by Mukunda Rao
‘Does it offend your sense of smell?’ Valmiki asked. ‘This is manure, Rama. Once you feed this to the plants, they grow beautiful and strong and healthy.’
‘Manure? You mean…’
‘No ordinary manure, Rama.’ Valmiki scooped a little from the basket and held it in front of his face, as though it were some fragrant flower he must see properly and smell.
Rama held his breath, but did not move away.
‘This is goat dung I picked from a nearby village,’ Valmiki explained. ‘Very good for growing vegetables.’
‘You use this on those plants?’
‘Yes, to make them sweet and delicious,’ guffawed Valmiki. Then he asked tenderly, ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Not too well.’
‘Did you drink your milk?’
‘Yes, I did,’ he lied.
‘Come along then,’ said Valmiki.
‘Where?’
Just then, a middle-aged man with a potbelly came up the path and greeted them. He paused in front of Valmiki and whispered conspiratorially, ‘There is a problem.’
Valmiki frowned. ‘Can’t it wait?’
‘Of course, sir,’ the man said. ‘It can wait. It’s no childbirth case, I mean there is no urgency.’ He bowed a little too deeply and left, looking disappointed.
Valmiki turned to Rama and said, ‘Come on, let’s go and do some gardening.’
‘Me?’ Rama looked genuinely shocked.
‘Yes, your gracious self,’ smiled Valmiki, and dumped the basket in Rama’s hands. ‘Come, a good king must know everything.’
Left with no choice, Rama followed Valmiki, feeling somewhat stupid. No sooner had they taken a few steps than they saw a young woman headed in their direction. She was tall and slender, and swayed like a palm tree in the sea breeze. She came smiling, palms joined in front of her ample bosom. On seeing Rama carrying the manure basket, which was all too familiar in the hermitage as Valmiki’s sweet-smelling bin, she ceased smiling and pursed her lips in surprise. Then she said, ‘Kavi Maharaj, I would like you to have a look at a poem I wrote this morning, that is, if you promise you will not laugh!’
Valmiki burst into laughter. Then, he became quiet and said, ‘Look, I’m as quiet as a still pond.’
‘No,’ she cried, shaking her head, giggling.
‘Why not?’
She giggled again. ‘Your eagerness frightens me. I think I will have another look at it before I give it to you.’
‘As you wish, Poet Vasanta.’ Valmiki bowed theatrically.
She too bowed; once to him and once to Rama, and then walked away.
‘Ah.’ Valmiki sighed. Rama said with some curiosity, ‘Is she Vasanta, the singer we heard last night? I thought the lines were well composed, quite touching and even powerful, and her singing was evocative.’
‘A little too sentimental,’ Valmiki remarked. ‘She’ll know. She’ll understand.’
‘Is she married?’
‘Was married to a soldier in Ayodhya. He deserted her for another woman. And she went and fell for yet another soldier.’
They passed by a group of boys and girls sitting under a tree, listening intently to a man who looked as old as Valmiki. From there, the valley looked deep and endless, like boundless joy. To their right lay the hill that they had descended only a couple of days before, looking for shelter; it looked like a craggy green giant. The glistering sun stood at an angle over the hill, and the sky above was a burning grey.
Finally, they reached Valmiki’s cottage. Hitching up his robe, Valmiki went down the slope cautiously and entered the backyard. Rama followed. The ground had been dug and prepared for sowing seeds. Nearby lay pumpkins, each the size of a man’s head, like creatures from the nether world.
‘The proud yield of hard labour, and they are sweet as jackfruit,’ sang Valmiki, taking the basket of manure from Rama. He scooped the manure in both hands and started sprinkling it on the seedbed. Then, suddenly, Valmiki asked, ‘Have you seen the sea?’
Rama shook his head. He had never seen the sea. He had seen rivers and bathed in them. On their banks, he had offered sacrifices and worshipped the river goddesses and the royal deities, as prescribed and taught by the Brahman priests. ‘I have seen the golden waters of Ganga merge with the deep blue of Yamuna, but I have not seen the sea,’ he said. ‘I’m told the sea is like hundreds of rivers put together.’
