Finding Radha

by Namita Gokhale

  18

  RAIKAMAL

  TARASHANKAR BANDOPADHYAY

  (TRANSLATED FROM THE BENGALI BY ARUNA CHAKRAVARTI)

  A SMALL AKHAARA surrounded by a wattle fence. Through the gaps one can see a stretch of verdant green dotted with mango and guava trees, towering neems and bamboo clumps. In the centre of this charming garden is a little cottage with a couple of rooms and a yard swabbed smooth and clean with red earth. At one end of the yard a madhabi and a malati have formed a natural bower. Locked in an embrace they have flung leaves, stems and tendrils over a bamboo machan. And, taking turns, they cover it with flowers throughout the year. The akhaara is named Kamal Kunja.

  Two women live here. Kamini, the Vaishnavi, follows her caste profession of gathering alms by clinking her cymbals outside the doors of the villagers and singing of the love of Radha and Krishna. And her daughter, Kamalini, whose face is like the lotus after which she is named, swabs the yard, waters the garden and takes singing lessons from the elderly Baul—Rasik Das. His akhaara, Rasa Kunja, is a short distance away but he spends most of his time here.

  Rasik is the tallest man that ever lived. His neck is like a stork’s, and his arms and legs so long and loose they jerk with every movement. His hair is tied in a knot on the top of his head and his beard carefully plaited into a braid. Kamalini can’t resist giggling whenever she sees him. ‘Stork Babaji! Stork Babaji!’ she teases. Kamini is mortified at her daughter’s lack of manners. ‘Mar mukhpuri!’ she curses. ‘Huge, hulking girl of fourteen! Do you have no sense?’

  ‘Na go na.’ Rasik smiles. ‘Don’t scold her. Her spirit is infused with the joy that was Radharani’s. She is no ordinary Kamal. She’s Raikamal.’

  ‘Kamli!’ Ranjan calls from beyond the fence. Kamal jumps up and runs out of the yard.

  ‘The song . . . the song,’ Rasik cries.

  ‘Bother the song. I’m off to eat kul berries.’

  ‘Na . . . na.’ Kamini runs after her. ‘Come back, you foolish girl. Don’t you know what people are saying about you?’ Then turning to the smiling Rasik, she asks angrily, ‘Is this something to be merry about, Mahanto?’ Rasik sways his stork neck from side to side and sings in a high, quavering voice.

  Rai Kamalini unfurls her petals; black-bee Krishna hovers near.

  People taunt and slander her. She does not care; she knows no fear.

  Ranjan, the headman’s son, was a couple of years older than Kamal. As children, playing house-house under the banyan tree, he would insist on being Kamal’s husband. A scene from the past:

  Half lying on the spreading roots Ranjan mops his forehead and calls out in the voice of a seasoned householder, ‘Bou! O Bou! Light my hookah and fan me for a while. It’s so hot . . .’

  ‘Aa ha ha ha!’ Kamal makes faces at him from behind her veil. ‘As if I have nothing better to do! Light your hookah yourself . . .’

  ‘Mind your language, woman!’ Ranjan roars at her. ‘Remember that a sun-scorched peasant and a burning coulter are equally deadly. Another word from you and I’ll break your bones.’

  Kamal marches up to him and thrusts her bare back under his nose. ‘Break my bones,’ she dares him. ‘Let’s see what a big man you are!’

  Ranjan takes up the challenge. Twisting her thick braid with one hand he deals half a dozen blows on her back with the other. Whereupon Kamal picks up a handful of dust and, flinging it in Ranjan’s face, bursts into a fit of weeping. ‘How dare you hit me?’ she howls, her face red and streaked with tears.

  Soft-hearted Bhola takes her side. ‘It’s only a game, Ranjan,’ he says. ‘You shouldn’t have hit her.’

  ‘Hmph! I’m her husband. What sort of man will stand by quietly when his wife humiliates him?’

  ‘Husband!’ Kamal lashes out at him between sobs. ‘What sort of husband are you? Useless as a provider. Only fit to beat me and order me about. Ja! Ja! I won’t be your wife any more. And I won’t talk to you ever again.’

  ‘Don’t cry, Kamli,’ Bhola takes her hand tenderly in his. ‘I’ll be your husband.’

  ‘And I’ll be your wife.’ Pari, the grocer’s daughter, looks up adoringly into Ranjan’s face.

  ‘No, Pari.’ Ranjan shakes his head gravely. ‘I’m not getting married again.’

  Kamal looks up. She stops crying and, withdrawing her hand from Bhola’s, moves slowly towards Ranjan. ‘Take care,’ Bhola calls out a warning. ‘He’ll beat you again.’

