by Pandey Kapil
For fifteen long years, the two soulmates had seared in a strange fire; it was neither fanned by spite, nor by repentance. Indeed, the years of separation had caused an intense agony to both. Yet, five years ago, when Sahay had Dhelabai abducted, Ramnarayan had buried all his long-harboured grudges and rushed to give his friend a sage counsel. Finding him alone, Ramnarayan had said, ‘Dear Haliwant, is this not what I always wanted for you: a woman to look after you and your household? But you fought with me whenever I made that suggestion. Well, what’s done cannot be undone. Henceforth, please let good sense prevail upon you. Do not trifle with the honour of the woman whom you have welcomed into your household.’
Like always, Babu Haliwant Sahay laughed at the advice dispensed to him and asked, ‘Brother Misir, do you reckon that she is my lawfully wedded wife?’
Ramnarayan, too, had a hearty laugh at his friend’s counter-question, but he tried to reason with him saying, ‘So, is she the harlot from Muzaffarpur? Brother, let me tell you this: the harlot has long perished—dead, since that night in the inn. This one here, who lives in your mansion, whether married or a mere concubine, is Babu Haliwant Sahay’s woman.’
That day onwards, Dhelabai never stepped out of purdah to perform in public.
* * *
Yusuf Miyan slumped lifelessly at Sahay’s feet, clasped his legs and wept, ‘Sahib, please do not drive me out. It will be the end of the road for me. I have no one but you to call my own. My wife is dead, so is my son. Where would I find refuge at this age? I beg you; please do not throw me out.’
Sahay was presently lost in memories of the days gone by, but Yusuf Miyan’s heart-rending entreaties pulled him back to the present. ‘Oh! Yusuf Miyan! Why do you weep? Could I ever throw you out? You were recruited by Revel Sahib. Would I ever have the moral courage to fire you? Look, all I am saying is now that you have become very old, you need some time to yourself; a little time to be spent remembering Allah!’
As he uttered these words to assuage Yusuf, a sobering thought came into his mind: ‘Is there anyone other than Yusuf Miyan whom I can call my own?’ Exhaling deeply, Sahay continued, ‘Yusuf Miyan, you see, Misir bhai is no more. Last evening, he gave up this earthly mirzaee—the one we jealously guard and call our body. During those final moments, he just held on to my hand. Although not a world could pass through his lips, but it felt as if he had said everything; all that was there to be told. Now, I can sense that time is running out for me too. I should also turn my thoughts to Ram.’
Comforted by these words of assurance, Yusuf released his hold on Sahay’s legs, rose to his feet and wiped his tears. Looking sorrowful and dejected by the unexpected turn of events, he trudged away, stoically mumbling to himself, ‘Master, now I get it. I get it all. Misir Baba never touched the food I cooked. But he would always tell me: Yusuf, make sure your Sahib is well fed. Now I get it, master. So it shall be.’ Sahay stood quietly and watched Yusuf Miyan go.
Although Pataluwa was known to turn a blind eye to the affairs of the mansions and always keep mum, yet he could see a pattern in Sahay’s behaviour that caused him to worry; Sahay’s decision to give up meat had the same impulsiveness about it with which he had given up alcohol some five years ago. Thereafter, his meals were prepared in Tiwari-ji’s kitchen, not by Yusuf. Yet, each day, quite unfailingly, Yusuf remembered to unlatch his kitchen’s door. After spending a little time in his workshop of many years, he would walk over to Tiwari-ji’s kitchen, carefully supervise the meal services, and then retire to his room.
‘Pataluwa, see to it that Yusuf Miyan does not suffer any inconvenience. You must bring him meat whenever he craves for it,’ said Sahay, certain of his order.
But taking a cue from his master, Yusuf, too, had become a vegetarian. Had he also been overtaken by thoughts of dying, like his master? Yes, it was indeed the autumn of his life. One day, as he knelt to offer namaz, he froze in that posture. After a long anxious wait, when Pataluwa touched him with his nervous hands, his lifeless body rolled down on the floor. On that day, tears had welled up in Sahay’s eyes and he did not eat anything.