‘Then go and see. It is only a krosa after that hill.’ Valmiki squatted on his heels and dug the soil with his fingers, pushing the loose mud this way and that so that the manure was evenly distributed. ‘She is never still, like the wheel of creation, and in her belly live all the secrets of existence. Sometimes she roars like Shiva in her angry mood, and destroys everything before her. But generally, she is harmless, she is serene and enlivening, like you, Rama.’ And he looked up and met Rama’s eyes. Rama blushed.
Valmiki stood up and gazed at a point above Rama’s head, where the hill seemed to touch the sky. ‘Would you like to meet with Shambuka?’
‘Shudra Shambuka?’ asked Rama, his face turning red again.
‘Yes, Shudra Shambuka,’ said Valmiki in an even tone. ‘Let’s go up the hill and meet him tonight.’ He squatted down on his heels again and, pointing at a small basket lying nearby, said, ‘Will you please get that basket of seeds?’
The cottage sat on top of the hill, and looked as big as three huts put together. When Rama, Sita, Lakshman and Valmiki went in, Shambuka was absorbed in what seemed to be a stimulating conversation. He did not greet them, nor did he look at them. Dark and heavy like a bull on its belly, he sat, his shoulders slightly hunched, facing about ten or twelve attentive men and women. His grey hair fell on his heavy shoulders, framing his stubborn chin and burning eyes. He sat with a small pile of nuts, cracking the shells and popping the kernels into his mouth, simultaneously responding to the questions thrown at him.
The four guests sat down quietly in a corner. After a while, Shambuka turned his attention to Valmiki and smiled. Valmiki promptly introduced Rama. As Rama folded his palms in anjali, Shambuka waved his hand impatiently and muttered, ‘No need, no need.’ Then, narrowing his eyes, he asked, ‘Rama, did you say? The Prince of Ayodhya?’
Rama nodded, keeping a rather grave face.
‘You mean Dasharath’s eldest son? You are a big man now, eh? I think you were a boy of ten or so when I left Ayodhya.’
‘Shambuka,’ suddenly a voice broke out from behind Rama. It was Lakshman who, without warning, without any hesitation, breaking the royal etiquette, asked straight, ‘I’m told that you actually were driven out of Ayodhya. Is that true?’
A heavy silence fell on the room. ‘Driven out?’ Shambuka growled. And then he broke into raucous laughter.
‘The world is wide, my dear sir,’ he said. ‘And Ayodhya is but a tiny part of it. Anyway, if you want to know what you want to know, then yes, I was driven out. Actually, I was forced to leave Ayodhya. The sharp edges of your soldiers’ swords terrified me, you see. And since I don’t believe in the existence of atman, and I am but this body and nothing else – a body that I suppose can be cut by weapons, and burnt to ashes, which could serve as manure for your palace gardens – I decided not to risk my poor body, and came here instead.’
‘But,’ Lakshman demanded, avoiding his brother’s glare, ‘why were the soldiers after you? What wrong had you done?’ There was the princely arrogance in his voice, but also an irresistible curiosity.
‘Wrong? Ah, that. They called it a sin. An unforgivable sin. I tried to do what you believe to be the sole prerogative of Brahmans. I dared to learn and read Samskrut and interpret the shastras. According to the Dharmashastra your Brahman pandits had composed, which your great father adopted as the official code, that act of mine was sacrilege, heresy, you see. Anyway, it’s all over and done with. I have seen through their wily games and have no need for your endlessly boring shastras, your false adhyatma, your ludicrous rituals and your venal gods.’
&n
bsp; He paused, cracked a shell and bellowed, ‘Truth is blasphemy, a danger.’ Popping a nut into his mouth, he asked, ‘Do you understand that, sir?’
‘Sir,’ Lakshman responded promptly, addressing Shambuka more respectfully now, ‘I don’t know all that. And I have never understood why the Shudras are denied the knowledge of the religious texts. Anyway, I don’t care for these new shastras. All these customs, rituals and theories perplex my mind and upset my stomach. And then this pursuit of knowledge, ultimate knowledge and what have you, has never interested me.’
‘Ah!’ Shambuka cried in joy. ‘Interesting. Very interesting. You are the first person to have come here and dared to say that he is not interested in knowledge. I’m impressed, quite impressed. But then, why did you come here? Who are you?’
