Bhairavi

by Shivani Gaura Pant

  ‘Take it, take a drag. Are you deaf? Can’t you see it has gotten dark?’ Charan reprimanded her.

  Chandan wasn’t sure if it was because of the smoke that had entered her nostrils or the censure in Charan’s eyes that she found herself taking a drag.

  She coughed and then it was like somebody had taken her flying. She was walking behind Charan like a sleepwalker. The muscles that had tied themselves into knots due to a long spell of lack of nutrition were unknotting on their own with alacrity. Chandan kept walking on, spearing the great darkness of that wilderness. She walked on that unknown water body where she had earlier trembled and lost her footing with such confidence, it was as if it was the familiar pool in front of her house.

  Charan kept gabbing the whole way but Chandan did not hear her in spite of her attempts to do so. Her soul seemed to be wandering. This time, Charan had taken some other route to the ashram. Maya was still in the condition they had left her in.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Charan started saying, ‘She’ll keep swaying like a madwoman for another day or two—I had crushed fresh marijuana and put it in her chillum. Hello? Have you lost your mind to one drag? We still have to take one drag at home. Didn’t I tell you, one drag to stave off the fear of ghosts and spirits on the road and one to chase away the fear of the witch at home? Let me prepare it now, then take a drag and forget all your woes. Right?’

  Chandan looked at her with her eyes glazed over.

  ‘Oh my god—you look like Yogamaya! Your eyes look so sleepy. Let me give you one more drag before you sleep so that being somewhat intoxicated doesn’t bother you. Just take this puff and get into bed and then you can meet all the people you wanted to meet in your dreams.’ Charan laughed and left to return with a replenished chillum.

  She took Maya Didi’s hands and put her in bed like she was a child but Didi got up as soon as she had lain down and started creating a scene. Pulling her saffron sari to her knees, she started clapping. She laughed sometimes, then cocking an eye at Chandan started singing in Bengali:

  Mann na rangaye,

  Kaapad rangale

  Ki bhool korile jogi.

  [You didn’t colour your heart but only your clothes.

  What a fault you committed oh, jogi!]

  Maya Didi’s singing voice was deep like an old courtesan’s. And even if she couldn’t understand the meaning of the words, Didi’s gestures explained to Chandan the gist of the song. Who would say she was a bhairavi? What kind of an intoxication had made her fall so?

  Was it the smoke of the chillum or the smoke of nature’s chillum? What were these unfulfilled desires that this bhairavi was brimming with?

  ‘Let it be, Maya Didi. You don’t have to do more drama!’ Charan’s scolding made Maya Didi pause. Charan made her lie in bed and pulled her blanket up to her face.

  ‘No Charan, my darling, beloved Charan! Just give me one more drag.’ Maya Didi started begging and Charan, laughing, pulled the chillum out of her reach this way and that, teasing her like a master does with his dog.

  ‘Ok, here take only one drag. I have to take one, then there’s the new bhairavi.’ Maya Didi uttered a child-like laugh, took a long greedy drag and fell into a deep sleep as if she were unconscious.

  Then, that chillum took Chandan from the here and now to a dream land where she met all the people she had lost in the last few months. Her memories sometimes took her to Dharchula, sometimes to Delhi and sometimes to Shahjahanpur. Her aunt was laughing at her…

  THREE

  ‘Good! I had told you to not to climb your mother’s funeral pyre but that’s exactly what you did, girl.’

  This aunt had made her cry so much three days before the wedding. She had not slept all night. Why had Mother invited this damned aunt! But what could Mother have done? The aunt was after all the wife of her father’s brother, how could she not have been invited. Though her mother had been smart and had written such a clever letter that even if she had taken a plane, her aunt wouldn’t have reached on time. God knows, how she found out in time.

  ‘It doesn’t matter that you didn’t invite us!’ She taunted mother a lot, wiped her crocodile tears and thick stubby nose with the corner of her sari. ‘Blood is thicker than water—I took a loan from wherever I could and came running as soon as I got the news.’

