The very mention of Gora’s name aroused deep hostility in Haranbabu’s heart. After somehow returning Gora’s namaskar, he remained silent and taciturn. As soon as he saw Haran, Gora’s aggressive instincts were aroused.
Borodasundari had been invited out with her three daughters. Poreshbabu was supposed to fetch them in the evening. It was time for him to go. The arrival of Gora and Binoy at this time made things difficult for him. But knowing he should delay no more, he left, whispering to Haran and Sucharita:
‘Please keep them company. I’ll be back as soon as possible.’
In no time, a terrible argument broke out between Gora and Haranbabu. The quarrel was about Brownlow Saheb, magistrate of a district not far from Kolkata, whom Poreshbabu and his family had met during their stay in Dhaka. Because Poreshbabu’s wife and daughters came out of the antahpur to socialize in public, the saheb and his wife showed them special respect. Every year on his birthday, the saheb held an agricultural fair. This time, when she met Brownlow Saheb’s wife, Borodasundari spoke of her daughters’ expertise in English poetry.
‘The Lieutenant Governor and his wife will attend the fair this year,’ the memsaheb suddenly observed. ‘It would be very nice if your daughters could enact a short English verse drama for their benefit.’
Borodasundari was highly enthused by this proposal. Today, it was for a rehearsal that she had taken the girls to a friend’s house. When asked if he could attend the fair, Gora had said ‘No!’ with unwarranted belligerence. Now Gora and Haran engaged in a violent altercation about Anglo-Bengali relations and the obstacles to mutual social intercourse between them.
‘The Bengalis are to blame,’ Haran declared. ‘With all our social malpractices and evil customs we are not even worthy of social interaction with the British.’
‘If that’s true,’ countered Gora, ‘then it is humiliating for us to be tempted by the idea of mingling with the British despite our unworthiness.’
‘But those who have made themselves worthy are sufficiently honoured by the British,’ insisted Haran. ‘Take everyone here, for instance.’
‘Where honour for one highlights the dishonour of all others, I count such honour an insult,’ Gora retorted.
In no time, Haranbabu flew into a rage, and Gora continued to sting him with a succession of barbed remarks. As they argued in this fashion, Sucharita, at the other end of the table, observed Gora intently from behind her fan. Though within listening range, she paid no attention to what was being said. Had she realized she was staring fixedly at Gora, she would have felt embarrassed; but she seemed to forget herself as she gazed at him. Gora was leaning forward, his powerful arms resting on the table; the lamplight shone on his broad, fair forehead; sometimes a contemptuous smile, sometimes a frown of disgust, would play upon his face; every fluctuating mood expressed proud self-esteem. Not only his voice, but his face and entire body seemed to exude the strong conviction that his words expressed not passing thoughts or emotions, but attitudes born of long cogitation and practice; his words bore no trace of hesitation, weakness or randomness. Sucharita watched him in wonder, as if, for the first time in all her life, she saw someone as a special human being, a special man. She could no longer compare him with other ordinary persons. In contrast to Gora, Haranbabu now seemed insignificant. His own bodily and facial contours, his expression and mannerisms, even his outfit and chador, seemed to mock Haranbabu. All these days, in her repeated conversations with Binoy regarding Gora’s character, Sucharita had taken Gora for an unusual man who belonged to a certain group and held a certain set of beliefs. She had imagined merely that he might serve to accomplish some special goal for the nation’s benefit. But today, gazing at him with rapt attention, Sucharita saw Gora as himself alone, independent of all groups, all belief-systems and all goals. Like an ocean that surges in unaccountable turmoil when it sees the moon rise above all everyday needs and actions, Sucharita’s heart also filled to overflowing, its flood engulfing everything, all her thoughts and beliefs, her entire life. For the first time, she experienced what it meant to be human, to possess a human soul, and in this exquisite sensation, she forgot herself completely.
Haranbabu had noticed Sucharita’s total absorption. This weakened the force of his arguments. Ultimately, he lost his patience, and rising to his feet, he called to Sucharita with an air of deep intimacy:
‘Sucharita, step into this room for a moment, there is something I must tell you.’
