A Life Misspent

by Suryakant Tripathi Nirala

  I sipped the beverage. Mother-in-law sighed again, a long sigh of relief. Chandrika finished his glass of lemonade.

  Mother-in-law tossed a blanket on the floor and sat upon it. Once she was settled, she proceeded to criticize my father, describing him as a heartless barbarian. I had half a mind to tell Mother-in-law about her own barbarity, but I remembered I was here to build a mood for love. Rough conduct was out of place. Her daughter was a jewel, Mother-in-law said, accomplished in letters and music. If my father abandoned a bride like her and married me elsewhere, the worst possible karma would accrue to me.

  I held my peace. Mother-in-law concluded I was worthy of trust. ‘I married her to you for your handsomeness, not for the folds of prosperity on your father’s belly.’ I concluded she wanted me to be loyal to her, against my father’s wishes if necessary. ‘Tell me,’ she asked confidentially, ‘is my daughter a beauty or not?’

  I have never fared badly in oral interviews. ‘It is true I have touched your daughter,’ I said, ‘and I have spoken to her as well, but I haven’t had a good look at her. When it was my time to be with her the lamps were put out. I took a matchbox in with me the next night. I had scarcely lighted the match when your daughter turned her face away; neighbours in nearby huts began to cough. I didn’t have the courage to light a second match.’

  Mother-in-law smiled at this and returned to the inner rooms.

  I noticed that Mother-in-law had given me full marks just as Raibahadur Pandit Shukdev Vihari Mishra gave a hundred out of a hundred to the poet Sumitranandan Pant. That is to say, a large kerosene lamp was placed in our bedchamber at night, so that I might enjoy full sight of her daughter’s beauty.

  I lay down in delicious anticipation. With footsteps sweeter than any musical meter, the daughter entered our room and handed me a fold of paan. ‘Is it true,’ she asked, ‘that you travelled to our house on Kulli’s trap?’

  Who is this Kulli? What is this trap? I tried to solve the mystery while my bride stood before me, smiling at my bafflement.

  Five

  I woke up late. Mother-in-law came in to ask if I needed anything for my toilet. I washed quickly and sat down to read. Mother-in-law reported that Kulli had come by at daybreak. She had told him I was sleeping—he should return later in the day. ‘But it’s not nice to spend time with people like Kulli,’ she added.

  ‘If he has come all the way to the house it isn’t proper to refuse to see him.’

  ‘He is not a good man,’ Mother-in-law said gravely.

  ‘But he is a man, and therefore…’

  ‘I didn’t say he was a creature with horns. Only among men do we distinguish those who are good from those who are not.’

  ‘If you are so confident of your judgment why didn’t you tell him to stay away?’

  ‘As our son-in-law, you are the guest of the entire town. Anyone from the town who wants to can come and visit. It would be discourteous of me to prevent them from coming to see you.’

  ‘Should I be the person, then, to refuse to see someone who is eager to meet me?’

  ‘That is not what I meant. If you associate with him people may think poorly of you.’

  ‘On the other hand, if he associates with me people may begin to think well of him.’

  Mother-in-law scanned my face for symptoms of my contagious goodness.

  Kulli returned just then. He asked for me in a stage whisper, ‘Is he awake yet?’

  Mother-in-law frowned. My wife crossed the courtyard rapidly. From the first I have been one to choose the direct route of confrontation. Why should Kulli be dangerous? I must go and meet him. When I came out, he joined his palms in greeting as if we were old friends. I liked the welcome and returned his greeting.

  During the day, I had my spot in the sitting area. A bed with a fresh cover would be laid out for me. A cot made of twine stretched over a wood frame lay nearby. Kulli sat on the cot to indicate that the superior seat on the bed was intended for me.

  A tray of paan arrived. Kulli took the tray from the servant and respectfully offered it to me. I took two folds for myself and asked Kulli to have some, too. Kulli smiled, picked up two folds of paan and laid the tray at one end of the cot.

  Our conversation turned to the history of the town. ‘Dalmau belonged to Dal Baba,’ Kulli Bhaat said. ‘He built a fort for himself.’ While Kulli spoke, he looked at me in a peculiar manner, as if I was related to him in some way. I was puzzled, but I enjoyed the attention.

