‘A good idea. I’ll fetch Subal as soon as the garlands are done.’
Their task completed, the two rose to their feet. Kamal slipped her garland over Rasik’s head and said, ‘Won’t you give me yours?’ Taking up the bowl of sandalwood paste she adorned his wrinkled forehead.
‘You throw away a silver rupee,’ Rasik said sadly, ‘and tie a copper pie in your aanchal. Is that wise, Raikamal?’
‘Copper and gold are often mistaken for one another. I’ve found gold.’
Rasik smiled and placed his garland around Kamal’s neck.
Rasik prepared the flower-bed that night, strewing the brightest, freshest blooms on one side and wilting, decaying ones on the other. ‘You and me,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ Kamal lowered herself on to the withered side. ‘The fresh flowers are yours, Mahanto—the stale ones mine.’ Her laughter rang out like a peal of bells. Rasik took up a lamp and held the light to Kamal’s face. He gazed at her so intently—it seemed as though his eyes would never have their fill. ‘The more I see you,’ he murmured, ‘the greater my awe and wonder! Radharani works in inscrutable ways but her bounty is immeasurable.’
Kamal lay on the wilted flowers, her eyes hard and dry. Rasik, on the other side, slept peacefully. Around midnight, she felt herself being drawn to the old man’s breast. His shrivelled arms had the strength of a crazed elephant; his skeletal fingers the tensile grip of a hangman’s rope. Kamal was frightened. ‘Mahanto! Mahanto!’ she shrieked fearfully . . .
The arrival of dawn saw Rasik sitting in the yard, motionless as a statue. His limbs were still, his eyes fixed. It seemed as though he had stopped breathing. Kamal’s heart melted. She wanted to comfort him but couldn’t find the words.
‘Kamal.’ It was Rasik who broke the silence. Kamal looked up in surprise. Why had he called her Kamal? A strange feeling came over her. She felt slighted, diminished. ‘Kamal,’ he said again, ‘I’m made of flesh and blood.’
‘We all are. But, today, you’ve turned yourself to stone.’
‘Yes. Yes . . . like Ahalya.’
‘Tear off this garland of embers, Mahanto,’ Kamal said softly. ‘Free yourself from this curse.’
‘I tried to escape last night but couldn’t. My feet were willing but my eyes wouldn’t leave your face. This . . . this shame is my burden and I must carry it. But don’t abandon me,’ he gripped her hands and pleaded. ‘Don’t leave me . . . ever.’
‘Then let’s go somewhere else.’ Kamal wiped her streaming face. ‘Someplace far away.’
‘Where?’
‘Vrindavana.’
‘No . . . no!’ A shiver passed over the ancient frame. ‘I cannot show this face, blackened with shame, to the moon of Brajdham.’
‘Why, Mahanto? Is loving me such a great sin?’
There was no answer.
‘Very well. We’ll have no destination . . . no home. We’ll wander aimlessly from village to village, seeking alms on our way. The open sky will be our roof and the shade of trees our resting place.’
The stone statue quivered into life. ‘Let’s go, then.’ He rose to his feet.
Stepping out into the open Rasik heaved a sigh of relief. He could inhale the fragrance of the lotus beside him but its tender stem wasn’t fastened around his neck like a noose.
Leaving Nabadwip behind, the two walked mile after mile till, hungry and footsore, they stopped by a pond at the edge of a village. ‘I’ll take a dip and cook a meal,’ Kamal said like a seasoned housewife. ‘But there’s no salt in the bundle, Mahanto. Go into the village and buy some.’
Rasik returned an hour later to find Kamal sitting before a fire of twigs, stirring rice in a clay pot. Her long, wet hair was drawn to the top of her head in a knot. The ridge of her nose and gleaming forehead were etched in sandalwood paste. A group of people stood around her, staring and nudging one another.
‘What a beauty! Who is she?’
‘She doesn’t seem to belong to these parts.’
‘What is your name, Vaishnavi?’ One of the men addressed her directly. ‘Where do you live?’
Kamal didn’t deign to reply. But Rasik stepped forward. ‘Her name is Raikamal,’ he announced, ‘she lives in Rasa Kunja.’
‘Where did this one spring up from? Who on earth are you?’
‘I’m the husband, go! The Vaishnavi’s Vaishnava. My name is Ayan Ghosh.’ His lips twitched in a smile.
The crowd melted away. Rasik twanged his ektara softly and hummed a love song.
