by Pandey Kapil
Soon arrangements were made for his stay at Kesarbai’s Chetgunj mansion. Mahendar started living by a strict routine, leaving days of vagrancy behind him. He would wake up before dawn, bathe in the Ganga-ji, offer water as oblation at the Vishwanath temple and then, proceed quickly to Kesarbai’s nautch-house to supervise her morning practice of poorvi songs. Thereafter, for the rest of the day, he would focus on his own music and sing for hours to hone his skills. When evening fell, he would go to Kabir Chaura, a locality famous for the musicians of the Misir clan. He greatly relished the pleasant company of his fellow musicians; sitting in their midst, he would sing merrily and gossip till late. In no time, Mahendar’s reputation as an exceptionally gifted singer grew manifold and he became the golden boy of Banaras. He was invited to perform at the grandest of durbars in the city. Respect and money, both started pouring in aplenty.
* * *
Kesarbai was that maddening fragrance whose mere presence could intoxicate a mehfil. She was much like a diamond, both brilliant and lethal. With the help of her anklet bells and her astonishingly nimble feet, she could imitate every subtle beat produced on a tabla. To top it all, she was blessed with a honeyed voice. No matter which mehfil she performed at, she always had her audience in her thrall. But in spite of all her feats, she nursed a secret sorrow: she could never bring herself to compete against Vidyadharibai at the Budhwa Mangal fair. Under the circumstances, Mahendar appeared as a charm that could magically bridge the gulf separating the two. In months that followed, Kesarbai devoted herself to the universe of poorvi songs and drank deeply at the springs of its sentimental poetry and melodious tunes. Each dawn, as Mahendar arrived to train her, she received him with utmost respect and great eagerness to perfect her craft. However, Mahendar experienced an intense attraction to her. Whenever he saw Kesarbai’s face, Gulzaribai’s radiant image flashed before his mind. And the strain of melancholy, always so evident in his songs, deepened further. As days went by, his longing for Kesarbai intensified; whether asleep or awake, he dreamt of her all the time. And then, one day, calamity struck.
It was already past the first watch of the night. Mahendar was getting ready to leave the impromptu singing contest at Kabir Chaura. Just then, he had a surreal sensation; he was so overwhelmed by a particular song that he felt as if he could actually taste its rasa—a taste as overpowering as the intoxicating scent that came from Kesarbai’s body. Once he was reminded of her, his feet started moving towards Dalmandi, quite involuntarily.
The mehfils of that infamous address were beginning to peak and the air around the nautch-houses was itself filled with sweet music. Mahendar was quick to climb the steps that led to Kesarbai’s nautch-house. His unexpected arrival at an odd hour took the doorman by surprise. Obstructing his passage, he alerted him with utmost courtesy. ‘Baba, Raja Sahib has come.’
But he did not pay any attention to those words of caution and rushed to the doorway, his reason blurred by lust. The mehfil was in full swing; one could hear the rhythmic beats of the tabla and the resonant harmony of the sarangi. Inside the nautch-house, Raja Sahib sat reclining against a bolster. Attired in a richly embroidered achkan, he glittered like gold. And expensive red wine swirled in the delicately-carved cup that he held in his hand. But Kesarbai’s seductive beauty was more potent than any intoxicant. When she drew near Raja Sahib, he gently held her chin and stared deep into her eyes.
‘Who would calm the ache in my heart, O’ Rama?
Who would cure my poisoned body?
O’ sister-in-law,
Pray, light the lamp.’
Her song had the qualities of both fire and poison; it could burn, it could kill. Having witnessed that scene, Mahendar’s euphoria evaporated. When Kesarbai noticed him, she rose to her feet with sensual frolic, picked up a jug of wine, poured some more in Raja Sahib’s cup and advanced towards the door, cleverly maneuvering the steps of her dance arrangement. By then, her accompanist had started improvising the song’s refrain on sarangi, and Raja Sahib had raised the replenished cup to his lips, ready for another swig. Sensing an opportunity, Kesarbai clutched the door and spoke chidingly to Mahendar, ‘Misir-ji, you have no sense of time or occasion. You must go away.’ Having issued a quick rebuke, she swirled back towards Raja Sahib.
