanwhile, Esha was telling Neelam, ‘Dr Roy went back from the doorstep. I pleaded with him to come in for a cup of tea at least, but he refused.’