* * *
For the past few years, Pataluwa had wondered why Sahay’s exuberant mehfils were becoming more and more desolate. In the past, these musical galas were graced by the likes of Vidyadharibai, Kesarbai, Janakibai, Roshanaara and many other legendary singers; sometimes they performed at the Red Mansion, on other occasions, the White Mansion hosted them. However, of late, the tawaifs were restricted to the White Mansion. They came to Sahay for old time’s sake and left without performing most of the time. If at all a mehfil was organized, it was arranged restrictively at the White Mansion; no one even dared to suggest the Red Mansion as a possible venue.
Before long, the mehfils at the White Mansion became a rarity too. Yet, each day, Gulzaribai would dress up, get into a palanquin and visit Haliwant Babu, as if bound by a sacred duty. During such calls, she was always accompanied by her waiting-woman Jiriya. After spending a little time in Sahay’s company, and singing a few of his favourite songs, Gulzaribai would promptly return to the Red Mansion. Prasad was the only other acquaintance who paid regular visits to the White Mansion. He, too, would gossip for a while and then leave. However, loneliness did not seem to bother Sahay anymore; he seemed to have embraced a life of solitude. He spent long hours in the shrine room and stayed wide-eyed till late into the night. Yet, during work hours, he went about his daily business with the same agility and sharpness that he had displayed all his life.
In the past few months, Pataluwa had become somewhat scared of Sahay. He struggled to make sense of the new trends that he saw at the White Manson; there was a steady decline in the frequency of mujras and a clear increase in the number of singers and classical instrumentalists whom Sahay patronised. It wasn’t as if the luxuriant soirees of Sahay had stopped altogether, but he had started showing a noticeably greater enthusiasm for bhajans and nirguns. The likes of Nassir Khan Beenkar, Bhagwat Maharaj and Lochan Prasad had now become frequent visitors to his place.
Whenever these devotional gatherings were planned, Gulzaribai made sure to come to the White Mansion. And Jiriya used to be her steady escort during each of those excursions. Back then, Jiriya’s youth was just about beginning to blossom. Quite understandably, her tender heart, burning with youthful desire, showed no patience for songs of devotion and renunciation. Whenever songs of this variety were sung, she grimaced and quickly disappeared from the venue. But Pataluwa always waited for such songs.
Ramnarayan and his disciple Mahendar had been regular to these gatherings. Mahendar had become a crowd-pleaser; every time he was called upon to present his recitals, he had his audience enthralled. There was one song in particular which created a sensation of sorts.
‘O beloved!
As I kneaded your head,
Shoved by your elbow,
My nose ring got mislaid.’
Whenever he sung that song, his enraptured audience swayed and rocked, as if in a state of trance. But Gulzaribai’s reaction was rather restrained and peculiar; she would grow oddly quiet, shut her eyes and rest her head against the wall. Both Jiriya and Pataluwa had noticed this strange behaviour.
Sadly, the newly-introduced tradition of devotional gatherings turned out to be a rather short-lived one, coming to an abrupt end the day Ramnarayan passed away. When Sahay got to know that his friend was on his deathbed, he set out immediately for Pakadi. When he returned to Chhapra, he was completely shattered and weighed down by grief. Soon, Sahay’s own health started giving way. Worried about Sahay’s condition, Gulzaribai devoted herself to nursing him. Owing partly to the restorative power of time, and partly to Gulzaribai’s incessant tending, signs of recovery were soon noticeable. Once he got a little better, he took Gulzaribai along and left for Revel Sahib’s bungalow.
Revelgunj was the place he had the fondest memories of; it was here that he had spent the best part of his early years. Its soil restored some of his depleted vigour. For the enti
re duration of his joyful stay, he paid daily visits to Revel Sahib’s grave. He sat by it quietly and meditated for hours. One day, he had a surreal vision; he felt as if Revel Sahib had risen from his grave and was presently addressing him, his arms outstretched. ‘Haliwant, this world is huge. Explore its variety; do not stagnate and stink like water trapped in a ditch. You must open up a little.’ The vision shattered his quiescence.
He bowed at the grave and gently whispered, ‘Father, why did you not come to my rescue earlier? Here I am, at the final stage of my life; what can I possibly do now?’
‘Haliwant, words like ‘‘then” and “now” are nothing but frothy excuses. Each day is an opportunity to make a new beginning,’ the voice answered.