  ‘Can the fort still be seen?’

  ‘Its ruins can be. The peasants say the fort collapsed because Dal Baba laid a curse on it. There was a battle with the Shah of Jaunpur. Soldiers from Dalmau and Bareli joined together to fight against the Shah. We hold an annual fair at the battle site. The Shah won and Muslims gained control of the fort and its environs. The Shah’s summer house is at Makanpur. His grave is in Dalmau. Earlier the region belonged to Kannauj. Jaichand’s campsite is nearby, just beyond the Chaurasi.’

  I was thrilled that our Father in the Sky had situated my in-laws in such a historic town. My wife was a daughter of this soil. I was linked to the land through her. Therefore, I was significant. I looked at the provider of this information with gratitude.

  Kulli added that there were a number of bathing ghats along the river worth visiting. Raja Tikatrai’s embankment provided a fine view. There was a monastery above the river and an abandoned village adjacent to it.

  ‘I shall see them all,’ I said.

  ‘I will be happy to come along,’ Kulli responded. ‘The sun is high now. How about this afternoon at four?’

  ‘That will be good,’ I said.

  ‘There is a strong tradition of poetry in our region,’ Kulli went on to say. ‘My own ancestors have been renowned for their skill.’ He mentioned the names of a number of poet-ancestors. I paid careful attention and committed these names to memory. Kulli left soon after, his eyes continuing to regard me with rapt fascination.

  How strange the world is. This is the remarkable man whom my in-laws view with dark suspicion.

  Mother-in-law saw that I was alone. She had peeked in a dozen times while Kulli was present. ‘Is Kulli gone?’

  ‘He seems to be a person of substance judging from his conversation.’

  ‘Have you read the Ramayana?’ Mother-in-law asked.

  ‘Even though I am not a girl who has read the Ramayana to appear educated to her husband-to-be, I do know a few things about the text. If you are bent on examining me I can tell you that Kulli is no Ravana or Kumbhakarna.’

  Mother-in-law smiled. ‘In spite of your superior airs you have failed the test. I wasn’t thinking of Ravana or Kumbhakarna, but you can recall, if you wish, the episode in which Ravana dresses up like a yogi to abduct Sita. The demon I had in mind was Kalanemi.’

  ‘The one about whom Tulsidas says, “Kalanemi like a darker Ravana…”?’

  ‘I believe you when you say you have read the Ramayana, but the allusion is to…’ Mother-in-law was smiling.

  ‘Is it the Hanuman episode where he catches hold of the feet and smashes them down?’

  ‘A wonderful allusion, but you mustn’t be quick. I was recalling how even Lord Shiva could not see through the deceit of Kalanemi speaking to him as a well-educated Brahmin.’

  ‘I didn’t think of that. But you could have told your daughter to whisper the secret of the disguise the way the crocodile houri warned her husband.’

  ‘My daughter is no crocodile, nor has she seized you like one. She does not need to appear to you in her houri form. If you kill her to get to her secret, the sin will be upon your head.’

  I was impressed by Mother-in-law’s knowledge of mythology, especially impressed because I could not understand her.

  She seated herself on the cot which Kulli had occupied recently. ‘So what did you and Kulli talk about?’

  I relaxed. I mentioned Kulli’s attractive account of the history of Dalmau.

  ‘I was right about Kalanemi,’ Mother
-in-law remarked.

  ‘Why do you say that? Is there no fort in Dalmau?’

  ‘There is,’ Mother-in-law responded. ‘I don’t think that is the fort he wants you to visit.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He’s cunning. Be sure to take Chandrika with you when you go.’

  ‘Why? Will it take two of us to overcome one of him?’

  Mother-in-law smiled again. ‘Parents can’t give children an explanation for everything. Go bathe. Dinner will be ready soon.’

  Six

  From childhood on I was a lover of freedom. I couldn’t bear restrictions when they lacked all reason. An example may not be out of place. I had turned eight. Father came back to the village for my sacred thread ceremony. Pandit Bhagwan Deen Dubey was a landowner and revenue collector for the village. He kept a mistress and had four children by her, one daughter and three sons. I am talking about a time after Pandit Bhagwan Deen had passed away. Talluka was the name of the son he had by his wife. Because Bhagwan Deen died suddenly, he was unable to assign a portion of the property to his second family.

