Phoolsunghi

by Pandey Kapil

  * * *

  But soon Gulzaribai would stop taking part in the everyday gatherings. She would only perform at the private mehfils of Babu Haliwant Sahay—those specially arranged soirées to which no guest was ever invited. On such occasions, she sang the most soulful of melodies and performed astonishing dance recitals, each more spectacular than the previous one. The spectacle unfolded with abundant civility and decorum—no clanking cups, no clanging bottles. Sahay was known to savour the finest of English wines. However, during those jealously guarded evenings, he would not permit even a drop of alcohol to slink down his throat.

  Dhelabai could never come to grips with the thought behind this intriguing etiquette. ‘Tell me Sahib, why is it that the man whose house overflows with wine remains thirsty himself?’ she once asked. Interrogated thus, Haliwant Sahay had merely gawked at her. He did not offer an answer. Even in the company of revellers who guzzled wine, Haliwant Sahay had begun to only sip fruit juice.

  But how was Dhelabai to know this secret?

  Only Pataluwa, his pet servitor, was aware of this clandestine code of consumption. But Pataluwa himself was astonished to notice how, after the arrival of Dhelabai, his Sahib’s extravagant lifestyle had become visibly modest.

  * * *

  Pataluwa recalled how, within a few weeks of Dhelabai’s arrival, Pandit Ramnarayan Misir had come to the Red Mansion, taking everyone by surprise. It was nearing midnight and Dhelabai’s mujra was in full swing. Like always, the assembly of merrymakers boasted of powerful officers, the most prominent of judges and the wealthiest of zamindars. The frenzy of dance acts and songs was accompanied by bouts of frantic drinking; bottle after bottle of wine were opened and emptied. In the midst of that wild party, Ramnarayan’s sudden appearance had astonished everyone.

  That evening, the residents of the Red Mansion saw Ramnarayan for the first time in fifteen years. Pataluwa couldn’t even recognize him; his charcoal-black moustache of the yesteryears had greyed like the bark of the Indian hemp; in place of the silk kurta, which always shone on his body, he had put on an austere mirzaee—a monk’s coarse and rugged garb; in place of his well-groomed hair—long, thick and lubricated generously with perfumed oil—a cropped grey stubble had appeared. Pataluwa mistook him for an average client and addressed him insultingly from a distance, ‘O Babu Sahib, where do you think you have come to? This is not your place to be. Go to the White Mansion, the one across the road. You may spend the night in the hallway. It is reserved for clients like you. Hopefully, by tomorrow morning, you may get an opportunity to meet Mukhtar Sahib.’

  With his finger pressed against his lip, Gulab Singh, the gatekeeper, entreated Pataluwa to stop. Initially, that gesture made no sense to him. However, under that faint glimmer of the torchlight, when Pataluwa examined the figure closely, he was mortified and fell prostrate at Ramnarayan’s feet pleading, ‘Baba, I have made a terrible mistake, please pardon me. It was dark and I could not recognise you. Please proceed to the nautch-house, please do.’

  Enthralled by the song that came filtering through the closed door, Ramnarayan settled on the reclining chair that was laid out on the veranda. ‘No, Pataluwa. I’ll sit here and enjoy the soirée. Who is the singer? Could it be Dhelabai? Don’t worry about me; go and attend to your chores.’

  Pataluwa dashed inside. Song, dance and wine—a cripplingly inebriated Sahay had completely lost himself to that tantalizing ambience. Pataluwa knelt behind him and gently whispered in his ears, ‘Sahib, Misir Baba has come.’ But Sahay could not gather a word; the clamour of the clinking cups drowned Pataluwa’s whispers. He repeated his message once more, but to no avail. Thenceforth, he could not muster enough nerves to make another sound; for someone so adept at deciphering the subtlest of instructions and keeping his master pleased, he knew full well what his boundaries were. For the rest of the evening, he scurried in and out of the nautch-house—fetching bottles of wine from the camphorwood cupboard, carrying elegantly served kebabs from the kitchen, and kneading Ramnarayan’s fatigued legs, or fanning him, whenever he got a little respite from the soirée.