  On the third day when mother left for the market, Chachi dragged her to the terrace, ‘Do you think I am lying?’ She squinted her cat-like eyes, making them shine like marbles, and continued, ‘I wouldn’t have said anything to you but then I thought that she is going to another house and that too a house so affluent that neither you nor I can even think of touching the dirt of their shoes. The reputation of this house is now your responsibility, my child. Don’t climb your mother’s pyre, girl.’

  And that’s how she started telling her the story of how her mother’s reputation was besmirched. Chachi kept on with a deluge of tears: at times for Chandan’s dead father, and at other times, while talking about the profound grief of Chandan’s Nana.

  ‘It was the generosity of my Jethji that he salvaged the reputation of a Brahmin girl, otherwise nobody swallows a fly voluntarily. Your poor Nana! I heard that he jumped into an abyss and killed himself. Your Nani also took her own life. They couldn’t show their faces in society because of your mother’s ill repute.’

  Chandan cried all night. The calm face of her serene and simple mother kept smiling at her. No, her mother could never be like that. This was certainly the frustrations of the envious Chachi bubbling over. She was cooking up stories to torture her niece. Chachi was dependent on her Jeth and Jethani despite being married. Chandan’s jobless Chacha had stayed a slave to his Tau. He was either dropping Tau’s children at school, or going grocery shopping, or taking his brother’s family to the hills and at times, house-sitting in their absence. On the other hand, her mother was independent despite being a widow. She had embraced widowhood and overcome it. She had defeated it. Having become a school principal after completing her MA and MT, she and her daughter lived in a government house. Over a dozen teachers trembled at her name night and day. She had servants and peons. She had a beautiful and calm daughter who had received a proposal from such an affluent and handsome young man and was going to live like a queen in his house.

  Why wouldn’t Chachi burn in envy? Nobody had wanted to marry her dusky daughter despite her mother’s thousand attempts. She even got her daughter admitted in a medical college. The daughter made such academic progress, however, that she eloped with a nincompoop classmate of a different caste! Perhaps the realization that no one from their community would ever come to her house for a wedding was like a sucker punch for her and it was the pain of that blow that made her spew this bile.

  There was some substance to Chachi’s accusations though. It was her mother’s beauty that had made Nana give her the name Rajrajeshwari. From head to toe, this Rajrajeshwari had the luminescence of Nanda Devi being carried in a palanquin to be submerged in the river.

  Nani’s maiden home was in Nainital’s New Bazar. Nani had gone there for her delivery. Maybe it was the fair beauty of the daughter of the Shah family prancing about on their terrace next door that had touched the daughter in her womb. Like all Shah women, that girl too had a milky complexion, sharp nose and such a glowing, smooth forehead that it seemed like it would bleed at the slightest touch. Such beauty, and to top the calamity, at fourteen she looked like she was twenty-four! The Shah girl seemed to have been blessed with beauty and health in equal measure.

  Nani was Nana’s third wife and an only child, so her father had raised her like a son. He had wanted to get her the best education and husband and house. It was this stubbornness that made him send his daughter to the Missionary School in Almora against all opposition from his family. He moved to Dharchula to conduct his trade in woollen and silk carpets and bought a house in Almora for his wife and daughter so that his daughter would not lack for anything. By the time she was in high school, Rajrajeshwari had
mixed her convent education with the glow of beauty and increased her value manifold. Now, she could marry into any good family and add to the family’s prestige. That was when it all went wrong. The queen of temptation was lured into the land of longing.

  Rajrajeshwari had a friend in school who was more beautiful than her. The day this classmate had visited their house for the first time, she had surprised everyone with her loveliness, including Rajrajeshwari’s mother.

  ‘Aha! Whose daughter is your friend?’ She had asked her daughter as soon as the friend left.

  Rajeshwari was a little rattled but gave her the details. Her mother was enraged, ‘Look at the audacity of that Paturia girl! You dare not be seen in her company ever again. I had told your father that you are sending your daughter to a Christian school, she will be sitting with girls from all castes there. But he doesn’t listen to anyone. Started sermonizing me instead saying “everyone is equal in God’s eyes, Raji’s mother”! But you listen to me, girl.’ Mother shook Rajeshwari’s shoulders and said, ‘I’ll bury you alive if you continue fraternizing with her. That low caste girl with the airs of a princess!’