  The children by the mistress complained at revenue collection time; they asked for their share of the proceeds. To pacify them, the legitimate son transferred some lands to them, enough to keep them comfortable. The mistress was in good health. Her sons were named Shamsher Bahadur, Jang Bahadur and Fateh Bahadur. The daughter was named Paraga.

  Fateh Bahadur was the youngest illegitimate son, eight years older than me. The eldest brother had been educated with great care by Pandit Bhagwan Deen. Later in life, I heard a sitar recital by him. His precise phrasing of the music is stamped in my memory. I have heard that Pandit Bhagwan Deen organized a sacred thread ceremony for Shamsher Bahadur. He used his standing as a revenue officer to coerce many Brahmins into attending the sacred thread feast. He also arranged a proper Hindu wedding for Shamsher. The bride was not a Brahmin, but she was a Brahmin’s widow. She had been married into a Brahmin family. From the time of Shamsher’s wedding, the sons considered themselves Brahmin. Whenever it was advantageous to do so, they signed themselves with the Brahmin family name of Dubey. They treated their mother as Hindus treat foreigners, eating separately from her and sending her food in special containers not to be mixed with their own pots and pans.

  These aspirations to purity notwithstanding, people of the village disowned them the moment Pandit Bhagwan Deen died. No one in the village invited them to feasts and ceremonies; no one in the village came to share a meal with them in their home.

  This is how things stood at the time I returned to the village. As an act of revenge, the illegitimate sons had learned by heart the secret history of every family. Anyone who talked to them in a friendly manner was treated to a detailed account of these secrets—Ramcharan’s widowed daughter became pregnant by Lakhu Pasi. Shiv Prasad Misir’s twenty-year-old daughter, impatient at having remained unmarried, ran away with Lachman Lodh. Ram Dulare Tiwari was involved with his younger brother’s widow. While Sundar Singh’s son served in the army, Sundar Singh carried on with his daughter-in-law. Word got around that she was pregnant. Sundar Singh paid off the police who came to inquire. He told the villagers he was escorting the daughter-in-law to her husband’s army post but travelled with her to Calcutta instead. A boy was born to his daughter-in-law. Sundar Singh murdered the baby and escorted the daughter-in-law to his son’s unit. He told his son that he had taken the daughter-in-law to Calcutta for treatment of diarrhoea.

  Pandit Bhagwan Deen’s ‘natural’ family influenced me the most. The sons of the family were impressive—in their physique, in their way of talking, in the grace and agility of their movements. Since my sacred thread ceremony had not yet been performed, I had a child’s freedom to come and go anywhere I pleased. Their mother treated me with affection. She would feed me snacks and tell me entertaining stories. She also taught me a few ghazals and light ragas which were popular at the time.

  One day the youngest son, the one who was my ideal, told me that my uncle used to be in the employ of his family. ‘Our horse champed his hand off, rendering him useless for heavy labour. We gave him some land by way of compensation. These are the fields your aunt cultivates today.’

  The story is true but the chronology inaccurate. When Pandit Bhagwan Deen gifted land to my uncle, Bhagwan Deen’s ‘natural’ progeny had not been born. At the time I did not know the natural family had played no part in the transfer of land. I felt indebted to the natural family for their solicitude.

  ‘Right now you’re happy to eat what’s cooked in our kitchen,’ Fateh Bahadur said. ‘Once your sacred thread ceremony is performed, you will not eat with us any more.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ I thought to myself. ‘If I can eat with the natural family today why can’t I eat with them after my sacred thread ceremony?’

  Paraga, whom I treated like a sister, said to me, ‘You will eat mahua gruel from Badloo Sukul’s kitchen, but you will not touch halwah from ours.’

  I was embarrassed. I would never choose gruel over halwah.

  The sacred thread ceremony took place a few days later. By then each member of Pandit Bhagwan Deen’s natural family had prepared me to rebel. I vowed to myself that I would continue eating with them as before. Their argument made sense. How could people in the village eat with them a few years earlier and not eat with them now?