  Just then, the inn’s tower-clock struck one and its bell gonged, tann. Dhelabai was startled by the sound. Her anklet bells went out of tune and the beats broke off. The drunken revellers saw her run away into the inner wings of the mansion. Dhelabai’s abrupt departure put a quietus on the revelries. The soiree stood dissolved and everyone started tottering out. Buggy after buggy came and ferried away the wobbly revellers. Some went alone, others went in pairs. Clattering along the gravelled red lane, the carriages drove out of the gate. Tik, tik! Like a perfect host, Sahay stood by the porch to bid his guests goodbye. Each time a carriage was ready to depart, he warmly shook the hands of its occupant. This was also a signal for the occupants of the next carriage to descend the steps. As the last guest left, Pataluwa approached him and gently announced again, ‘Sahib, Misir-ji has come.’

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Sahay, thrilled to bits. By then Ramnarayan had left his chair and climbed down the steps to meet his friend. They ran towards one another and united in a warm embrace. Pataluwa’s Sahib was a ‘real’ sahib indeed; whoever he met or spoke to, his proud and distinguished bearing called attention to his lofty status. Like a true sahib, he always soared in the sky, distant from the earthbound mortals. With his mere gaze, he could set things aflame and unnerve people, as the sahibs were known to do. And yet, upon seeing Ramnarayan, look how he sloughed that snakeskin of his! With his friend around him, he had started behaving like an overjoyed little boy. Admittedly, Pataluwa was somewhat worried at the transformation.

  At last, Sahay’s carriage drove up to the porch, but he ignored it with a lordly abandon and started walking towards the White Mansion, holding Ramnarayan’s hands. When Bulakna picked up his spear and tried to escort the duo, Sahay forbade him from following him. Pataluwa had no choice but to run ahead of them to the mansion and make arrangements for the unexpected guest.

  * * *

  Ramnarayan’s reunion with Sahay took fifteen long years. All those years ago, following a heated spat, he had thrown his shawl across his shoulder and walked out of the White Mansion—on foot, without waiting for a carriage or a palanquin. Pataluwa had vivid memories of that inauspicious day. He recalled how Sahay kept pacing up and down the veranda, his fists clinched in agitation. And then, as his restlessness became unbearable, he darted towards the gate. For a very long time, he stood quietly at the mansion’s entrance, staring in keen anticipation at the road that ran through the Bhagwan Bazaar. But his wait was long and disappointing. Disheartened, he retreated slowly to his room, stretched himself on his bed and pulled a sheet over his face. Months passed and then years, but since that day, Ramnarayan had never stepped into the mansion; the man known to stop by every fortnight, and spend a few days on each visit, had not shown up even once in all these years. Pataluwa couldn’t guess the reason. Back then, he was just a little boy who held Sahay in mortal fear. He could never bring himself to ask his master anything about Ramnarayan. But he had eavesdropped on others talking about the matter, and heard a few murmurs about marriage and such things. These he still remembered.

  The room where Ramnarayan stayed during his visits was adjacent to Sahay’s own bedroom. Back in those days, it was known as Misir Baba’s room, and it still bore his name. However, ever since his acrimonious disappearance, it had remained bolted. Having run to the White Mansion ahead of the two, Pataluwa opened that room and started dusting it. Meanwhile, accompanied by Ramnarayan, Sahay arrived too. Addressing Pataluwa in his roaring voice, he instructed from a distance, ‘O Pataluwa, Misir-ji’s bed will be set in my room.’

  It was late at night and the entire mansion was fast asleep. Pataluwa slept on the veranda. Every now and then, weary of lugging the strings of the pankha—the swinging cloth-fan suspended across the ceiling—Bhageluwa dozed off too. But the two friends, estranged for ages, kept gossiping all night long.

  It must have been early dawn, about fou
r by the clock; Orion was beginning to fade away from the horizon and the brilliant Venus had presently ascended. Roused by the clatter, Pataluwa opened his bleary eyes and saw both Sahay and Ramnarayan get into a carriage. Soon, the vehicle sped away and Bulakna sprinted behind it, clutching his formidable spear. Later that day, he learnt from Bulakna that they had gone to Revel Sahib’s grave along the bank of the Saryu. He also got to know that Sahay had knelt by the grave and spent nearly two hours in quiet contemplation. Later, the two visited the old Opium Mansion to relive their olden days. After a quick breakfast, they set out for their respective destinations: Ramnarayan left on foot for Pakadi, while Sahay returned to Chhapra, riding his carriage.