  Her warnings were like a drizzle in the wilderness. All that happened was that Rajeshwari’s friend Chandrika never visited them at home again. Rajeshwari kept visiting her at her own home on the sly. Chandrika’s mother received Rajeshwari in her home with as much love as the disrespect Rajeshwari’s mother had shown in closing her doors to Chandrika. It was true that Chandrika’s mother was a winsome warrior, and an eyesore for all the mothers of daughters in Kumaon. In those days, a rich man who didn’t have a few mistresses with such unparalleled beauty was considered wretched. In those days, having mistresses was a status symbol. If a rich man didn’t have a mistress, it was thought that he was facing the prospect of penury.

  For a long time, the sight of such a beautiful flower had made even Chandan’s Nana buzz around her like a greedy bee. The attentions of that renowned man [Chandan’s Nana] had made Chandrika’s mother lose interest in her work. A lot of musical instruments had fallen lifeless of their own accord in that time. The musicians had left for other patrons on not being paid. Anklets had collected dust. The white membranes of the dholak had turned black with disuse, like kohl-lined eyes with cataract. It was only the love of the beautiful third wife that had brought Chandan’s Nana back home. He didn’t go back to that basti even by mistake after that marriage.

  The courtesan also got married to someone she liked and set up home. The man for whom she left all her wealth and her trade, gave her everything. A large house to live in, a son and a daughter. Both equally good-looking. The son was studying in the Army School and the daughter in the local convent.

  ‘Ma, Miss Summerville says that she will send me abroad on behalf of the school. You get Bhaiya married by then and make yourself free of responsibilities. I’ll get a job and you can come and live with me in peace,’ a chirpy Chandrika would say, making her mother laugh. Whit of a girl but such wisdom!

  There was no peace to be had here. Will society let her erase the stigma of her past life? Or would she only be able to start life afresh across the seven seas?

  Her children’s father was not an ordinary man. Chandrika had the blood of Kumaon’s royalty in her veins. It was for this reason that when Chandrika turned adamant about something, her mother felt great pride. The stubbornness of royalty, of women, of children! She was always willing to bear all her daughter’s whims.

  Rajrajeshwari was caught unawares when she first saw the opulence of her friend’s family. The furniture boasted intricate handwork; there were grand mirrors, chandeliers and Tibetan carpets. When Chandrika’s mother walked in with snacks on a silver plate, the young girl didn’t see her at first. Her eyes were riveted to a portrait painted in oils on the wall. Fitted Nepali pyjamas, bandgala coat, sequinned silk cap and a moustache as bushy as the tail of a Tibetan sheep. A thin, silver watch on the wrist, and shiny loafers on the silk carpet gleaming like they had just been scrubbed clean.

  ‘What are you looking at, child?’ Chandrika’s mother asked with a smile in her voice, making Rajrajeshwari snap out of her reverie.

  ‘That’s your friend’s father. Whoever comes here, looks at that painting first.’

  Now, it was the sight of the living mother and not the dead father that engrossed Rajeshwari. As tall and as strong boned. Even at this age, her figure could give a young girl a run for her money. It was the face that bore the marks of the ravages of time and misfortune. ‘Whose house have you lit up, girl? Who is your father?’ The voice of the professional singer rang out like the peal of anklets.

  ‘Mahimchandra Tiwari of Vishad is my father.’ Rajeshwari gave this bit of information in an even tone but on receiving it the face of that impressive hostess paled in grief. She regained control the next moment, however, and said, ‘Nice, then you come from a family known to us. Where is your father these days?’ She pulled the chair close to her and sat down.

  ‘Do you know my father?’ Rajrajeshwari asked and then went quiet when she remembered her mother’s angry words. I hope she doesn’t find our address and arrive at home, she thought.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I know him, who doesn’t know Tiwariji? No Holi festivities are complete without him.’

  Rampyari was speaking the truth. The overflowing jug of thandai, plates full of pahadi gujiya and bits of potatoes being sent by Rajeshwari’s mother to the drawing room during Holi. The latter would sometimes get hassled and angry but the next moment, Mahimchandra’s sugar-sweet voice would ring out in song making even Rajeshwari feel shy; her mother would hide behind the curtains and sway [to the beat].