The sensation was so strong that he felt as if Revel Sahib stood close by and spoke to him in his gruff voice. For Sahay, it was a moment of awakening from a deep slumber. That same day, he returned to Chhapra.
* * *
A few days later, Mahendar arrived at the Red Mansion. Traumatized by his guru’s death, he looked rather gaunt. Before dying, Ramnarayan had instructed his disciple to seek refuge at his friend’s home. ‘Mahendar, should you ever need anything, go to Haliwant,’ Ramnarayan had assured. But in spite of that assurance, now that Ramnarayan was gone, Mahendar appeared quite windswept and edgy. It was the first time that he had come to the Red Mansion without being accompanied by his guru. Sahay saw him the moment he got off the carriage. Gulzaribai noticed him too, but she withdrew quickly to the inner wing.
That same day, Mahendar launched his epic narration of Ram’s legend in the courtyard of the White Mansion. It was also the first time when the majestic gates of the mansion were thrown open for the commoners. Day after day, he composed delectable songs on episodes from Ramayana and sang them to the delight of his captivated audience. Many a time, those heartfelt compositions moved Sahay to tears. Soon, the narration reached the point where Ram courts Sita in Janakpur’s pleasure garden.
‘If only I knew,
It was dear Sita’s wedding,
To my heart’s content,
I would have decorated the nuptial lodging.’
As Mahendar recited these lines, rasa poured on the congregation and the devotees found themselves lost in that otherworldly experience. Suddenly, Sahay had an odd inkling; he felt as if Revel Sahib was calling out to him. Even though he was surrounded by people on all sides, he decided to get up and catch a glimpse of Revel Sahib’s portrait.
When he reached the shrine room, he was surprised to notice that its door was unlatched and the wooden panes were merely huddled together. He pushed them open out of curiosity. His eyes caught sight of two silhouettes that appeared to quiver under the pale light of an earthen lamp. It made him shudder with shock and disgust. ‘Goodness! Pataluwa and Jiriya!’ he cried out. Retracing his steps hastily, he latched the door and darted to his bedroom. A wad of banknotes lay neglected on a shelf in his bedroom. He grabbed it frenziedly and pulled out the key to his safe from underneath the pillow. As he yanked the safe open, his late wife’s ornaments spilled out on the floor: first the maang teeka jangled, and then the bracelets clanked, followed by a few necklaces and earrings. He scooped the scattered ornaments up and prepared to leave, his mind still racing. But as he approached the door, his late wife’s vermillion case caught his attention; it was shoved in a corner of the safe. That, too, was collected. Using a bedspread, he drew everything together in an untidy bundle and then reached for his gun that dangled high from a hook on the wall. Meanwhile, Mahendar’s recital was in full swing. One could hear his resonant voice even from Sahay’s bedroom.
He opened the door of the shrine room and found both Pataluwa and Jiriya trembling with fear. Sahay barged in and yelled, ‘Pataluwa, open this vermillion case and put a red mark across Jiriya’s forehead.’ Pataluwa froze in fear. But Sahay had no patience. Aiming his gun at him, he issued a grim warning, ‘Do what I say or . . .’
Pataluwa opened the case and mottled the parting in Jiriya’s hair, as instructed. One could still hear Mahendar crooning in the background.
‘Jiriya, put on the ornaments.’
Jiriya stood unmoving.
‘I demand that you wear them immediately.’
Terrified, Jiriya did as he said.
‘Pataluwa, with Revel Sahib as your witness, swear that your will never abandon her.’
Pataluwa knelt down in front of Revel Sahib’s portrait.
‘Jiriya, now it’s your turn. Pledge lifelong fidelity to Pataluwa.’
Jiriya knelt besides Pataluwa, looking straight at Revel Sahib’s portrait.
Sahay pushed the wad of banknotes into Pataluwa’s trembling hands and said, ‘Take Jiriya along and run away to Sheetlapur. Use this money to buy a farm for yourselves.’
But Pataluwa stood speechless, his head hung in shame. Annoyed at his silence, Sahay thundered, ‘Bastard, run or I will shoot you dead.’
‘Master, how could I leave . . .’ Pataluwa whimpered.
Enraged at his obstinacy, Haliwant shouted at him and said, ‘Run. Without wasting a moment, run. Can’t you hear Mahendar Misir’s song describing Ram’s courtship at Janakpur? It portends a new beginning for the two of you. Run or this haunted mansion will eat you alive, just as it has eaten me up.’