Mahendar froze. Kesarbai’s shameless coquetry in the presence of another man had left him shattered. That seductive body and its intoxicating fragrance, which had drawn him to Dalmandi, now emitted an appalling stench. The blistering insult, which Kesarbai had inflicted on him, hurt even more under the flames of envy. His feeling of humiliation was so brutal that he felt as if Kesarbai had spat on his face.
He hastened downstairs and dashed towards his residence. Reaching Chetgunj, he counted his savings, picked up a few clothes and stormed out of the mansion. From there, he walked straight to the station and waited on the platform for the train to Chhapra. But he found himself haunted by those two faces; memories of both Kesarbai and Dhelabai floated in his mind and refused to let go of their hold on him. For Mahendar, those faces were knotted with painful tales of humiliation. However, much as he wanted to, he could not blank them out.
‘O’ Ram, where shall I go?’
Just then, the passenger ahead of him at the ticket counter hurriedly demanded a ticket to the Howrah-bound train. With the same urgency, he, too, held out money for a ticket to Howrah.
13
The Forgotten Ones
For three consecutive days, as the lawsuit was being put to trail, Gulzaribai had become completely oblivious to the world beyond the court. In the midst of that constant scuttling between the court and the lawyer’s office, where was the time to pay attention to other things. And whenever she returned to her mansion to get some sleep, exhausted though she was, anxiety kept her open-eyed through the night. Food or rest, nothing seemed to matter to her.
Finally, the verdict was delivered; Gulzaribai won the legal battle. Riding a carriage and flanked by her supporters, she set out triumphantly for her mansion. A band of musicians marched ahead of her vehicle, leading the victory procession. Once she reached home, she was besieged by elated friends and swarmed with the congratulatory messages. The day was long and eventful. Exhausted at the end, she plopped down into the couch placed in the sitting room. The servants were jubilant and hundreds had thronged to the mansion, asking for baksheesh and celebratory savories.
In the middle of these celebrations, Gulzaribai noticed a tiny paper-packet lying neglected on the table. Engrossed in a jovial gossip with friends and well-wishers, she picked it up distractedly. For a while, as the chit-chat continued, she kept tossing it about, from her left hand to her right. A few tosses later, as the paper dampened with the sweat in her palm, the packet started to wither at the edges and its folds loosened.
At first, she suspected it to be something small and globular, but when she opened the packet and studied the object, she was deeply hurt by her discovery. An unspoken agony pierced her bosom. The glittering nose ring that she held in her palm triggered a surge of emotion. She thought of her own identity and her forgotten past; the pain had awakened her to her long-subdued womanhood. Stirred by the find, she got up at once, rushed indoors and called out to her waiting woman, ‘Sanichari, go fetch Misir-ji.’
Sanichari snapped at Gulzaribai, waving her hands vigorously in irritation, ‘At this odd hour, wherever would you find Misir-ji? Dear Madam, he has been absconding for some days past. He must be too busy leading the life of a vagrant, eh!’
‘Hold your tongue!’ Gulzaribai retorted. However, the thought of Mahendar’s disappearance made her dizzy and an ominous darkness began to engulf her. With all her strength, she squeezed at the ring. A little later, once she regained her composure, she dragged herself to her bedroom and crashed on the bed.
As soon as Prasad returned from work, he headed straight to the Red Mansion to congratulate Gulzaribai. But he was stopped on the porch by a waiting woman who told him that the mistress was a bit under the weather
, and therefore, unavailable to meet anyone. Lachhman Prasad got the message. Inflamed by the insult it concealed, he retreated to his place, seething with anger. All of the Red Mansion was wrapped in a festive mood. Ecstatic servants spent the entire night rejoicing and singing verses from the Ramayana.