Days passed. The two walked, apparently without direction, but whether it was from the twists and turns of the road or the hidden promptings of the two hearts, they arrived one afternoon, at the gate of Rasa Kunja. Tears sprang to Rasik’s eyes as he saw the ruin that had once been his beloved akhaara. Kamal Kunja hadn’t fared any better. The walls had crumbled to the ground, the thatch blown away. But the bower stood intact, its canopy vibrant with blooms. ‘I’m glad to be home, Mahanto.’ Kamal lay down on the fallen flowers. ‘I don’t want to leave . . . ever.’
‘Neither do I. The sky, air and earth of my native village are tying me with unseen bonds. Only . . .’ Rasik said, hesitating a little, ‘you must let me live in Rasa Kunja.’
‘So you shall, Mahanto. So you shall. Rest assured, I won’t disturb you with my presence.’
‘But I shall come to you. We’ll swing together under the clouds on Jhulan. I shall adorn you with flowers on Raas and sprinkle saffron and kumkum on your face on Dol.’
‘You’ve thought of all the leelas. What about the difficult one? The bearing of Govardhan Mountain?
‘That will be the first. From tomorrow morning I’ll begin repairing the walls and thatching the roof of Kamal Kunja. But let’s go to the village, now, and collect some alms.’
The two went from door to door, greeting old acquaintances and filling their satchels with rice. Reaching the headman’s house Rasik’s steps faltered. ‘We have enough for today,’ he muttered uneasily.
‘But this is where my Pepper lives,’ Kamal cried gaily. ‘He’ll be hurt if I don’t stop at his house . . .’ Rasik glanced at her face. It was as radiant as the moon. Rasik felt a stab of jealousy ripping his chest. His eyes burned with tears he dared not shed. Forcing a smile on his wan lips he twanged the string of his ektara, blending it with Kamal’s high, sweet voice. ‘Radhe Krishna! I’ve come for some alms, ma!’
A young woman opened the door. From the ghumta on her head and the sindoor on her brow and parting it was obvious that she was the daughter-in-law of the house. ‘Sing a song, Vaishnavi,’ she demanded. The proud tilt of her head and the sparkle in her eyes told Kamal that she was a happy, fulfilled woman. She hadn’t been denied her husband’s love . . .
Rasik’s hard work turned Kamal Kunja into the serene, beautiful akhaara it had been during Kamini’s time. Kirtan was sung every evening. Kamal’s childhood friends, Bhola, Binod and Panchanan, came. Only Ranjan stayed away. ‘I’ve requested him so many times,’ Bhola grumbled, ‘but he says . . .’
‘What does he say?’
‘Leave it. It isn’t meant for your ears.’
Kamal saw the compassion in Bhola’s eyes. ‘Tell me,’ she insisted. ‘I want to hear.’
‘He said . . . to look on her face is a sin.’ Seeing the tears gather in the girl’s eyes he added tenderly, ‘Shall I speak to him again?’
‘Chhi!’
A few days later Ranjan saw her at the bathing ghat. She had just stepped out of the water. Her wet sari clung to the curves of her exquisite form. Her face, framed by her long, wavy hair, was like a dew-washed lotus. Ranjan couldn’t tear his eyes away.
‘Sugar,’ he called imperiously.
Kamal looked up. A powerful, well-built man stood before her. His arms were tense with muscles, his chest a stone wall. Kamal’s eyes dimmed. Was this the tender youth she had known and loved? Her heart was torn with pity at his lost innocence. With the keen instinct of a woman in love she looked into his soul. She searched long
and deep but found not a trace of light. It was a hollow shell: dark and empty.
Ranjan came and stood by her. So close she could feel his fevered breath licking her cool, wave-washed body. She remembered her bridal night. The terror of Rasik’s arms coiling and writhing about her limbs like snakes; his bloodshot eyes gazing into hers . . . Picking up her water-pot Kamal walked away in the opposite direction. I had so little left, she thought sadly, even that little has been taken from me. With what shall I sustain myself?
‘Mahanto!’ Ranjan called loudly from the gate of Kamal Kunja that evening. Kamal started. Dropping her cymbals she ran into her room. Rasik’s love song froze in his throat. This is the beginning of the end, he thought, glancing at the sinking sun. A few minutes later he stood outside the girl’s door. ‘Raikamal,’ he called, ‘Ranjan is here to see you.’