‘Sir, I’m Lakshman, Rama’s brother’ – and then pointing at Sita, he added – ‘she is Rama’s wife, Sita.’
‘Oh, now I understand,’ shouted Shambuka, sitting up erect. Then turning to Valmiki, he said in a complaining tone, ‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘You didn’t give me a chance,’ replied Valmiki.
‘Shambuka Maharaj…’ A young man in the back row tried to draw Shambuka’s attention. Shambuka either ignored him or didn’t hear him. Rama … Sita … Lakshman … he muttered to himself, scratching his chin. ‘So,’ he said, addressing Lakshman, ‘how come you are here? Did you get fed up of your life at Ayodhya, with the intrigues and politics of your ministers and your priests? Or were you also driven out?’
‘It’s a long story,’ Valmiki said, intervening.
The young man, who was waiting for a break in the conversation, cried loudly, ‘Shambuka Maharaj…’
‘I think you can cut that nonsense,’ Shambuka replied curtly.
‘All right, sir,’ the young man began again, smiling awkwardly. ‘Sir, if I heard you correctly, you said you don’t have a soul…’
‘You heard correctly. I don’t have a soul.’
‘Maharaj, how could that be?’ he asked, genuinely confused. ‘I suppose all creatures have souls. Even a fly, let alone a ferocious tiger or an overburdened donkey. If that is so, then, may I know how you have no soul?’
‘Who says every creature has a soul?’
‘The books, Maharaj; the pandits, the gurus.’
‘Throw them into the sea. Tell me what you think?’
‘I think I have a soul. That is, I am atman.’
‘Congratulations. So, you are both atman and body. Wonderful! You are truly blessed. But how do you manage both? How do you manage two wives? By the way, are you married?’
The young man did not know how to react and made a face like one who had found stones in his mouthful of rice. He then mumbled something and looked helplessly at the elderly partner by his side, perhaps expecting him to say something on his behalf. There was a long, awkward pause. Shambuka glared at the man now fidgeting like a goat tied to a pole. It seemed he did not like the young man’s question, or his manner of asking the question; or, perhaps, he did not like the man. Dismissing the young man, he turned his attention to Valmiki and asked, ‘So, Kavi Maharaj, what’s happening? I heard you are working on a long kavya this time. Is it going to be something really big?’
Valmiki smiled. ‘I don’t know. Anyway, it started quite well and then got increasingly hopeless, without a focus, without…’
‘Without what?’ Shambuka persisted.
‘I mean there’s some uncertainty about the hero; rather, in the character of the hero.’
‘Hero? Are there any heroes left?’
Valmiki frowned. ‘Shambuka, my story needs one. If there aren’t any left, can’t we create one?’
‘Now this is truly hopeless,’ Shambuka started laughing.
Smiling thinly, Valmiki said, ‘Shambuka, you know I’m only a medium for the character and for the story; I am not its author.’
A young man, recently tonsured, who had been sitting still and listening to the conversations with fierce concentration, raised his hand. When Shambuka nodded at him, he said quietly, ‘Shambuka, I want to ask you a question.’
Shambuka grinned as if to say that everyone wanted to ask questions, though there may not be answers to all questions. Ignoring the grin, the young man cleared his throat. For the last ten days, he said, stressing on the word ‘ten’, he had come and sat there every evening, listening to the discussions with keen interest.
Shambuka stopped him with a wave of his hand. ‘Sir, may I know where you are from?’
‘Not from Ayodhya.’ He frowned. Then, with some force, he asked, ‘Is it important where I come from?’
‘No. Please continue.’
Now there was an edge to the man’s voice. ‘You deny everything,’ he said. ‘You debunk tradition as if it is an old woman’s incurable habit. In short, you criticize everything, all ideas, all values, all customs and practices, including revered religious texts. There is hardly anything you assert; there is hardly anything positive in your teaching.’
‘Is that so?’ Shambuka asked simply. ‘But I have no teaching. I merely point out the irrefutable facts of life.’
The man laughed, and the gathering was stunned into silence. A helpless smile crossed Valmiki’s lips, and he glanced at Rama to see his reaction. Rama sat erect, straight as an arrow, listening with attention. Sita looked a little restless, twisting the end of her sari with her fingers. Lakshman was all smiles, evidently enjoying the argument. Valmiki continued watching the three Ayodhyans, for he was more interested in divining their unsaid thoughts than what was being said.