* * *
When morning dawned, men were sent in all directions to look for Mahendar. Every lane of Mishrawaliya, Pakadi and Revelgunj was thoroughly searched, yet no clue was found of his whereabouts. Gulzaribai felt miserable. She lay grief-stricken on her bed, her face buried in the pillow. Shivdharilal scratched his head, feeling both helpless and stumped. How very reckless the ways of youth are, he thought. His own story was no different. Years ago, it was in a fit of youthful rage that he had arrived at the doorsteps of the Opium Bungalow. He waited by Gulzaribai’s bed, and after a while, quietly slipped out of her room.
It wasn’t difficult for Shivdharilal to guess what had happened. He had swallowed many bitter pills himself and those distressing experiences had made him worldly-wise. He did know a thing or two about a woman’s heart. He knew it well that a woman’s passion cares little for the ways of the world; it thrives undeterred by social mores. A man, by contrast, has little choice in these matters. He is expected to weather by himself every storm that rages in his heart. Even if his soul gets gashed and shredded, he must appear unruffled to the world. This everlasting struggle against one’s own self is every man’s painful fate.
Whenever Shivdharilal saw Gulzaribai, he was reminded of his second wife. He had married her after the death of the first. His first wife could not bear him a child. Although the second wife gave him a son, she could never find a way into his heart. It was a disastrous match. Shortly after he became a father, she abandoned her infant son and decamped with a boy from their neighborhood. Even though it happened ages ago, Shivdharilal still squirmed with embarrassment at the thought of it. The day he had learnt of her treachery, he had picked up his son, and in the dark of the night, left his home for good. How very desperate he was to erase his identity, to forget that he was Shankar Prasad from . . .
Adopting the name Shivdharilal, he landed a job in the Opium Bungalow and started raising his son. But Shivratan seemed to have taken after his mother. Before he came of age, he fled to Calcutta with Ganeshiya—the married daughter of a maid at the Opium Bungalow. Embarrassed again, Shivdharilal wanted to run away to anonymity. However, since he was well along in years and lacked the raw audacity that comes with youth, he had to abandon that idea. Somehow, he always felt that Sahay had an inkling of his compulsions.
There were times when Gulzaribai’s striking beauty caused him a little unease. It brought back to him the loveliness and the charms of his second wife. He had experienced a similar restlessness the day when Meenabai had left for Muzaffarpur, leaving everyone puzzled by the suddenness of her departure. That day, before announcing her resolve to return to her city, she had cast inquisitive glances at Shivdharilal. Subjected to her probing gaze, Shivdharilal had felt an intense agitation.
* * *
Gulzaribai’s lotus eyes looked bloodshot and swollen.
‘Munshi-ji,’ she called out.
Shivdharilal was distracted by the string of memories that flowed through his mind, but her voice pulled him back to the here and now.
‘Munshi-ji, you must make arrangements for a more thorough search.’
‘All possible arrangements have already been made, Bai-ji. I’ll keep a close watch on everything myself. You should rest assured.’
The search went on for several days, but Mahendar remained untraceable. Meanwhile, Prasad’s patience began to wear off. Each day he visited the Red Mansion, wanting nothing less than Gulzaribai’s personal attention. He tried hard to draw her into lighthearted gossips and soften her up till she came under this thumb. However, contrary to his mighty hopes, he ended up feeling tormented by her never-ending discussions about Mahendar. It is indeed profoundly excruciating for any man to sustain his patience when a beautiful woman speaks obsessively of another man. But the seasoned Prasad endured this too. He tried every trick that he had up his sleeves, yet Gulzaribai kept slipping away. Sometimes, in a desperate bid to impress her with the sincerity of his friendship, he even faked concern Mahendar and grilled Shivdharilal about the progress of the search operation in her presence.
But Shivdharilal was disapproving of the entire hullabaloo around the disappearance of a jilted man. Years ago, when his wife had run away, he had made no effort to trace her. Later, when his son eloped, he once again decided against putting himself under any unnecessary stress. Must he strive so hard to search for a man who doesn’t have anyone to call his own?
