Phoolsunghi

by Pandey Kapil

  His carriage stopped at the entrance of his mansion. The gatekeeper bowed in salutation and pushed open the heavy iron panels of the gate, with a loud, grating sound. As the carriage drove in, a chained bulldog began barking excitedly, but it grew quiet as soon as it recognized the master. His early morning arrival has set the entire mansion bustling with frenzied activity; nearly a dozen servants scampered about in all directions, trying to bring the mansion to perfect order. Seeing the grandeur of his world, Sahay smiled underneath his bushy moustache.

  ‘Although the house is full, my heart aches with sheer emptiness. This mansion is destined to remain bare, but my heart can no longer endure this void.’ Summoning Pataluwa, he said imperiously, ‘Pataluwa, go fetch Registrar Sahib immediately.’

  The young Rai Lachhman Prasad was a native of Basti district and an empathetic companion to Sahay’s youthful heart. During the Sepoy Rebellion, his father, Rai Kamtanath Prasad, had avidly supported the British efforts to quell the uprising and had even held the rank of a subedar in the British army. Kamtanath Prasad’s loyalty had earned his son the sub-registrarship of Chhapra. Lachhman Prasad was also a happy recipient of Sahay’s largesse, and a friend to all and sundry. As soon as he arrived, Sahay made an impatient request, ‘Registrar Sahib, do you see that stretch of land—the one that starts from the south of the bend in the road and goes all the way to the bank of the Saryu? I want it registered in my name by today evening. Whatever money is needed for the job, please ask for it at the house.’

  Dumbfounded, Prasad gaped at his friend. Sahay turned towards him, outlined his plan once again and said, ‘Registrar Sahib, don’t look so shocked. I have to build a bungalow there, so close to the water that the waves of the Saryu could splatter against it. It would be the golden cage where a phoolsunghi could be cradled.’

  Leaving Prasad even more clueless than before, Sahay walked away gleefully, towards the inner wing of his mansion. One could hear him sing, in that gruff voice of his.

  ‘Build me a bungalow, along the sandy swathe,

  O Kishori Lal,

  Where the waves of the Yamuna would frolic and splash.’

  * * *

  Soon, a palatial house, which would become famous as the Red Mansion, was built on the stretch of land that bordered the riverbank, just as Sahay had envisaged it. And a sprawling lawn bedecked with a selection of plants and trees, indigenous as well as foreign was added to it. A delightful little garden of roses, which was laid out in the middle of the lawn, enhanced its verdant loveliness. The compound’s southern wall was fortified to withstand the ebullient waves of the Saryu. A horse stable and a garage were constructed along the western flank of the campus, as were small quarters for gardeners and retainers. A huge iron gate was installed along the eastern wall, and next to it, a cabin for the gatekeeper. The red gravelled path, which ran through the gate of this stately mansion, led all the way to its porch.

  One day, while the construction of the Red Mansion was still underway, Prasad had asked, ‘Mukhtar Sahib, you already live in such an imposing mansion, why build a second one?’

  ‘Registrar Sahib, you are but a naive village boy. This is no mansion. Hadn’t I told you this is a cage? A golden cage to cradle a phoolsunghi,’ Sahay had replied, his bushy moustache concealing his enigmatic smile. Prasad was still thoroughly puzzled. Taking pity on his friend, Sahay offered him a cup of wine.

  4

  A Priceless Gift

  A grand jamboree, with Dhelabai as its central attraction, was at its peak. Seth Ramratan Sahu’s daughter was getting married and the baraat had already arrived. To entertain the guests, Dhelabai had come all the way from Muzaffarpur. Bewitchingly fulsome physique of a woman in her early twenties, golden radiance and the voice of a cuckoo—such were the features of the angelic Dhelabai. Her nimble feet were like the wings of a butterfly—quivering and soft. And her body was supple, like the tender koen plant. But who all were entitled to marvel at the exploits of the magnificent Dhelabai? Who all had access to this elite assembly of the blue-blooded that had come together with the baraat? Not many; this spectacle wasn’t for everyone to devour. Several jesters and street performers from Lucknow had been hired to keep the lesser mortals amused.

  A colossal marquee, held together by one hundred and twelve poles, was erected in the middle of the inn’s courtyard. Right in the middle was a colourful nautch-house, a barricaded area which only the patricians could enter. All around the central arena of that makeshift nautch-house stage, elaborate arrangements were made for the patricians to sit, squat, recline and relish the performance contentedly.