  Kamal sighs then, assuming the weary voice and manner of the married women she saw around her, she says, ‘Well, he may beat me or love me. It is his will. After all, I married him, and a woman, however ill-treated, cannot marry twice—can she?’

  The game is resumed. Kamal beats her forehead with a tiny hand and sighs, ‘There’s no rice in the house. No salt. No oil. But does my husband care? Radhe! Radhe! What a worthless man I’ve married! Does he expect me to go out and earn money and buy the provisions myself?’

  At this a faint smile appears on Ranjan’s gloomy countenance. He moves to Kamal’s side and whispers in her ear, ‘I won’t beat you again, Bou. Never again. I promise.’

  Today Ranjan is a strapping youth. His eyes are tinged with the awakening of a dewy morn in spring. And Kamal is a lotus bud on the verge of bloom. It will take her a while longer to unfurl her thousand petals. But the promise is in the air. It is visible in the slight halting of her dancing footsteps and the shy mist creeping into her flashing, bird-wing eyes. She’s still wild and restless as a forest doe. Yet, a veil of restraint, fine as gossamer, is perceived in her words and movements . . .

  Reaching the kul tree Ranjan clambered up the trunk and proceeded to shake the branches. Tup tup tup the berries dropped like rain. Kamal ran this way and that collecting them. ‘O Ma!’ she exclaimed, biting into one. ‘This must be the sweetest kul I’ve ever tasted.’

  ‘Don’t eat it all.’ Ranjan jumped to the ground. ‘Give me the rest.’ Then, chewing on the half-eaten berry, he smiled at his companion. ‘It’s as sweet as sweet can be. That’s because you bit into it first.’

  ‘Bol Haribol! Is my mouth made of sugar?’

  ‘Hunh? You’re my Sugar.’

  ‘And you’re my Pepper.’ Kamal giggled. Then, sobering down, she added, ‘Do you realize what you’ve just done? You’ve lost your caste.’

  ‘I don’t care a crow’s leg for my caste.’ Ranjan took her hand in his. ‘I’ll happily become a Vaishnava if you marry me.’

  ‘Arré! Arré!’ Kamal snatched her hand away and ran home. But she kept looking back at him, her face glowing with joy.

  Ranjan’s mother loved Kamal for her pretty face and winsome ways and gave her a share of the sweets and toys she bought for Ranjan. But on that day her love changed into intense hate. ‘Daini! Haramjadi!’ she screamed curses at the absent girl, ‘Wait till I catch you. I’ll give you such a lashing with my broom! And where’s that good-for-nothing boy? O Ma! What’ll I do now? My caste is lost and . . .’

  ‘Chup, woman, chup!’ her husband cautioned in an undertone. ‘Stop screaming your head off. If the truth is revealed in the village we’ll be thrown out of our clan. We’ll be ruined.’

  For the kul-eating incident hadn’t gone unnoticed. There was an eyewitness. A person none other than the headman, Ranjan’s father.

  Ranjan walked in nonchalantly a few minutes later. ‘O ré O mukhpora!’ was his mother’s loving greeting. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? What were you thinking of . . . you scum of my womb?’

  ‘Serve my meal,’ Ranjan growled. ‘I’ve come home because I’m hungry. Not to listen to abuses.’

  His mother’s face twisted with disgust. ‘Hasn’t Kamli’s half-eaten berry filled your stomach? Well, then, I’ll fill it. I’ll stuff your mouth with ashes hot from the hearth.’

  The fire in Ranjan’s eyes died out. Hanging his head he stared at the floor. ‘You should have died the moment you were born,’ his father’s voice hissed in his ear. ‘But I know how to deal with wayward sons. I�
�ll cast you off without one paisa. I’ll drive you out of the house . . .’ He stormed away with a furious clacking of khadams.

  ‘I’ve decided to get you married next month.’ The mother tried to soften the blow. ‘I’ll find a girl so beautiful—Kamli will be nothing to her.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I’m not marrying anyone else. I’ve decided to become a Vaishnava.’ The mother stared at him, speechless with shock. Then, flinging all caution to the winds, she screamed in panic. ‘Come back! Come back! Hear what your son just said . . .’

  ‘Mahanto!’ Ranjan called from the bamboo gate of Rasa Kunja. This was a place where all manner of men, young and old, rich and poor, Vaishnavas and non-Vaishnavas, congregated. Rasik Das was a good host. The young ones could smoke as much tobacco as they wanted. The elders opted for ganja.

  ‘Ah!’ Rasik exclaimed. ‘It’s Raikamal’s Ranjan at my door!’ Then, peering sharply into the boy’s face, he said, ‘You look hungry.’