This debate caused him great unease. Once he had seen a strange dream: he saw that the boy his wife had fled away with had deserted her, and in the ensuing tumult, he was left with no strength in his body to run to her rescue. This bizarre vision haunted him for long afterwards. However, things simmered down gradually, and the burden of estate management obliged him to let go of the bygones.
Several years had passed since Shivdharilal’s son had fled Chhapra. The fact that Shivratan had a settled way of life in Calcutta was all the consolation he needed to live his life in peace. Once in a while, the news of his son’s well being trickled to him. Sometimes, he even received clothes and gifts sent from Calcutta. Whenever that happened, he did not forget to thank the gods and extol his good fortune. Meanwhile, with each passing day, Prasad kept getting more and more impatient. Whenever Shivdharilal saw him, he was reminded of his own son. He feared that just as Shivratan had run away with Ganeshiya, Prasad, too, will decamp with Gulzaribai soon. Shivdharilal often likened him to a sly wild cat; one that crouches with infinite patience and stuns its prey at an opportune moment. His vastly experienced eyes told him that Prasad was after Gulzaribai’s wealth—her mansion and her estate. Like a vigilant cobra that guards its burrow, he remained sharp and watchful.
But, one day, the entire Red Mansion erupted with disbelief. People were shocked to learn that Prasad had furtively grabbed the White Mansion—one of Sahay’s most prized possessions. The relatives of Sahay could do nothing about it. During that long-drawn-out property dispute, he had not only provided them money to meet the expenses of the law court, but had also goaded them to pursue the lawsuit till the bitter end. However, now that the court case was lost and their resources drained, there was no question of them repaying their debts. Preying on their helplessness, he had succeeded in grabbing the White Mansion—something he always coveted. Later that day, when he visited the Red Mansion to offer an explanation for his actions, a livid Gulzaribai insulted him and had him thrown out of the premises. ‘I cannot suffer the sight of this wretched sinner,’ she lashed out at him. Taken aback by her angry outburst, Prasad slunk out of the campus, red-faced
The news sunk Shivdharilal. Although the episode had exposed Prasad’s true character and alerted Gulzaribai to her potential enemies, but he considered it a moment of colossal personal failure; he was trumped by the cunning of the world. He really took it to heart and was so severely affected by it that he soon fell ill. When Shivratan was informed of his father’s poor health, he returned to Chhapra to nurse him. This was his first visit to the town since he had eloped with Ganeshiya. By the time he reached, Shivdharilal had grown too feeble to even speak. But during his final moments, when Shivratan tried to pour a driblet of water from the sacred Ganga-ji into his mouth, he somehow found the strength to holdout his hand in protest and stopped him from performing that ritual. Yet, days later, the same son lit his funeral pyre. The departed soul had no choice in the matter. Such is the lot of a dead man! They have no right over their own remains, no care for honor or shame. On the thirteenth day, once all the rites were observed, Shivratan left for Calcutta.
* * *
Without Shivdharilal, Gulzaribai was at a loss to order the affairs of the estate. She felt lonely too. The White Mansion scam had laid bare the avaricious schemes of Prasad. T
here was now no one whom she could trust. Like a fish stranded on land that gasps for breath, she groped around desperately for support and sympathy. She meditated for hours, sitting in front of Revel Sahib’s portrait, but the Sahib did not speak to her. She even lit candles and prayed at his grave, yet the road ahead looked dark as ever. One day, after a trip to Revelgunj, as she rode back to the mansion, she noticed a boy of fourteen or fifteen standing on the steps near the porch. Although his hair was cropped and his tattered clothes were soiled, his faced looked handsome. He was waiting for her with folded hands, wearing a look of anxiety on his face.
‘Who are you, son?’ she asked.
‘I am the grandson of Babu Gurbachan Sahay, Babu Haliwant Sahay’s cousin,’ he replied, respectfully.
For someone who was so maliciously harassed by the relatives of Haliwant Sahay, the mere mention of their names was enough to provoke a fit of anger. But she could not place Gurbachan Sahay; his name was never mentioned during the court case.