Phoolsunghi

by Pandey Kapil

  After a brief silence, he said, ‘Son, go tell Bai-ji that Rai Lachhman Prasad is here.’

  ‘Inform who, sir? My grand-aunt?’

  ‘Grand-aunt?’ At first, Prasad felt a little puzzled by the suggestion, but he was quick to gather his wits. ‘Yes yes, grand-aunt,’ he added. Ramprakash obliged.

  Lachhman Prasad had an old axe to grind; he had planned to offer fake commiserations on Mahendar’s conviction and rub salt into her wounds. For the past ten years, the Red Mansion and its residents were as good as dead to him. Gulzaribai, too, in turn, had repaid in kind by blocking him off socially; he was no longer invited to or welcomed at the Red Mansion. Naturally, she was extremely curious to find out what had brought him to her house, especially on a day like that.

  Gulzaribai was affable, but guarded. She invited him to the sitting room and asked politely, ‘Tell me, Rai Sahib. What can I do for you? You have but to command and I obey.’

  But Prasad was busy daydreaming. He paid no attention to her. Although he had come with the sole intention to humiliate her and to vent his pent-up anger, but now that thought had somehow dissipated. Sitting in the Red Mansion, as he thought of his friend Babu Haliwant Sahay, he was consumed with remorse. However, he collected himself and greeted her back with an unexpected question, ‘Bai-ji, who is this boy?’

  ‘He is Sahib’s grandson. His great grandfather was an uncle of Sahib’s father. Three years ago, when he lost his family to a plague, he came to the mansion seeking refuge. He is now my grandson.’

  ‘Bai-ji, I want your grandson.’ His keen eyes lit up as he made that request.

  The suggestion irked Gulzaribai greatly. ‘Are you here for a laugh?’ she blurted, her narrowed eyes betraying her anger.

  ‘Bai-ji, the hair on my head has greyed. I am too old for frivolity.’

  He took a pause, exhaled deeply and resumed, ‘Bai-ji, truth be told; I had come here with the sole intention to cause you more hurt by talking about Mahendar Misir, and to satiate my desire for revenge. But seeing this boy, I can only think of my greying hair. I am reminded of the fact that I am a father too. My daughter, Siyasaheli, has already reached the marriageable age. Come what may, I want this boy to marry my daughter, Bai-ji.’

  ‘What else is on your mind, Rai Sahib? Are you still working on that scheme to usurp the Red Mansion?’ perplexed by his proposition, Gulzaribai chose to speak bluntly.

  ‘Oh! No. Not at all! You see, on the contrary. I now wish to return the White Mansion which I had grabbed through deceit,’ explained Prasad, wringing his hands.

  Rai Lachhman Prasad had a daughter, his only child. He wanted a ghar-jamai—a son-in-law who could stay with him in his house. When he saw Ramprakash, he was sure that the boy was a godsend. Considering what he was looking for, Ramprakash was indeed the most suitable match for his daughter. However, the proposal unsettled Gulzaribai.

  ‘Rai Sahib, I have always considered myself a woman with sacred conjugal duties, and I think of Ramprakash as my own grandson. But does that change anything? To the world I am nothing but Dhelabai, the harlot. How am I supposed to have anything to do with Ramprakash’s wedding?’ Her voice betrayed a sad acknowledgement of a failed life.

  But Prasad had a gift for getting things done his way. To escape community censure, he managed to engage Haliwant Sahay’s relatives from Sheetlapur and persuaded them to take a leading part in the rituals. The tilak ceremony was organized at the Opium Bungalow in Revelgunj and it was from there that the baraat set out for Chhapra. Gulzaribai oversaw all the wedding arrangements: at times with intimate immediacy, at times with the detachment deemed necessary. Once the ceremony was over, she withdrew from everything and retreated into the shrine room.

  She knew all too well what was expected of her after Ramprakash’s marriage; she was neither a novice, nor a fool. She remembered everything her own mother had to contend with. Could she ever summon the same bold fortitude that Meenabai had displayed? No, without a doubt, she lacked the talent needed to lead a double life. For those reasons, she resolved to devote herself to the shrine room.