  Father’s fair face would turn red with the effort of perfecting the high notes. With one palm on his ear, he would make the gathering echo with the Pahadi Chanchar Taal, a folksy drum-based rhythm of Uttarakhand:

  ‘Jaye padoon pee ke ank

  Chahe Kalank Lage ri!’

  [I’ll embrace my lover even if it gives me a bad

  reputation.]

  The timbre of the gathering would rise to reach the high notes of ‘Ank’ as if it were a ball thrown in the air.

  Reminiscing about the same things, Rampyari asked again, ‘Where is Tiwariji these days?’

  ‘Dharchula!’

  ‘Oh god! So far. What he is doing there?’

  ‘He trades in shawls, rolls of wool and carpets.’

  Rampyari was sad all of a sudden. Oh god, how far had that knowledgeable admirer of beauty fallen! The trader of the market of beauty had in the end become the trader of smelly Tibetan shawls, rolls of wool and carpets! She looked at Rajrajeshwari again.

  She had been so foolish!

  Why hadn’t she been able to recognize her lover’s daughter at first glance? The girl’s features were exactly like his and that slight stammer in the voice was the same too!

  And here she was thinking of asking for the girl’s hand for her handsome son. Now, even the thought of such a match was a sin. Her thoughts and plans were immaterial. Has anyone been able to change the Almighty’s plans? Has he ever failed to carry them out?

  Rajrajeshwari started visiting her friend at home on the sly after school every day. With time, the friend’s brother became dearer than the friend. The Greek god had come home for holidays. They would play cards or go on picnics. Rampyari would watch them helplessly from the window and a bitter smile would mar her face. They roamed about in the neighbourhood, a circumscribed territory. Sometimes, they’d go around the big house on walks and on these occasions, the beautiful and intelligent sister would stay behind knowingly while the two lovers would sit and chat, with their feet in the cold water of the neighbourhood pond. There was no question of going further out; Almora was a tiny town and old people who had romped about in their youth would walk around with their eyes trained on youngsters.

  Rampyari was aware of this, and yet chose to let them be. What was the harm if her son got a high-born Brahmin girl? A daughter-in-law like Rajrajeshwari w
ould be as precious to her as a plate of sesame. And that Brahmin would also be taught a lesson, the one who had kicked her glorious loveliness away on seeing the beautiful face of his wife.

  The young couple had made all the foolish designs of youth. Kundan planned to get a job in a year. Just for that one year, Rajeshwari would have to deal with the labyrinth of her father’s sternness. But one day, feeling lost in that labyrinth, struggling with it, she escaped into Kundan’s arms. She enveloped her young lover in her soft body near that very neighbourhood pond. Her father didn’t just fix her wedding but her wedding date too. It was a mystery how he had found out about his daughter’s romance. The daughter of a Kumaon Brahmin marrying a Kshatriya, and the son of his former mistress at that, he would kill his only daughter without a second thought before that could happen! But even that street-smart man made a mistake. Rajrajeshwari jumped from a tall window like a wild cat and ran into her lover’s arms.

  The young man was neither experienced in the ways of the world nor did he have the time to think things through. The rest of the story was one of grief and grief alone. Rajrajeshwari’s father caught up with the fleeing lovers at the Laal Kuan station. So overwhelmed with rage was he that he would have shot Kundan on the spot, but the latter slipped away like a Japanese Jujitsu master and hid under a pile of sugarcane on a goods train. The heartless Tiwariji dragged the trembling Rajrajeshwari home from love’s golden lair by her hair. She was taken out of school and locked up at home.

  Tiwariji spent thousands of rupees to ensure nobody found out about his daughter’s sullied reputation, but these things never remain hidden. Even a murmur of such a love story rolls off the hills and turns into a folk song sung at fairs and uttered by a thousand mouths. When the story of his daughter’s shame started being narrated, Rajrajeshwari was hidden behind stronger doors. As time passed, this song of shame started echoing across the wide hills.