‘I can’t come out. I have a headache.’
‘Chhi! What will he think? Is he not your best friend?’
‘I beg you, Mahanto.’ Kamal burst into tears. ‘Don’t torture me with your kindness. I’m a weak woman. I cannot bear the weight of your love.’
‘Listen to me . . . Kamal.’
‘Leave me alone for tonight. I’ll hear all you have to say . . . tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow might be too late.’
‘So be it. As of this moment let all words cease between us.’
‘Shall I stroke your forehead and make the pain go away?’
‘No! No! No!’
Rasik turned. Leaving the door open he walked out of Kamal Kunja. The sky above his head was dark and starless. The night was silent. Only a faint moaning of the trees echoed Kamal’s pain. A sound unheard . . . only sensed.
Ranjan tiptoed in through the door Rasik had left open. Sin is like a snake. It lives in a secret hole and creeps out in the darkness of night. ‘Sugar’. . . his whisper entered Kamal’s ear like the deadly hiss of a forked tongue. She sprang up with a shudder and ran out of the akhaara not stopping till she reached Rasa Kunja. Her clothes and hair were dishevelled; her eyes wide with terror. ‘Mahanto! Mahanto!’ she called and banged on the door till it opened. Rasik stood within. ‘Are you . . . happy, Raikamal?’ he asked.
‘Ranjan came . . .’
‘You . . . sent him away?’ A smile, like a shaft of moonlight, blew away the clouds from Rasik’s face. But Kamal noticed that his hands were shaking and he was having trouble articulating his words.
‘What have you done to yourself?’ she cried out fearfully.
‘Poison! Ranjan and you . . . I couldn’t bear the thought . . . Death was preferable. But now . . . now that you are here . . . I want to live. Save me, Raikamal . . . save me!’
‘Ma go!’ Kamal shrieked. ‘What will become of me? My sin . . .’
‘The sin was mine. You are Raikamal . . . cast in Radharani’s mould . . . Can sin touch you? Oof!’ His face was contorted with agony. Foam gathered at his lips.
The night waned. The sky pearled with the first touch of dawn. Kamal sat outside the door of Rasa Kunja with Rasik’s limp body in her lap . . .
Rasik’s mortal remains find a resting place in the bower of Kamal Kunja. Kamal lights a lamp there, every evening, and sings the songs he loved. Her friends come to see her. Only Ranjan does not come.
‘Shall I bring him?’ Bhola asks.
‘He’ll come on his own . . . some day.’
An elderly Vaishnavi says to her, ‘We are going to Vrindavana. Why don’t you come with us?’
‘No. I’ve had my fill of pilgrimages. I’m happy where I am.’
‘Gobindo! Gobindo!’ the woman touches her ears. ‘What Vaishnavi will throw away the chance to go to Brajdham? The village women are right. You’re a harlot.’
Kamal smiles and sings:
They call me a harlot; I’m in love with the name, dear friend.
Spurning it . . . shall I lose my beloved Shyam?
Radha comes before Shyam. They cry out . . . ‘Radheshyam!’
Lighting a lamp at the mound covered with madhavi and malati flowers she touches her brow to the ground and murmurs, ‘Guru . . . guru . . . guru.’
19
A FLUTE CALLED RADHA
DEBOTRI DHAR
RADHA DRAWS IN a deep breath and waits. Tonight the Yamuna will not speak to her. Tonight it flows silently, sulkily, without smell or touch or tears. The night has emptied out its stars and holds no forgiveness. Radha knows she must not move too much, lest the sky crumble. ‘It crumbles so easily nowadays,’ she mutters to herself in irritation. Like the other day, when some of the village boys raced through the ripening fields to shoot cardboard arrows at the sky and it split into so many shards of lightning. Later they lay noiselessly scattered everywhere, but when she bent to pick one up, it snapped forth and bit her, drawing blood. Radha looks down at her finger, bandaged with a grubby strip of cotton shot with dark splotches of red. Her hand itself is hard and veiny, nothing like the soft, white lilies he would often compare them to when he laid his head in her lap. And when she laughs, it is no longer the silver tinkle of anklets on moonlit marble. No, it is laughter from another time and place, a stranger’s laughter that he cannot possibly love. But, then, he always had a way with words. Radha cocks her head from side to side, trying to remember. Some of the memories are smooth and easy, like his touch. If she closes her eyes tight enough, she can feel his fingers play expertly on her skin. She can feel the rush of blood to her forearm where he rubs it deliciously. Her fingers are at war with themselves, kneading through his hair, pulling him close and pushing him away. When he kisses her, her lips swell like the bee-stung champa blossoms of Vrindavana. ‘Radha, Radha,’ he murmurs in agony, hounded by his own demons. I’m tired of being God, he wants to whisper. Radha knows. She folds him into the night, cradling him in her arms like she did when he was a child. The moment passes. He is once again Krishna, God, skilled lover, centre of the universe. He rubs the perfume of raat-champa into her smooth, flat belly. They love each other on the riverbank, to the slow music of the Yamuna, their bodies entwined, their souls flushed.