  ‘I am. Can I eat with you?’

  ‘You can. But you’ll lose your caste.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m becoming a Vaishnava.’

  The old man nodded and smiled. Wagging his beard he began humming a song . . .

  Faith, honour and line I held not dear. At thy feet I lie . . . a slave

  ‘Dhat!’ Ranjan cried, blushing furiously. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Rasik’s heart is filled with joy. Joy that knows no bounds. It is spilling over in song.’

  ‘Stop your nonsense and listen to me. I want to become a Vaishnava. Will you initiate me?’

  ‘If Raikamal tells me to—I will.’

  ‘Why? Is Kamli your lawyer?’

  Rasik swayed his head, a mysterious smile on his lips. Ranjan waited for a few minutes. ‘Very well. I’ll go and ask her myself.’ He stomped off in a huff.

  Kamal was sitting under the flowering creepers of Kamal Kunja, sorting through a pile of berries, when Bhola tiptoed in and took her hand. ‘Let go of me, you dolt!’ Kamal giggled and tried to pull her fingers away. But Bhola wouldn’t let her. ‘Kamli,’ he whispered, his voice charged with emotion. Kamal took a handful of berries with her other hand and squashed them against his face. ‘Hee! Hee! Hee!’ The sight of the boy, his cheeks, chin and nose spattered with kul pulp, sent her into gales of laughter.

  ‘Sugar!’ Ranjan’s voice called softly from the wattle hedge.

  ‘Oh! It’s my Pepper!’ Kamal exclaimed. But the sound of Ranjan’s voice struck terror in Bhola’s heart. He jumped up and ran out of the akhaara. ‘Come back, Bhola!’ Kamal ran after him. ‘Why do you run away?’ Ranjan took in the scene with lowering brows and, turning his face, strode rapidly in the other direction. Kamal was puzzled and cried out to him to return but he didn’t look back, leave alone reply. This infuriated the girl. ‘Go wherever you like,’ she shouted after both of them. ‘I don’t care one bit. I’m no one’s slave.’

  That evening Ranjan’s father burst into Kamal Kunja. ‘We both have children,’ he cried, clutching Kamini’s hands in his. ‘Give mine back to me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ranjan says he will not marry anyone else. He will become a Vaishnava.’

  Kamini’s face paled. ‘If indeed it has gone so far,’ she murmured uneasily, ‘can I break my daughter’s heart?’

  ‘I’ll give you two bighas of land. And . . . and money—’

  ‘Chhi! Is my Kamli’s happiness on sale?’

  Suddenly there was a loud thud, as of something heavy falling to the ground. Kamini ran to the door. Kamal stood outside, her sari soaking wet, the mud pot in which she had fetched water, lying in shards at her feet. Her face was white and she was shaking like a leaf. Kamini put her arms around the girl. ‘Never mind the pot,’ she said. ‘Come inside and change your sari.’ As mother and daughter entered the door a shadow slipped past them. It was the headman.

  ‘Ma,’ Kamal said after a while. ‘Some people from our village are going to Nabadwip for the Raas festival. Why don’t we go too?’

  ‘Y . . . yes. We could go . . . I suppose.’

  Kamal sprang up and ran out of the house. ‘Where are you going?’ Kamini called after her.

  ‘To fetch Stork Babaji. He must come with us.’

  Kamal was back within minutes, dragging Rasik by the hand. He looked puzzled but didn’t ask any questions. ‘An excellent idea,’ he said, falling in with Kamini’s plans at once. ‘We’ll leave tomorrow at dawn.’

  Reaching Nabadwip, Kamini bought an akhaara and made it neat and comfortable. The garden she planted with flowering bushes and vines. And, every evening, she invited the local Vaishnavas to hold discourses and sing kirtans. Rasik was charmed by the young men and women who came to the akhaara. ‘Aa ha ha ha!’ he exclaimed. ‘My eyes have never beheld such beauty before! This land is blessed. Haven’t our Mahaprabhu’s feet touched every inch of this ground? Isn’t the air still redolent with his breath?’

  ‘Aa ha ha ha!’ Kamal mimicked, doubling over with laughter. ‘My Stork Babaji is feeling the need of a Vaishnavi at last! Choose one from the beauties here and hang a garland around her neck as fast as you can.’

  The days went by. The evening gatherings in the akhaara swelled with more and more young men hovering like bees around a newly blossoming lotus. But Kamal seemed unaware of them. She lived in her own world and thought her own thoughts. She wasn’t pensive or withdrawn. She laughed and chatted with all but chose no one for special attention.