Sucharita started, as if someone had struck her. Not that Haranbabu’s relationship with her precluded his calling her aside in this way. At any other time, she would have thought nothing of it; but today, in the presence of Gora and Binoy, she felt insulted. Gora, in particular, glanced at her with such an expression that she could not forgive Haranbabu. At first she remained silent, as if she had not heard.
‘Do you hear me, Sucharita?’ demanded Haranbabu, a hint of annoyance in his voice. ‘I have something to tell you. We must step into the other room.’
‘Let it be for now,’ Sucharita answered, without meeting his eyes. ‘Let Baba join us first.’
‘We should be going,’ said Binoy, rising.
‘No, Binoybabu, please don’t get up!’ Sucharita quickly intervened. ‘Baba wants you to stay. He’ll be here any moment.’ There was a desperate plea in her voice, as if they were proposing to abandon a female deer to the hunter’s clutches.
‘I can’t take this anymore! I’ll take your leave, then.’ With these words, Haranbabu rushed from the room. Having left precipitately in the heat of the moment, he regretted it instantly, but could find no other excuse to return.
After Haranbabu’s departure, as Sucharita sat with bowed head and flushed countenance in a state of acute embarrassment, Gora found a chance to take a good look at her face. In Sucharita’s expression there was no sign of the arrogance and garrulity that Gora mentally expected of educated women. Her face shone with intelligence no doubt, but how gentle it appeared now, softened by modesty and shame! How delicately graceful were the contours of that face! Above those eyebrows, how pure and clear her forehead, like the Sharat sky in early autumn! Those lips were mute, but the sweetness of unspoken words nestled between them like a tender, unopened bud. Never before had Gora noticed the attire of a nabina, a modern young lady, having spurned such things without even having seen them. But today, he saw with special approval the new style in which Sucharita had draped her body in a sari. Her arm rested on the table. To Gora’s eyes, that arm, emerging from the folds of her sleeve, seemed like a beneficent message from her tender heart. On this tranquil, lamplit evening, Sucharita’s chamber appeared to him as a special, unified vision, encircling her with its light, its picture-embellished walls, its décor and its orderliness. In a single instant, Gora realized that this was a home, adorned by the care, affection and grace of a woman skilled at nurture, the room’s atmosphere far exceeding its physical dimensions, its walls, beams and ceiling. Gora sensed the presence of a living spirit in the environment around him, his heart rocked by surging tides of emotion, held captive by a deep intimacy. Never before in his life had he experienced anything so exquisite. As he gazed at her, everything about Sucharita, from the unruly tendrils of hair above her forehead to the sari border at her feet, gradually assumed for him a very special significance. Gora felt simultaneously attracted to Sucharita’s personality as a whole, and also to every separate aspect of it.
For a while, all of them were embarrassed, at a loss for words. Then, glancing at Sucharita, Binoy said, to start a topic of conversation:
‘As we were saying, the other day …’ He continued: ‘I’ve told you earlier, I once believed there was no hope for our nation and our society, that we would remain immature forever, the English always deployed as our custodians, that things would remain exactly the same, that we had no means whatsoever of resisting the tremendous power of the British and the moribund state of our own culture. Most of our compatriots share a similar attitude. In such situati
ons, people either immerse themselves in selfish pursuits or live in a state of detachment. That’s why middle class folk in our country think of nothing but professional advancement, and the rich feel gratified simply with titles conferred by the government. Our life’s journey comes to a halt after just a small distance, so distant goals don’t even arise in our imagination, and we deem it unnecessary to equip ourselves for such ventures. I, too, had once decided to get myself a job, with Gora’s father as my patron. But then Gora forbade me, saying “No, a government job is not for you”.’