  She had vivid recollections of the times when Meenabai was in the prime of youth. On countless occasions, she had seen how her mother, after a spirited performance, sobbed in private. Meenabai was that fountain of mirth which brought every mehfil to life, but deep down, she was sorrow personified. She had tried her utmost to protect Gulzaribai against the polluting touch of her trade. She had even tried to give her an education. However, when circumstances changed for the worse, she had no choice but to swallow a bitter pill and introduce her daughter to the tabooed trade—the profession of a tawaif. Later, she herself taught Gulzari the subtleties of singing and the niceties of dance.

  A waiting-woman had told Gulzaribai about her mother’s unfortunate journey through life. Meenabai of Muzaffarpur was in fact a resident of Lucknow. She had come to Muzaffarpur to perform at a baraat, but could never return to Lucknow. Her new city lavished on her all the luxuries of life—home, land, property, and everything else. But she never got what a woman’s heart truly desires; her yearnings for someone who would shield her from the ravenous gaze of the world, as a man shields his wife, remained unfulfilled.

  The waiting-woman had also told her that Meenabai wasn’t in fact born in Lucknow; she had meandered into the city as a dispossessed vagrant. Back in those days, brothels were the only shelter an unguarded woman lost in an unfamiliar city could hope for. It was at one such brothel that she had learnt singing and dancing. Before long, she became so adroit at her art that she had no equal in all of Lucknow. But once fame and riches started pouring in, her profession erased her sense of selfhood; although many years went by, yet no one ever heard of the place she had come from, or of the circumstances that kept her from returning to Lucknow.

  Gulzaribai was born and raised in Muzaffarpur. She truly belonged to the city, and the city belonged to her; it was here that she received a smattering of letters, and later, learnt to sing and dance; it was in the mehfils of Muzaffarpur that she unleashed the seductive force of her art. Yet, the day Ustad-ji had arrived to train her and to initiate her into that loathsome profession, Meenabai had wept her heart out. Gulzaribai could never forget that fateful day.

  She also remembered the champak tree in her courtyard. Whenever it blossomed, a pair of flowerpeckers would appear out of nowhere and frolic about the laden tree. The birds were playful and twitchy, just like the young Gulzari. They flitted from flower to flower, drawing nectar with their needlelike beaks. This sprightly bustle would continue all through the day. Was Gulzaribai’s own life any different? Did not she also skip from one patron to the next, plundering riches and devastating lives, as she cold-bloodedly went about her trade?

  Once, in Muzaffarpur, she had caught a flowerpecker. The teensy creature was put in a bamboo cage. All through the day, Gulzari tried hard to feed it; she kept bringing fresh flowers and shoved them in through the delicate bars of the cage. However, the little prisoner was so determined to frustrate her efforts that it refused to so much as look at the flowers. By evening, having exhausted all her tricks to tame it, Gulzari surrendered to its heroic obstinacy and opened the cage. Once free, it fluttered straight to its constant companion—the one that had spent the entire day hovering noisily around the cage and presently perched wearied on a slender branch of the champak tree. Whenever she thought of that episode, a sad realization of her own solitude came to torment her.

  For Gulzaribai, Muzaffarpur seemed like lost city, buried in a distant past. Yet, her childhood memories of the champak tree, and of that pair of flowerpeckers, remained clear and warm. She was so moved by the episode that to treasure its memory, she had a champak tree planted along the southern flank of her mansion. Each flowering season, the bounteous flowers of the evergreen tree welcomed several chirpy pairs of flowerpeckers.

  However, she barely remembered anything of her own abduction or the other details of that fateful incident. She did recall the shining swords, but
what happened after that was extremely hazy, almost dreamlike. However, Gulzaribai never forgot her maiden impression of that godly man who had welcomed her in the mansion; she always remembered his radiant complexion and his cheerful face. It was an image which Gulzaribai treasured in her heart and worshipped ever since.

  In Sahay, she had found a treasure trove. The Red Mansion bestowed her with money, land, respect and fame. But that wasn’t all; she discovered happiness in Sahay’s friendship, learnt to be loyal, and in return, earned his trust for life. Her long-cherished desire for a man, who would protect her honor as a husband protects the honor of his wife, was also fulfilled. Later, in the twilight of her life, it was on his account that she found a loving grandnephew she could surrender all her cares to.