  8

  A Secret Pact

  Pataluwa was completely baffled; for the past ten days or so, Sahay had confined himself to his room. If ever a visitor came, he would merely send out a message feigning illness. In the meantime, he had stopped drinking altogether. Not a single drop of wine had trickled down his throat. During the evenings, when Prasad came over to pay his customary visit, he would have him summoned straight to his bedroom. Prasad was always greeted with a cup of wine, which, sitting in Sahay’s unusually quiet company, he sipped at slowly. ‘I am in poor health’ or ‘the doctor has forbidden me to drink’: with these stock excuses, he managed to dodge alcohol every time.

  This humdrum went on for nearly fifteen or twenty days. Meanwhile, Vidyadharibai had arrived from Banaras. She enjoyed a towering reputation. When she came to the Red Mansion, she was given a rousing reception. Even Sahay sprung back to his feet to welcome her. Arrangements for her mehfil soon got underway. Messengers were dispatched in every direction to deliver invites. Around evening, Pataluwa saw Ramnarayan walk in through the gate. He was accompanied by a young man. Without wasting a moment, Pataluwa ran inside to inform his Sahib of their arrival. However, he could not relay his message as he was completely astounded by the sight he had stumbled upon; the shrine room had been unlocked after ages, and inside the room, Sahay was down on his knees, staring absorbedly at Revel Sahib’s portrait. Pataluwa did not have the courage to interrupt his Sahib’s meditation. He merely stood at the door, unmoving and shocked. After a long time, Sahay opened his eyes and rose to his feet. Pataluwa could see a trail of tears that had streamed down his eyes and drenched his cheeks. He thought of edging away from the door, mortified at the sight, but Sahay saw him and called out, ‘Pataluwa, is that you?’

  Sahay was equally embarrassed and didn’t know what to say. After a brief pause, he overcame his indecision and spoke gravely in a tone of authority, ‘Pataluwa, this day onwards, I entrust you with a great responsibility. I want you to know that I have completely renounced alcohol. This is the vow I took at Revel Sahib’s grave. But none should ever know of it. As earlier, cups of alcohol will be handed around at my parties, but the one served to me will hold nothing except fruit juice. And all this must be carried out in absolute secrecy. Is that understood? No one is to discover that my cup holds juice, not wine. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Sahib,’ Pataluwa replied meekly.

  That same evening, the Red Mansion hosted Vidyadharibai’s mujra. The nautch-house was packed with zamindars, judges, officers and artists. Vidyadhari or the bearer of art. She was one of the foremost exponents of the art of singing. Her mastery over the nuances of music was esteemed and acknowledged throughout India. As expected, she did not disappoint her patrons.

  Mahendar was also present in the mehfil. Awed by the tall statures of men who had swarmed the nautch-house, he sat shrivelled in a corner. Everyone waited eagerly for Gulzaribai to make an appearance in Vidyadharibai’s mujra. Wasn’t it only fifteen or twenty days ago that they had assembled for her performance? But today, their yearnings for the flame that had brightened many a mehfil remained unfulfilled. To the disappointment of everyone, Gulzaribai sat quietly behind the drapes all through the evening.

  At the very outset, Vidyadharibai touched Pandit Ramnarayan Misir’s feet, sought his blessings and launched a spirited rendition of a thumri.

  ‘O’ beloved,

  Pray, do not hurl marigolds thus,

  It hurts my heart.’

  With each sentiment that she stirred, every note that she hit, and all those subtle intonations that she so deftly executed, her spellbound connoisseurs grew more and more restless with ecstasy; like a helpless snake slithering on an oiled floor, they struggled to get a grip over their senses. The first song was followed by another thumri, then a composition in the dadar, and finally, a tappa. Enchanted by her recitals, the spectators were transported to another realm of existence—a make-believe pleasure land.

  At this point, Ramnarayan intervened and said, ‘Vidyadhari, you are the empress of this mehfil. Your music is beyond description, like the invigorating touch of a serene breeze. But today, I want you to listen to this boy here—my disciple—whom I have brought along to your mehfil. Let him sing once too.’

  Approaching Ramnarayan, Vidyadharibai bowed, touched his feet again and smilingly replied, ‘Master, your wish is a sacred command. But no one dares to sing after Vidyadhari’s performance.’