  ‘O’ beloved, do not forfeit my reminiscences,’ Dhelabai sang.

  The perfect harmony between the lovesick lyrics of the birahin and the graceful steps of Kathak rained rasa on the entire jamboree. That deluge of emotions swept everyone adrift in a sea of ecstasy. Set against the silence of the standstill night, the celebration overflowed with a dazzling array of songs and astonishing dance acts. Intermittently, the huge four-faced clock, mounted atop the inn’s gate, tried to alert the revellers to the passage of time; tang tung, it clanged.

  * * *

  Close to midnight, a little hubbub arose at the gate. Suddenly, the huge iron-gate, that was already ajar, was thrown open completely and advancing footsteps were heard. The menacing noise kept drawing nearer, ghabad-ghabad! The gatekeeper tilted his flickering torch and strained his eyes, trying to make things out in the dark. As the tension escalated, fingers of the tabla player froze in terror, the sarangi’s bow got flung aside and Dhelabai’s performance came to a sudden stop. Brandishing shiny swords and toting guns, over fifty men had invaded the inn. A thundering voice issued a grim warning to the pleasure-seekers, ‘Nobody moves or you will lose your head.’

  Moments later, when the petrified revellers looked around the marquee, their eyes wide with dread, they realized that none of them had been harmed in the raid. Some people claimed to have seen a giant elephant swaying at the gate, like a giant shadow, but there were no signs of a robbery. The gang of dacoits had left the venue with the same startling speed with which they had appeared. The entire episode had transpired within the wink of an eye!

  But wait, where is Dhelabai? Whatever happened to her?

  People were scampering away to the safety of their homes, shaking their heads in disbelief and shock. In the midst of that mayhem, none had the wits to notice that the jamboree had been robbed of its most precious gem. Dhelabai was missing! Within a few moments, the inn bore a deserted look. The fearsome gunmetal cannon, that always stood proudly outside the inn’s gate, and was rumoured to have been cast in Iran, waited in silence—purposeless and without anyone to command it.

  Built over a century and a half ago, the inn must have sheltered several communities during times of danger; its formidable iron gate must have withstood numerous attacks and kept the invaders out. On countless occasions, to defend those seeking refuge, the awesome cannon must have roared and spouted flames. About forty years ago, during the Sepoy Rebellion, the same inn had protected all of Chhapra. But that day, it had failed Dhelabai; its high gate was open and the cannon stood cold. The robbers had succeeded in abducting Dhelabai from the midst of a milling crowd.

  The raid had laid waste to the grand jamboree and the revellers had retreated to their homes. Only sad reminders of the spectacular party—abandoned tablas, unaccompanied sarangis, smashed cups, forlorn rolling bottles and haphazardly thrown bolsters—lay scattered all over the place. Meenabai stepped out of her tent and looked around, trying to make sense of the bedlam. Moments later, she spotted Dular Khan, the tabla player, presently walking towards her.

  ‘What happened, Dular? What is the matter?’ Meenabai asked nervously.

  ‘Oh, Mother! Gulzaribai . . .’ Dular Khan wanted to tell her everything but found himself choking.

  ‘What about Gulzaribai? What has happened to my daughter?’ By now, Meenabai was on tenterhooks.

  ‘The dacoits took her,’
after much struggle, Dular Khan muttered.

  At these words, Meenabai let out a piteous cry and ran towards the nautch-house, pounding her breasts at the misery that had befallen her. But, alas, the nautch-house was completely desolate.

  * * *

  Squatting on the inn’s veranda, a little further from the nautch-house, a huddled group of servitors were preparing khaini by kneading tobacco and lime on their palm. They spoke lustily of Dhelabai’s beauty and her skills. Upon seeing the dacoits, a few among them had leapt to their feet, hoping to challenge the invaders. But sensing their ferocity, even those who dared to rise stood lifelessly in terror. To the great horror of the dumbstruck revellers, the dacoits had simply ambled in, put Dhelabai on an elephant and carried her away, without facing any resistance whatsoever. No one could let out as much as a hushed sound of pity.

  Among the servitors sat a young man—a connoisseur of music and a devotee of birahin and poorvi. The magnetism of Dhelabai’s shining reputation had drawn him out of his village and brought him to the town: from Mishrawaliya to Chhapra. Since his rustic hesitancy had prevented him from entering the nautch-house, he had chosen to squat on the veranda, along with the servitors. Once the dacoits left and the ensuing furore faded into a rambling murmur, he stood up and quietly strolled out of the gate.