  Yet, in spite of her little triumphs and many consolations, she had failed to keep the man all to herself. Sahay had brought her to the Red Mansion in a moment of frenzy. Back then, although he was well past his youth, he remained stubborn in his refusal to admit it. During her early days in the Red Mansion, she was the only intoxicant Sahay craved for; the sound of her anklet bells echoed in his heart, while her songs, virulent like a serpent’s venom, poisoned his soul. But the period of decadence and romance was short-lived; it got jolted to a sudden end once Ramnarayan challenged Sahay’s smug stupor and woke him out of his honeyed fantasy.

  In that unexpected turn of events, Gulzaribai gained something priceless—something that her heart desired the most, more than all the luxuries of the world. She was accorded a form of respect that only a married woman is entitled to. Yet, in spite of everything, the aching void in her youthful heart, which desired love and intimacy, remained unfulfilled. The abyss of years which separated the two was wide and deep. Neither could Haliwant throw a bridge over that abyss, nor could Gulzaribai leap across it.

  It was during those days that she had heard Mahendar Misir’s voice for the first time. That day, after listening to his songs, Vidyadharibai had asked an awkwardly pointed question, ‘Gulzari, why do his songs devour my heart?’ Taken aback by her forthrightness, Gulzari wasn’t sure of how to respond, but she knew that his songs spoke of her own agony too. It filled that void in her soul which Sahay could not.

  However, Mahendar was a compulsive absconder. He always lacked patience necessary to fight adversity. In that sense, he was the very opposite of Sahay. Right through his life, Sahay had stood his ground and braved difficulties with the fortitude of a lion. Later, it was with the same defiant intrepidity that he forfeited his hard-earned wealth and embraced the life of a vagrant mendicant. He had emerged triumphant in every battle that he had fought. But Mahendar was a study in contrast. He kept fleeing from his own realities, never willing to defy the conundrums that came his way. Perhaps it was this desire to remain a perennial renegade that drove him away from Chhapra, compelling him to spend years wandering around aimlessly. It made a criminal out of him and finally, brought him to jail. Indeed, for a rolling stone like Mahendar, no place could be more secure than a jail!

  Gulzaribai was shattered by the outcome of Mahendar’s trial. She had always carried a torch for him. Even though they inhabited different worlds, and remained as separated as the banks of a river, yet Gulzaribai had no complaints and remained grateful for the quiet comfort that she drew from his presence. She often thought what Haliwant Babu had told her during one of their visits to Revel Sahib’s grave: ‘Gulzaribai, we are obligated to live our lives. And to discharge this obligation, we are expected to take up daily battles. Those who fail this sacred duty are doomed to die a thousand deaths. This is what Revel Sahib has taught me.’

  But Gulzari failed to act on that wisdom; she could never really master the art of staying alive. She seesawed between feeling dead and being full of life. That day, when Haliwant Babu had suddenly walked away from her, she had felt dead. But then, she found Ramprakash, and through him, recouped her lost ardour. Later, during Mahendar’s trial, she came closest to orchestrating the greatest triumph of her life. However, her finest moment was yet to come. When Prasad visited the Red Mansion, nursing an old gripe and hoping to add insult to injury after Mahendar’s conviction, she surprised herself through her own capacity for empathy and forgiveness; by accepting Prasad’s proposal for Ramprakash’s marriage, she surrendered the only support of her old age to an ageing father’s anxiety about his daughter. After that, since she had nothing more to lose, she started thinking of herself a supreme conqueror.

  * * *

  Life went on. A few years later, Ramprakash and his wife decided to go to Punjab. Although Ramprakash had a rewarding new life in Chhapra, he could never put Punjab out of his mind. Besides, he had inherited a little property which he wanted to sell off. Over the past few years, his fortune had swung dramatically; he had come to Chhapra a pauper, but was going back a king. When he had first met Gulzaribai, his circumstances were tragic and trying; his kith and kin were dead and the man he had come looking for had disappeared, too, having withdrawn himself from worldly concerns. But a woman—a complete stranger—had taken him under her wings, offering solace and support. As he prepared to leave, Gulzaribai wiped her tears and pleaded with the couple, ‘Come back soon, son. And you, my dear daughter, take good care of him.’ Ramprakash himself felt a little uneasy.

  Once in Punjab, he realized that ordering the affairs of his inheritance would take longer than he had imagined. However, when Prasad wrote to him about his grand-aunt’s poor health, he set all his affairs aside and rushed back to Chhapra.