Pataluwa was filled with a sense of shame and remorse. Without uttering another word, the two bade adieu to the White Mansion. As they were about to leave, Sahay summoned Bulakna and said, ‘Bulakna, escort them till the boundary of Sheetlapur. And see to it that it remains a secret.’
10
Parting Lessons
As soon as Mahendar finished his daily recitation of the holy legend of Ram, the search for Jiriya started. ‘Jiriya, O Jiriya,’ Gulzaribai called out. But those calls remained unanswered. The gathering was dissolved for the day and the devotees had left for their homes. After a frustrating wait, Gulzaribai set out for the Red Mansion, but her waiting-woman wasn’t there either. Agitated at her odd disappearance, she ran back to the White Mansion to look again, before retreating shortly in considerable disappointment. Without much delay, Gulzaribai sent for servants of both the mansions and launched a frantic search for Jiriya.
Sahay retired to his room and dozed off, a mysterious smile playing on his face. The night-long search for Jiriya went on until dawn, yet she remained untraceable. Feeling helpless, Gulzaribai came over to Sahay’s room and shook him vigorously, ‘Are you awake? Please get up. We cannot find Jiriya.’
Sahay opened his languid eyes, yawned and offered his commentary on the ongoing clamour, ‘Hmm! Jiriya is untraceable. Is that so? Well, in that case, I’ll have to ask you to stop thinking about her, Gulzari. You won’t find her ever again. She must have flown away from the mansion, like a fledgling flies away from its nest. Besides, let us not forget that she is, after all, the waiting-woman of a harlot.’
‘Shut up!’ Gulzaribai shouted, boiling over with anger. ‘Don’t you feel ashamed? All these years, you had me locked away from people—always behind purdah—yet you have the temerity to call me a harlot! Mark my words, I am not Dhelabai anymore. I am Gulzari Devi. Never ever forget this.’
Sahay was taken aback by her unexpectedly belligerent retort. Hadn’t Ramnarayan said the exact same things? However, back then, he had put on such airs that it prevented him from acknowledging what was now glaringly obvious. He could hear the words of Ramnarayan ring into his ears: ‘Haliwant, Dhelabai is long since dead. This woman is Gulzari Devi—your woman. Whether lawfully wedded or a mere concubine, she is Haliwant Sahay’s woman all the same.’
Five years ago, he had ridiculed that suggestion. But now, it had resurfaced as an undeniable truth. Throughout his life, Sahay had subordinated the expectations of the world, big or modest, to his bloated self-conceit. Reality was always warped to match his convenience. But the truth which Ramnarayan wanted him to honour appeared rather steady and rigid. However, the thought of having a settled way of life with a woman somehow agitated him. C
ould it be so that the Sahay, who was known to fiercely guard his personal freedom, was getting increasingly tied down to his mansion and to Gulzaribai? No! That must not come to pass! He must protect his freedom and escape the snares of the world, just as his mentor Revel Sahib had. He could not risk staying chained to his desolate mansion, as if it were a valuable possession.
He called to mind the last days of Revel Sahib, the master of the stately Opium Bungalow. When he had come to India, he had brought along the typical English love for pomp and luxuries. However, during his final days, the man had torn himself away from the same opulence which had hitherto defined him. Bequeathing the decrepit edifice of his material possessions to a fool like Sahay, he had cleverly evaded all the entrapments of the world.
For the rest of his years, he surrendered himself to a life of renunciation and lived like a homeless mendicant; he held on to a medicine box and assiduously embraced a saintly life, forfeiting all comforts and excesses. As he went around treating the poor and the sickly, he was the living image of Saint Xavier. He roamed carefree across the province, seeking shelter at random homes whenever it got dark, and asking around for food whenever he felt hungry.
Sahay had pleaded with him to abandon his itinerant life, ‘Sahib, please stay with me. It breaks my heart to see you suffer such daily hardship.’
Revel Sahib had dismissed the plea with a laugh and said, ‘Haliwant, this is turning out to be the most rewarding phase of my life. Earlier, during those long years that I have lived, I suffered so much. Now, at this ripe age, I have come to realize that every household in the province is like my own home, and these people are like my own children.’