The stars look down and smile sadly, while Vrindavana sleeps.
‘I am yours, my Krishna.’
‘Radha, Radha,’ he says in response.
Say, And I am yours, my Radha, she wills him with her stormy eyes.
But by the time he does, it is too late. Radha puts her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the sounds of drums and chariots and victory and loss. And Radha, old woman, madwoman, laughs and cries.
She arrived on the first day of vasant, bringing with her the bloom of roses and the lilt of the breeze. ‘She is the most beautiful bride in all of Barsana and they say her skin glows like moonlight,’ two women of Nanda whispered enviously among themselves. ‘But what good did her beauty do? All that her destiny had to offer was the stammering cowherd Ayan with the thick belly and thicker mind,’ laughed a third.
The gossip went on and on relentlessly through the day, but when it was evening they wore their most pious faces to the house where the young bride Radha had come to stay with her relatives for a while. The women sat in a circle and talked about this and that till Radha came out to light the evening lamps. Her hair shimmered all the way down her waist, her silver cummerbund was a lithe rope around the curve of her waist, and the mirrors on her choli glinted. Is she lighting the lamps, or are the lamps lighting her, the women wondered.
‘Come and sit with us. Tell us about your wedding night,’ one of them called out in good humour.
Everyone laughed. Radha smiled and shook her head, her doe eyes calm but cautious, and went indoors. And Yashoda’s kind heart brimmed over. She got up, pulling the child Kanha by the hand, and followed Radha inside the house. Radha was folding bedclothes and looked up shyly at the plump, motherly woman and her young child.
‘I am Yashoda, wife of Nanda and mother of this naughty son.’ The older woman gave her a reassuring look.
‘Welcome, didi,’ Radha said, dazzling Yashoda with
her smile.
‘I hope your husband knows how lucky he is,’ Yashoda murmured as she walked across to Radha to tilt her face upwards to the light of the lantern. Then, turning to Kanha, she winked at her child. ‘So, would you want a bride as beautiful as her?’ The child looked at Radha, mesmerized. ‘There, now your beauty has achieved the impossible,’ laughed Yashoda. ‘Your face has even managed to silence the reigning terror of Nanda!’
Radha smiled and kneeled down to look deeply into the child Kanha’s eyes. ‘Do you think I am pretty?’
Eyes full of wonder, Kanha stretched out his hand and touched Radha’s cheek. ‘Yes. Will you be my bride?’
The two women laughed till tears started pouring out of Yashoda’s eyes. Wiping them away with the corner of her aanchal, she put her arms around the younger woman’s shoulders.
‘Please don’t be upset.’
‘Oh, why, he’s just a child,’ exclaimed Radha, bewildered.
‘No, I mean the women of the village.’ Yashoda’s tone was serious. ‘We had all heard of your beauty and everyone was curious to see you. And you know how it is with us women. Sometimes we want to know all about . . . everything.’
‘What do you want to know?’ asked Radha quietly. ‘That I was married off against my wishes to a man old enough to be my father? That he is good and kind, but I feel no love, no passion? That till the day I die, this is how God has willed my life to be? Is this what everyone wishes to know?’
‘Be quiet,’ Yashoda admonished, aghast. ‘These are not the right thoughts for a new bride. Radha, as women, we must accept that which we cannot change. And we must learn to be happy with what we have, for on our happiness depends the happiness of our men and children. Our household is our universe, and you must always remember that.’
Radha looked at Yashoda and shook her head slowly, defiantly. ‘No, didi. I will not learn to be happy with what I have. My household will not be my universe, for there is a much larger universe outside of my kitchen and my courtyard that I want to hold in my palms. I want to pluck stars from the skies, I want to dance with the sun!’
Finding Radha Page 18