  * * *

  Ram-Ram! Pronouncements of censure and remorse continued well into the dawn. The inn’s gate, shut firmly after the ruinous raid, was thrown open once again. Escorted by Dular Khan, Meenabai emerged out of the premises; she appeared downcast and walked barefoot. O where would she look for Gulzaribai? Who will tell the anguished mother of her daughter’s whereabouts?

  When the kotwal saw her weeping, he let out a callous laughter and said, ‘What are you crying over, Meenabai? Get over these sentimental attachments. You won’t get her back now. It is time to put a price on your daughter. How much money do you want to let this matter be forgotten?’

  ‘Price? What price, Kotwal Sahib? Gems and jewelleries have price tags, but the moon is priceless. Who in this world has the resources to buy my moonlike Gulzaribai, Kotwal Sahib?’ Meenabai retorted, her words sharp as an arrow.

  Gulzaribai was kept locked inside the Red Mansion. Outside, Meenabai waited in complete silence. She clutched the bars of the gate’s grilled window and pressed her face against it, hoping desperately to catch a glimpse of her daughter. Gulab Singh, the fearsome rifle-toting gatekeeper, kept a strict vigil on her. His moustache was warped, as was his tongue. Just then, she heard a voice coming from behind her: ‘What is the matter, Meenabai? What do you want?’

  As she turned back, she felt completely mesmerized by the sight of that stentorian-voiced man; never before in her life had she beheld a face so magisterial. His aura was so overpowering that the lion-like Gulab Singh turned instantly into a terrified fox and scrambled to open the gate. Meenabai had seen a great many things in her life; it did not take her long to realize that the man she stood facing was none other than Babu Haliwant Sahay Mukhtar.

  ‘Why don’t you come inside, Meenabai?’ said Sahay, as he entered the gate.

  She obeyed and started following that imperious man, without uttering a word of protest or plea. They crossed the lawn, walked past the bed of flowers, reached the steps to the porch, stepped on the veranda, entered the main door, and at last, found themselves in the sitting room. Sahay plopped down on a couch, turned to Meenabai and came straight to the point, ‘Look Meenabai, instead of this daily niggling, I want you to claim a one-time settlement for your daughter.’

  The worldly-wise Meenabai bowed in salutation and said, ‘Sarkar, I don’t want to sell my daughter. How can I accept a price? Gulzari will be my humble offering at your feet. What more could a wretched like me present before you?’

  That day, Sahay felt a strange sensation wash over him. He was instantly reminded of an incident from his childhood. He remembered the day his father, Balwant Sahay, had returned to Sheetlapur. He was on leave from his office in Delhi and had come home riding an ekka, as he always did. There was a general chatter that at an auction organized by the Company government, Balwant Sahay had acquired the entire estate that belonged to the zamindars of Manjhi. And since he had become a rajah himself, where was the need to return to his job in Delhi? Those rumours were true. The zamindar’s widow had failed to deposit the annual estate-tax and the Company government had put all her land up for auction. When the deeds of auction reached Balwant Sahay at his office in Delhi, he paid up for the ownership of the entire estate to be transferred to him.

  The following afternoon, as Balwant Sahay was washing his hands after lunch, a palanquin carrying the zamindar’s widow stopped at his doorstep. The widow got down from her palanquin and spoke to him thus: ‘You have bought all of my land at the auction and there is nothing that I have to say about it. But, such is my condition, that even a ripe cucumber will soon become too expensive for me. I beg you, with the aanchal of my sari spread out in prayer; please, give a little something for me to survive on.’

  Haliwant Sahay still remembered every detail of that day. Upon hearing that piteous imploration, his father had disappeared into the house, making a khatar-khatar sound with his wooden clogs. A little later, he remereged, carrying the auction papers in hand. ‘Sarkar, several generations of my family have lived off your patronage. Bones in my body are sodden with your salt. I haven’t bought this to usurp your estate, or to become a rajah myself. I have bought it with the sole intention to protect your zamindari. This has always been yours, please accept it.’ With those words, he placed all the deeds into her khoenchha.

  And today, with the same nonchalance, Meenabai had placed her daughter—a woman more precious than an entire estate—in Sahay’s khoenchha.