‘Please don’t imagine I made that remark because I was angry with the government,’ Gora clarified, seeing a hint of surprise on Sucharita’s face. ‘Those who serve the government arrogantly mistake the government’s power for personal authority, and form a class apart from their fellow-countrymen. With each passing day, this attitude is becoming increasingly evident among us. I know a relative, a deputy in earlier times, but now living in retirement after he resigned from the post. The district magistrate had asked him: “Babu, why are so many persons acquitted in the trials you conduct?” “Saheb, there’s a reason for that,” he had answered. “Those you send to prison are mere animals in your eyes. But those I condemn to imprisonment are my brothers, after all.” Those days, one could still find deputies capable of making such a major statement, nor did we lack British magistrates willing to listen. But day by day, the trappings of service are becoming mere decorations, the deputy of today increasingly treating his own countrymen as mere animals. And they are even losing the awareness that, in ascending the professional ladder by such means, they are constantly falling downwards on the moral scale. No good can ever come from condescension born of heights attained with someone else’s support, for we immediately start being unjust to those we despise.’
As he spoke, Gora smashed his fist on the table, making the oil lamp tremble.
‘Gora, this table doesn’t belong to the government,’ Binoy reminded him, ‘and this sej is Poreshbabu’s.’
Gora burst into a loud guffaw. The sound of his laughter filled the entire house. Sucharita was surprised that Gora could respond to sarcasm with such effusive childlike mirth. Privately, she was delighted. She had not known earlier that people who think about grave matters can also be capable of heartfelt merriment. Gora spoke of many things that day. Although Sucharita remained silent, the approval he saw on her face filled his heart with enthusiasm.
‘Please remember one thing,’ he said in conclusion, as if addressing Sucharita, ‘if we mistakenly believe that because the British have assumed power, we too can never become powerful unless we ape them, then the impossible can never become a possibility, and blindly imitating them, we shall be neither here nor there. Know this for sure: Bharat has a special character, a special power, a special reality, and only through a complete flowering of these elements can Bharat be saved, its aims fulfilled. If we have not learned this from studying British history, then all our learning is false. I request you to enter the arena of Bharatvarsha with all its virtues and flaws, and if there are any imperfections, correct them from within. But observe, understand, and reflect upon Bharatvarsha, confront it, merge with it. Opposing it from outside, steeped to your very bones in Khristani ways right from your childhood days, you will not understand Bharat at all. You will continue to attack the nation, and will be of no service to it.’
Gora called it a request no doubt, but this was no request, more like an order, too forceful to depend on anyone else’s consent! Head bowed, Sucharita heard him out. These words, specially addressed to her by Gora with such intense urgency, threw her heart into turmoil. She had no time then to analyze the nature of this turmoil. Never, for a single moment, had Sucharita imagined the existence of a vast, ancient entity called Bharatvarsha. Today, listening to Gora’s powerful words, Sucharita suddenly realized that this entity, controlling the distant past and remote future, was secretly weaving a strand of distinctive hue, in a distinctive pattern, into the giant web of human destiny. How fine that strand was, how variegated, and how profoundly connected with distant goals! In an instant Sucharita realized how petty we become, and how blind to our surroundings as we pursue our activities, if we do not remain aware that every Indian’s life is encompassed and possessed by an entity of such magnitude. Shedding all her inhibitions in that wave of sudden elation, Sucharita confessed with simple humility:
‘I had never thought about the nation like this, with such breadth of vision, such verity. But I have a question: what is the connection between dharma or religious duty, and the nation? Isn’t religion the nation’s past?’
Sucharita’s query, voiced so gently, was music to Gora’s ears. Reflected in her wide eyes, the question appeared even more exquisite.
‘The nation’s past, greater by far than the nation itself, manifests itself through the nation,’ he replied. ‘The Almighty Ishwar has expressed his eternal image in this motley form. Those who claim there is only one truth, and therefore, that only one faith is true, that only one form of faith is true, are believers only in a single truth, but unwilling to acknowledge that the truth is infinite. The infinite One manifests itself in an infinite multiplicity: that is the play of realities we encounter in this world. That is why faith acquires diverse forms, offering us manifold routes to sensing the presence of the One who is the monarch of faith. I assure you that you can glimpse the sun through the open windows of Bharatvarsha. For that you need not cross the seas to look out of the window of a Christian church.’
