I thought I saw a look of alarm spring into the man’s eyes. A shudder passed over his frame and he lowered his eyes. It was only for a moment but I’m convinced that the shaft had gone home. Indra’s words had awoken a memory as shameful as it was vile.
It was well past midnight when Didi opened her eyes. Another hour passed before she recovered fully. Then, after hearing the full story from my lips, she stood up. Walking over to Shahji she released him from his bonds. ‘Go back to sleep,’ she said.
After Shahji went into the hut she called Indra to her side and taking his right hand in hers she placed it on her head. ‘Swear on my head, Indra, that you’ll never come to this house again. Leave us to our fate. Stay away and forget that we ever existed.’
Indra stared blankly at her for a few moments. Then, bursting like a bomb, he shouted, ‘You don’t blame him even though he tried to kill me. But because I tied him up I’m being asked to leave the house. You are both the same. Selfish and ungrateful. Come, Srikanta. Not a moment more in this house.’
Didi stood like a figure of stone. Why she did not utter a word of protest or explanation was incomprehensible to me then. Later, much later, I understood the meaning of her silence. I left the five rupees on the floor of the veranda and followed Indranath out of the hut.
Stepping into the yard Indra delivered his final shot, ‘What else can you expect from a high-born Hindu girl who elopes with a low-class Mussalman? Depraved, immoral creatures! To hell with the pair of you! I have nothing to do with you from this moment onwards.’ Saying this he rushed out of the yard, and crossing the jungle, came to where the boat was moored.
As it moved rapidly away from the bank I saw Indranath lift his arm and dash the tears away from his eyes. The dinghy floated on past the tamarisks and tussocks. The burning-ghat came into view but tonight it held no fear. I sat, dazed and silent, unaware of time and its passing. When the dinghy reached our bank the night was almost over.
As I climbed out of the boat Indra said, ‘Go home, Srikanta, and keep away from me in future. You’ve brought me bad luck everytime. I’ll never take you out in my dinghy again.’
He rowed rapidly away towards the deeper waters and in a few minutes, became a fleck on the horizon.
Six
I DID NOT EVEN TRY TO CHECK THE SOBS THAT SHOOK MY CHEST AS I stood on the bank looking at the fast disappearing dinghy. I loved Indranath. For his sake I had risked expulsion from the house in which I was being educated. But he had no use for my love. He had accused me of bringing him bad luck and had left me alone to find my way back home through the dense forest at that time of the night.
His harsh words had wounded me so deeply that for months after that I turned my face away if I encountered him in the streets. The breakdown of our friendship was, to me, a source of pain which welled afresh with every glimpse of him. But he seemed not to care. He had so many friends and followers. He was the hero of the cricket and football clubs. In the gymnasium his performance was unparalleled. Why he had singled me out in the first place and then abandoned me was a mystery I could not fathom. I suffered but did not attempt to resume our old relationship. When I heard the other boys talk of Indranath as if they owned him I sat in silence. Not by a word did I betray the fact that I knew him intimately and that he had said I was his best friend. I had understood, as early as then, that lasting friendships were not possible except between equals. This understanding served me well in later years when the chance of friendship with many ‘superior’ people came my way. I learned not to take them too seriously, for unequal friendships do not last. At some stage or the other one friend becomes the master and the other his slave.
Three or four months passed before I spoke to Indranath again. It was during Kali Puja which the Datta family celebrated every year with a good deal of fanfare. Among the cultural events organized that year was a performance of Meghnath Badh. I was very excited, for though I had seen many jatras in my native village, this was to be my introduction to the theatre. I rushed around helping to set up the stage and felt very important when the man who was to act the part of Ramchandra that evening asked me to hold a rope. On the strength of this acquaintance I had pleasurable visions of being invited to the green room, before the play commenced, to the chagrin of the other boys who were sure to be kept out. But alas! I stood outside the torn curtain that served as the door to the green-room for hours. Ramchandra went in and out time and again but did not deign to throw a glance at me.