  Upon his return, he found the Red Mansion in a terrible state of neglect; the flower beds were covered with wild grasses and the lawn was overgrown with weeds. He panicked and hurried indoors, fearing something ominous. Gulzaribai lay on her bed; nothing but a tired skeletal frame remained of her vivacious former self. The table by her bed was loaded with bottles of medicine. Portraits of Revel Sahib and Haliwant Sahay were also made to stand on that crammed table, so that Gulzaribai may look at them all the time. They were adorned with garlands strung together with freshly plucked flowers. And a bunch of incense sticks was lit and placed next to them.

  ‘Dadi, I am here. I have come back, Dadi. Now you will get better in no time,’ his eyes brimmed over with tears as he uttered those words.

  When Siyasaheli sought her blessings and touched her feet, it became impossible for Gulzaribai to restrain her emotions. However, she composed herself, wiped off her tears and said, ‘I am so glad that you have come back. Now, I wish to surrender all my responsibilities to your bride and go away for good. I have no desire to get better. What is left of my duties that I would pray to God for recovery? He has already graced this sinner with everything she could have hoped for. All I want now is the chance to die in your presence, with the two of you by my side.’

  She was in considerable unease and started gasping heavily once she finished the sentence. When the waiting-woman tried to give her medicine, she stopped her saying, ‘No, no. Let it be. I don’t need medicine anymore. My boy has come back, that is enough for me.’ And then, she handed over a bunch of keys to Siyasaheli, her face exuding a profound sense of serene satisfaction.

  A couple of days later, she sent for Ramprakash and made to him the most unexpected request. ‘Son, I think Misir-ji’s prison term is about to end. He should be released the day after tomorrow. I want you to go to Buxar and find a way to bring him here.’ Ramprakash wasted no time thinking the request over and left for Buxar at once.

  As Mahendar emerged from the precincts of the Buxar jail, he found Ramprakash waiting for him. He had no difficulty recognizing Ramprakash. During the trial, he had seen him on several occasions, accompanying Gulzaribai in the courtroom. Ramprakash pressed his hand and pleaded, ‘Misir-ji, come, let us go.’

  Mahendar left for Chhapra in the company of Ramprakash, his mind crowded with troubled thoughts. When they reached the Red Mansion, a crowd awaited them at the gate. Prasad was also there.

  ‘How is my Dadi?’ Ramprakash inquired nervously.


  ‘What shall I say, son. Perhaps she wants to look at you once more, before breathing her last,’ Prasad replied in a somber tone.

  The river Saryu was in spate. Whipped by its strong waves, the southern wall of the campus had collapsed. The river had burst its bank and flowed into the premises, forming a pool in the lawn. Ramprakash grabbed Mahendar’s arm and took him to Gulzaribai’s room. Siyasaheli was standing by her bed, holding a bowl of the sacred water from the Ganga-ji. Pataluwa and Jiriya had also come; they stood motionless in a corner of the room, sniffling intermittently. Grief weighed everyone down.

  ‘Have you come, my boy? Misir-ji, you too! Oh, I am such a fortunate woman.’

  She took a pause, drew a long breath and spoke to Mahendar, her voice barely audible, ‘Misir-ji, I have lived my life, as lives are meant to be lived. My end draws near. I hope to be as brave when death comes for me. Your songs have taught me so much about being alive. I wish to listen to one last song before I die. Please, sing for me, the last song of my life.’

  Her request moved everyone to tears. Mahendar was dumbstruck. ‘Misir-ji, there is no time to weep and wail. Pray, hurry. Sing me that last song.’ Although her sweet ringing voice of yesteryear had dropped to a feeble whisper, her tone was still decorous.

  Mahendar Misir did as she said. Almost unthinkingly, a song flowed from his lips.

  ‘O blessed bride,

  I see a fair, in the city of snares

  O blessed bride,

  Fineries are sold, precious and rare . . .’

  Throughout the song, Gulzaribai wore a gentle smile on her face, and her weary eyes remained riveted to Sahay’s portrait. Once the song ended, people realized that she had departed for her heavenly abode. Letting out a loud wail, Ramprakash collapsed at her feet. Everyone present burst into tears. Leaning against the door, Lachhman Prasad sobbed too. It seemed as though the Saryu herself streamed down his eyes. It was all over.