  Ramnarayan laughed and added, ‘Indeed, Vidyadhari. You are right. But this boy is a naive rustic. I am sure he wouldn’t be so diffident as not to sing after you. Give him a chance.’ At Ramnarayan’s command, Mahendar picked up the tanpura, touched the master’s feet and started singing.

  ‘O’ precious son,

  I would have returned home,

  Earlier than early morning,

  Had I known dear Ram would come,

  To our humble dwelling.’

  The haunting melody of that poorvi enthralled the entire gathering. Tears poured out of Sahay’s eyes too. Vidyadharibai was stunned into silence. Even Gulzaribai could not contain her excitement. The drapes of the Red Mansion were partially lifted and twinkling like a firefly, a pair of refulgent eyes beheld the spectacle elatedly.

  * * *

  As soon as Mahendar finished his song, Vidyadharibai sought Ramnarayan’s leave and disappeared hastily into the inner wing of the mansion. The mehfil came to a close and people started clearing out of the nautch-house. Mahendar was the last one to leave. But barely had he reached the exit when Pataluwa intercepted him and asked him to stop. He obliged him and turned back. The sight that greeted his eyes had him both riveted and puzzled: in front of him stood Gulzaribai, her eyes wet with tears. Unsure of how to strike a conversation, the young man with bewildered instincts started digging the earthen floor with his toenail. Gulzaribai thrust a tiny packet in his hand and said softly, ‘Misir-ji, to me, your song was like a shower of divine bliss. Although it is not my place to reward you, I beg you to accept this modest gift. Pray, treasure it forever.’

  And then, she walked away leisurely, past the drapes, into the mansion. Clutching the packet, Mahendar stepped out of the nautch-house, his body completely soaked in sweat. He hurried across the street, reached the White Mansion and settled on a bed that was kept in the guest room. For quite a while, he just held on to that packet; perhaps too diffident to open it and find out what it concealed within. Finally, having regained his confidence somewhat, he brought himself to unwrap it.

  ‘Good Lord! What is this? Gulzaribai’s nose ring!’

  9

  She Is No Harlot

  Sahay looked thoroughly exhausted upon his return from Pakadi; his face was scorched, his tired eyes red. His silken angrakha, covered with sweat and dust, had become clammy. No sooner had he arrived than he climbed into his bed and slept for hours, like a lifeless log. By the time he woke up, Pataluwa had already placed buckets of water in the washroom. Having washed and changed, he felt a little revived. Soon, dinner was served by Yusuf Miyan, the mansion’s loyal old cook. Sahay ambled to the dining room, but returned without eating anything. ‘Pataluwa, I will have only curd today,’ he announced.

  Pataluwa always shadowed his Sahib with unquestioning obedience. That evening, too, he kept staring blankly at hi
s Sahib’s face and waited for instructions. As soon as the command was issued, he ran to the kitchen and returned quickly with a bowl of curd in hand. A little later, the cook was sent for; Yusuf was prompt in answering the call. With his head bowed and palms joined in a namaskar, he stood in a gesture of deep obeisance.

  ‘Yusuf Miyan, you have grown old. You spent your entire life serving Revel Sahib and me, yet neither he nor I have done anything for you.’ Sahay took a long pause after the candid admission. Meanwhile, an astounded Yusuf waited in nervous silence, unsure of what lay in store for him.

  ‘Listen, it is my wish that after all these years of dreary toil, you must now rest. And spend your days in contemplation of God. Man needs time for prayers, too, doesn’t he? If there is any pursuit of yours that remains incomplete, you should tell me. I’ll see to its completion.’

  Having made that promise, he grew quiet again and turned his eyes skywards, as if trying to seek something out in that starlit expanse. Wasn’t it only yesterday that Ramnarayan, his friend for life, had departed for his heavenly abode? He was mortified by the realization that just as he had failed Yusuf Miyan, he had failed his friend too; neither could he honour any of his wishes, nor could he support any of his endeavours. There wasn’t the faintest trace of selfishness in what Ramnarayan desired. His wishes were always linked to Sahay’s happiness, prosperity and good reputation. But blinded by the obstinacy of youth and crazed by the power of money, he could never understand Ramnarayan’s selfless friendship. And what’s more, he had wounded him with his bitter words and expelled him from his mansion.