‘You suggest that Bharatvarsha’s mantra of faith leads us to the Almighty by a distinctive route,’ Sucharita said. ‘What is distinctive about that route?’
‘It’s the fact that Brahma, the divinity without attributes, is manifest within the particular and the definable. But there is no end to his special manifestations. Water, land, air, fire, life, intellect, love—all manifest his existence in special ways. He cannot be quantified, for he is infinite, and this has endlessly baffled science. The formless assumes countless forms without end; his eternal flow contains everything within it, large or small, abstract or concrete. The One with infinite attributes is also the One without attributes; the One who assumes infinite forms is also the One without form. Other nations have reduced Ishwar’s stature, trying to confine Him to a single particularity. In Bharatvarsha, too, there is an attempt to see Ishwar within the limits of the particular, but Bharatvarsha doesn’t count that particularity as the sole or ultimate truth. No devotee in Bharatvarsha would deny that Ishwar, with his infinite attributes, transcends even that particularity.’
‘The knowledgeable may not, but what about the ignorant?’ Sucharita asked.
‘I have already said that the ignorant will distort every truth in every country!’
‘But hasn’t such distortion gone too far in our country?’ Sucharita persisted.
‘Perhaps,’ conceded Gora. ‘But that’s because Bharatvarsha wants to fully acknowledge both aspects of religion: concrete and abstract, internal and external, bodily and spiritual. So, those who can’t embrace the abstract accept only the concrete, and out of ignorance, they create strange distortions within that material image. But it is unthinkable that we should foolishly dishonour Bharatvarsha’s extraordinary, diverse and tremendous effort to apprehend comprehensively, in body, mind and deed, the One who exists in form as well as formlessness, the concrete as well as the abstract, in contemplation as well as in manifest reality. Or that we should, instead, embrace as our sole religion a narrow, dry, featureless eighteenth century European faith, a hybrid mix of theism and atheism. Owing to convictions imbibed since childhood, you will not even understand me properly; this man’s English education has proved futile, you will think. But if ever you should develop respect for Bharatvarsha’s true nature, its true endeavour, if you can penetrate the deep secret of Bharatvarsha’s success in manifesting itself, despite a thousand obstacles and distortions, then—then, what can I say? Having regained the Indianness of your nature
and abilities, you will be liberated.’
‘Don’t take me for a fanatic,’ persisted Gora, observing Sucharita’s long silence. ‘Please don’t interpret my arguments as the language of Hindu orthodoxy, especially of those who have suddenly assumed a new orthodoxy. I have glimpsed a vast, profound unity in the many manifestations and multiple endeavours of Bharatvarsha, a unity that drives me wild with joy. Rejoicing at such unity, I have no hesitation in mingling with the most ignorant of Bharatvarsha’s inhabitants, taking my place beside them in the dust. Some understand this message of Bharatvarsha, others don’t, but never mind—I am one with everyone in Bharatvarsha—they are all my own people—within all of them, I have no doubt, eternal Bharatvarsha’s concealed presence is constantly at work.’
The words, uttered in Gora’s powerful voice, seemed to vibrate in the walls, tables and all the furniture in the room. Sucharita could not be expected to readily understand such words, but the first, vague stirrings of experience are also extremely powerful. Sucharita was now tormented by the realization that life was indeed not confined to four walls or a single party.
At this juncture, swift female footsteps were heard near the staircase, mingled with sounds of uproarious laughter. Poreshbabu was back with Borodasundari and the girls. The laughter concerned some prank Sudhir had played upon the girls as they mounted the staircase. Entering the room, Labanya, Lalita and Satish composed themselves as soon as they saw Gora. Labanya left the room. Standing beside Binoy’s chowki, Satish began a whispered tete-à-tete with him. Drawing up a chowki behind Sucharita, Lalita all but hid herself from view.
‘I really got delayed,’ apologized Poresh, entering the room. ‘Has Panubabu left?’
Sucharita did not reply.
‘Yes,’ said Binoy. ‘He couldn’t wait.’
‘We’ll take leave, as well,’ said Gora, rising to his feet.
He bowed deferentially to Poreshbabu, joining his hands in a namaskar.
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