The man resumed his attack on Shambuka. ‘Facts, that’s what you keep saying, but whose facts? What kind of facts? And in the name of these facts, you demolish all teachings, you pooh-pooh the dialecticians, materialists, sceptics and transcendentalists, and you pick the Brahmanical shastras, in particular, for your very contemptuous treatment.’
Shambuka looked quite amused. He said, ‘Shall we be a little more specific?’
The man was ready with an answer. It seemed he had come prepared for battle. He said, ‘For instance, you ridicule and try to tear apart all notions of dharma. Dharma is not a belief in the Vedas or faith in God; it is not the practice of rituals or the following of the instructions given by priests. Dharma is not jati or svadharma. It is not acquisition of knowledge either. Dharma is not this, not that. What then is dharma? What are you trying to say?’
Smacking his thigh, Shambuka broke into laughter. ‘Did I say all that?’ The man untied a cloth bundle and pulled out several scrolls. Holding them up, he almost yelled, ‘It’s all here, every word you have spoken in the last ten days.’
Shambuka’s face turned dark. He contemplated the gathering with burning eyes, raised his finger as if pointing at the sky, and thundered, ‘I appreciate your question and your criticism. Have no doubt about that. But listen carefully. Dharma is not charity, for how can you give what doesn’t belong to you? Dharma is not concern or kindness for others, for it is based on the groundless attitude of superiority and sheer arrogance. Dharma is not righteous action according to some tradition of right, left or centre, for all approaches are conditioned by time and space. Dharma is action born of intelligence, which is neither moral nor immoral, but always right. Heat is the dharma of fire, fluidity is the dharma of water, direction of wind, and instinct of animals. In the same way, the pure action of human beings is in consonance not with the order of some haughty king, or with the doctrines of senile gurus and priests, but with the intelligence of the body, with the rta of the cosmos. With such actions there is order, security, joy; there is Dharma.’
The young man, who had started sulking like a beaten dog, suddenly came alive and said loudly, ‘But you never say how one becomes capable of such actions?’
Finger still raised, Shambuka answered, ‘When you are thirsty you do not ask how or why you want water; you just go in search of water and quench your thirst.’
The other man gave a sarcastic grin. ‘The
water I find might be filthy. What do I do then?’
‘Ah!’ Shambuka said. He picked up a nut, examining it as if it contained the answer to the question. Suddenly, he tossed the nut at the man. ‘Try it,’ commanded Shambuka. The man cracked the shell between his fingers and put the nut in his mouth. Chewing, he made a wry face and muttered, ‘It’s a bad one.’
‘Spit it out,’ ordered Shambuka.
‘But I have already swallowed it,’ grumbled the man.
For a moment Shambuka went still, and then he burst into his gloriously repulsive but infectious laughter. Just then, a woman with long hair that adorned her pretty face, entered the room. She carried a huge jackfruit. Behind her came a girl who looked like a smaller version of her, carrying a knife and a bowl. They set the fruit, knife and bowl in front of Shambuka. The woman said, ‘I have my hands full. Will you please cut this for me?’
‘Ah, why not?’ guffawed Shambuka. ‘I’ll cut it into pieces.’
‘Maharaj, it is a jackfruit, not a pumpkin. And please mind your fingers. You have but one body.’
Looking in the direction of Rama and Sita, smiling broadly, Shambuka announced, ‘My wife, Parvati.’
Parvati turned. ‘Ah!’ she exclaimed, gazing at the charming Sita. ‘You are the one staying at Valmiki’s ashram. You are Sita!’
Sita nodded shyly.
‘Don’t go away; stay back and have dinner with us,’ invited Parvati, full of affection. ‘When you get bored with the men’s blathering, please feel free to come into the kitchen so we can talk.’ Parvati spoke while standing beside her husband, and she spoke without inhibition. Sita was used to an environment where women, if they even appeared in the company of men, remained quiet. Parvati spoke as though she were there, by design or accident, to provide a humorous critique of the current discussion.
‘She is the liberated one here,’ Shambuka said, winking. ‘That is, liberated in her soul!’
Parvati threw a breezy smile at Sita and walked off, followed by her giggling daughter.