  My father took me aside the day after the ceremony. ‘Don’t eat food cooked by the prostitute.’

  ‘Her sons don’t eat food cooked by her,’ I countered. ‘They have other cooks.’ If Father had explained things patiently I might have heeded him. But he bellowed at me: ‘Don’t eat food touched by them.’

  ‘Did you eat food touched by them when their father was revenue collector?’

  Father bit his lip. ‘Do as I say.’

  My heart would not accept what Father had instructed me to do. For two or three days after the ceremony, I stayed close to the house, putting on my sacred thread and taking it off. When neighbours noticed that I had not gone to the house of Pandit Bhagwan Deen’s mistress they understood that I had come around. Father had prevailed.

  It was the third or fourth day after my sacred thread ceremony. I saw Fateh Bahadur at the village well. He was getting ready to bathe, drawing a bucket of water for the purpose. He smiled when he saw me approaching. The smile stabbed me like a dagger. I mastered my shame at the implied reproach and went up to him. ‘Bhaiya, can you pour me water to drink?’

  Fateh Bahadur felt proud. He poured water from the bucket into a lota and offered it to me. My taking a drink of water poured by him confirmed his Brahminical purity to the rest of the villagers. To me the drink confirmed fulfillment of the promise I had made to Fateh Bahadur’s family.

  The passers-by before whom Fateh Bahadur paraded his status were not to be defeated so easily. They took the case to my father. ‘In front of the entire village,’ the elders told him, ‘your son has just drunk water from a lota poured by the youngest son of the prostitute. Your son is young and ignorant; we forgive him this time. But if he maintains contact with the prostitute’s family, we will have no choice about breaking off relations with you.’

  The delegation of local Brahmins presented their case politely. Father was a security guard in excellent health. I had violated explicit instructions. His caste-identity was in danger. As the saying goes, ‘No shame so great as excommunication from your caste.’ Father began to beat me with vigour worthy of his security guard training. He quite forgot that I was his only begotten son, the offspring of the second of two marriages. I bore the beating. I was obstinate by nature and I had learned endurance from the numerous beatings I received from early childhood on.

  While Father’s hands struck me quick as lightning, and I cried from the blows, I also remembered scenes from earlier beatings. Once during a bitter winter, I had shat in a bush near the house instead of going to an open field, and I had wiped myself in the European style using aubergine leaves for toilet pap
er. I was about to step into the kitchen for dinner when a female relative who had spied my hasty improvization told Father how unclean I was. He caught hold of my foot and carried me dangling by it all the way to the village pond. He dunked me in the pond saying out loud: ‘This is the way to wash up when you are done with shitting.’ After a sufficient number of dunkings in cold water, he decided to generate compensating heat by slapping me in the face.

  Another time I had taken Father aside. ‘You are jamadar over so many guardsmen. Why don’t you march with them and loot the Raja’s treasury?’ Father thought an enemy had put me up to making the suggestion so Father might lose his job. ‘Whose idea is this?’ Father thundered at me while raining blows. What could I say? The idea had been my own. The more I took responsibility for the idea the more Father smelled a conspiracy. At some stage in the proceedings, I passed out. (From that time to this—I am now forty-two years old—I have not forgotten what insecure employment can drive a man to.)

  With each new slap, Father asked me to promise I would never visit the prostitute or her children again. I promised. The beating stopped.

  The bruises healed and I went out again. As ill luck would have it, the situation that led to the beating repeated itself. The leader of the local Brahmins appeared at our door fuming with righteousness. ‘Are you determined to destroy the Hindu dharma?’ the leader shouted. ‘We saw your son share roasted chickpeas with the prostitute’s son. Beginning now, you and your family are barred from contact with any Brahmin family in the town.’

  My father had the stronger personality. There was also the matter of the leader raising his voice. ‘Don’t you make your money selling toddy? And doesn’t your daughter make hers turning tricks in Patna City? I have seen her at it. Chaudhury Bhagwan Deen may have been immoral. Why didn’t you say that to his face? You were busy currying favour in those days, helping with toilet training for his sons. You’re a fine one to bar us from anything!’