  ‘Kamalini!’ Subal, the fairest and most perfectly formed of all the Vaishnava youths, came upon her one morning. ‘You seem lost in your thoughts. Won’t you share them with me?’

  Kamal looked up. ‘It’s mid-morning,’ she said. ‘I was wondering why my Subal Sakha hasn’t come to me on his way to the pasture.’

  Subal trembled at her words. Seizing her hands he murmured in a voice choked with emotion, ‘Sakhi . . . sakhi . . .’ Kamal disengaged them gently and murmured, ‘Is this conduct becoming of my beautiful Subal Sakha?’ Hurt and embarrassed, Subal turned to leave but Kamal stopped him. ‘Why do you go away? You are my friend, are you not?’

  Weeks passed into months. The year was almost over. But Kamini refused to leave Nabadwip. ‘Why go back?’ she asked wearily whenever Rasik proposed returning to the village. ‘Isn’t it better that we spend our last days in this holy land and die breathing the air of the Ganga?’

  The lotus bud, in the meanwhile, had burst into bloom; her thousand petals quivering with life. She no longer tossed and danced in the unruly wind. She floated serenely on the ripples, sending eddies of perfume into the air. Rasik gazed at her in wonder. Sometimes he sang snatches of an old Vaishnava love song . . .

  Kamini was able to fulfil her last wish. She died in Nabadwip. She didn’t suffer much. Just four days of fever. ‘The thought of death doesn’t sadden me, Mahanto,’ she said. ‘I’m filled with bliss at the thought of leaving my mortal remains in Ma Ganga’s lap. At Gourango’s feet. Only . . .’

  ‘Why do you talk of death? What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing. Yet everything. I feel I’m going far . . . very far away. But one thought pulls me back. My daughter . . .’

  ‘If it comes to that,’ said Rasik, eyes glittering with tears, ‘I’ll take care of Kamal.’

  Kamini sighed. ‘I knew that, Mahanto. Still . . . I wanted an assurance.’

  ‘Ma!’ A sobbing Kamal flung herself on her mother’s breast.

  Kamini placed a trembling hand on the girl’s head. ‘Don’t weep, child. Parents don’t live forever. Promise me . . .’

  ‘What is it, Ma?’

  ‘The creeper that doesn’t cling to a tree lies, weak and vulnerable, on the ground. It has no strength. Animals nibble at it . . .’ Her voice choked on the words.

  ‘I know. I give you my word . . . I will marry.’

  ‘Don’t take a son away from his parents.’

  ‘I won’t.’

&nbs
p; ‘Jai Radhe! Radhe!’ Rasik cried, making sure his voice reached Kamini’s ears.

  ‘Gobindo . . . Gobindo,’ the dying lips murmured.

  Time, like a mother, sings an unending lullaby that erases memory and soothes the suffering mortal into a state of blessed oblivion. The pain of loss eased with every passing day. Kamal laughed once more. And her laughter found an echo in the old man’s breast.

  ‘Raikamal,’ he ventured one day. But he seemed unable to go on.

  ‘What is it?’ Kamal was surprised. ‘Why don’t you speak? Do you have a fishbone stuck in your throat?’

  Rasik swallowed, then, making a great effort, blurted out, ‘It has to do with your marriage.’

  Kamal’s face paled. ‘I understand,’ she answered softly. Then, looking up at the sky, she muttered, ‘The day is almost done, Mahanto. Let’s wait for the night.’ Rising, she went into her room and locked the door. Weeping bitterly, she called out to the One she believed to be her true friend and guide. ‘Gobindo! Gobindo! My heart and mind are another’s. To whom shall I give this empty shell?’ But all she received in reply was a chilling silence. Abandoned even by her God the bereft girl sought the answer herself. She had to deceive someone. Who would it be? Faces came and went before her eyes.

  Rasik was sitting in the yard when Kamal came to him, the red-gold of the setting sun glowing in her cheeks. ‘We’ll need flowers for the garlands, Mahanto,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll go at once.’ Rasik rose to his feet.

  He returned in a while, his dhuti dripping wet, holding a sheaf of lotus buds in his arms. ‘Raikamal,’ he called out to her happily, ‘I’ve brought lotus as befits . . .’ Kamal came and stood before him. The rest of the sentence died in his throat. She wore a tussore sari with a deep-red border. Her hair hung loose down her back like a rippling river, and the caste marks of her sect were etched in sandal paste on her delicate nose and brow. He had never seen her look so beautiful.

  ‘Change your dhuti,’ she said. ‘Wear the one I’ve kept in your room.’ Kamal took the flowers and began stringing them into a garland. ‘You string one, too, Mahanto.’