  5

  O’ Beloved, Remember Me

  The young man walked out of the inn and melted away into the darkness. Five or six years ago, when the railroad was being laid and he was still a curious little boy, he had come to Chhapra to marvel at that modern miracle. And that evening, now in the prime of his youth, he had returned to the city, hoping to savour another miracle—the spectacle of Gulzaribai’s mujra.

  The inn’s gatekeeper was already scared and shaken. When he saw the young man, he gasped in fear, and, quite unthinkingly, muttered a question he was accustomed to repeating ever so often—’Who goes there?’

  ‘Mahendar Misir.’ That was all the young man said, as he sauntered out of the gate. It was difficult to locate anything in that blinding darkness. Only the pond across from the inn sparkled with reflections of the twinkling fireflies that hovered along its edge. At some distance from the inn, near the bend in the road, an elephant swayed away nonchalantly; it looked as eerie as a shape-shifting shadow under a torch. One could also see a group of phantom-like men beetling off on either side of that beast.

  For a few moments, an astounded Mahendar merely gawked at the scene. A burning sting raced through his veins as he recalled the song Dhelabai was singing moments before her abduction—‘O beloved, forfeit not my reminiscences.’ Could he ever get past the memories of that day, he wondered. And then, turning on his heel, he flitted away in the direction opposite to the marching elephant.

  Soon, he reached the railroad, his mind still reeling from the shock. He could see the station, the deserted platform and the lonesome glass lamp that flickered atop a pole. As he crossed the tracks, he found himself near a sunken smallholding—the kind where rain water stagnates. However, the summer blaze had rendered it completely dry and its parched bed was full of cracks. In an inexplicable haste, he stomped past the smallholding, crushing paddy stubble under his feet and making a chur-chur sound with each hurried step. Every now and then, a hedge intersected his trail; it was only with great vigilance that he avoided stumbling at them. In that impenetrable darkness, whenever he had to navigate past a water divider, he really struggled to keep his balance. But has anyone seen the living walk around in such darkness? Could it be Mahendar Misir’s ghos
t, and not the man himself? He marched on frantically, like a man possessed. Even so, what illuminated his trail, that pathless path? Perhaps his agony was his oarsman. It was perhaps the niggling pain in his heart that burnt like a lamp and lit up everything around him. It was the excruciating burden of remembrance. ‘O’ beloved, forfeit not my reminiscences.’

  The all-embracing darkness was confounding. Cloaked in coarse dark blankets, everything around him stood quiet and motionless; the plants, the trees and the villages that he walked across, each one of them stood side by side, rolled up in an indistinguishable black bolus.

  A little later, the birds launched their merry chirp, but the sombre song in his heart lingered on. ‘O’ beloved, forfeit not my reminiscences.’ Finally, after traipsing for hours in blinding darkness, he saw the first light of the dawn—a gentle hue of red—flash on the horizon. But wait, what is this place that he has arrived at? What village could it be? No, this is not Mishrawaliya. Oh, this is Pakadi, the maestro’s village. And that house ahead of him belongs to the master himself. Stunned by the outcome of his night-long meanderings, Mahendar stood transfixed at the doorway of Pandit Ramnarayan Misir’s residence; somehow, the distressed soul had turned up at his guru’s house. As he waited outside, he could listen to his guru’s exhilarating recital, set to the harmony of a finely-tuned tanpura. It was the melody of a parati rendered in bhairavi—the morning song, sung in the morning raga.

  ‘O you poor people of Kashi, such trusting folks,

  Ensnared by love, buoyed to scaffolds

  So sings the bird, that lives in Braj.’

  O’ you poor Mahendar! Hereafter, caged in that soul of yours, the bird from Braj will chirp forever. Son, you have buoyed yourself to the scaffold.

  The maestro kept on singing, one song after another. Drenched in that torrent of rasas, his disciples sat motionless, as if in a state of trance. That morning, a sudden flash of a divine revelation came to Mahendar. He felt as if he had witness an otherworldly reality: a timeless truth. Earlier, whenever his guru had tried introducing him to the soul of music, he had unwittingly resisted his own initiation into that mystic world of poetry and melody. But today, the mysteriously elusive soul of music suddenly revealed itself to him: layer after layer, all by itself. The last song of the maestro’s morning practice ended, but immersed in that surreal awakening, Mahendar stood unmindful of the conclusion.