When the first bell rang at ten o’clock I abandoned all hopes of entering the green-room and came and sat in the audience. The play began. I watched spellbound as Meghnath, seven feet tall and five feet around the girth, raved and ranted on the stage. The curtain fell and rose again. It was Lakshman’s cue. He had barely begun his speech when Meghnath suddenly leaped in from nowhere causing the boards to totter and creak horribly. Four of the five footlights toppled over. Worse followed. Meghnath’s golden cummerbund gave way with a loud snap. Pandemonium broke loose among the audience. Some yelled at Meghnath to sit down. Others shouted for the drop of the curtain. But brave Meghnath did not falter in the face of duty. Dropping his bow he held his slipping dhoti with one hand and, with the other, flung arrows at his enemy with undiminished vigour. Who had ever seen such a battle? Or a hero of this stature? Bowless and with one hand out of action he fought on till Lakshman was put to flight and the scene was over. I was watching entranced when I felt a tap on my back It was Indranath.
‘Didi has sent for you, Srikanta,’ he whispered.
I stood up. ‘Where is she?’
‘Come with me,’ he said.
He walked away and I followed him till we reached the bank where his dinghy was moored. We took our places in silence and Indra set the boat adrift. The night was already waning by the time we reached the hut. By the dim light of a kerosene lamp I saw Didi sitting on the threshold with Shahji’s head in her lap. A dead cobra, stretched out to its full length, lay at his feet. Didi told us what had happened quite calmly. Shahji had been sent for by a rich man of the locality to catch a snake that had been observed in his house. Shahji had succeeded in drawing out the snake and, flushed with triumph, had spent all the money he had been given on toddy. He had come home roaring drunk and, ignoring Didi’s warnings, had proceeded to charm the snake he had caught. It was only afterwards, just before putting the snake away in the basket, that he had become careless. Bringing the snake’s mouth close to his own he had made kissing sounds at it. The snake had responded by stinging him viciously in the neck.
Wiping her eyes with the edge of her faded sari Didi said, ‘Even as he was dying he knew he had to kill the snake first. “Come, let’s die together,” he said and, pressing his foot on the snake’s head, he stretched its body out to that length with both hands.’ She pointed to the dead snake and added, ‘They died together.’
Removing the covering from Shahji’s face she kissed the lips, rapidly blueing with snake venom, with great tenderness and said, ‘What had to happen has happened. I bear no grudge to God.’ After a moment of silence she continued, ‘I have no one but you two in the world. So, young as you are, you must bear my burdens. There is an open space in the jungle behind the hut. I thought I would lie there after my death but Fate willed otherwise. When morning comes you must help me to carry him there. He has suffered untold misery in this life. Now, God willing, he will find some peace.’
‘Are you going to bury Shahji?’ Indra asked.
‘Yes. He was a Mussalman.’
‘Are you one too?’
‘Yes,’ she replied without hesitation.
Indranath looked at her with uncomprehending eyes. It was obvious that he had not expected this reply. It seemed to me that, despite his knowledge of Shahji’s faith, Indra had hoped that Didi had retained her own religion and was still one of us. As for me I would not think of her as anything other than a high-born Hindu woman.
With the first glimmerings of dawn, Indra went out into the jungle to
dig a grave for Shahji. Then the three of us carried the body out and placed it in the grave and covered it with earth. Twenty feet below the little clearing where Shahji lay, the Ganga flowed tempestuous and strong. Around the grave were tall trees festooned with creepers. A chill breeze blew and birds sang out of the leafy branches. We sat around the grave, the roar of the river in our ears, waiting for the sun to break out of the eastern sky.
Suddenly, Didi flung herself on the mound of earth with a piercing cry, ‘Where shall I go? To whom shall I turn?’
Indra lifted Didi’s head from where it lay on the earth and placed it tenderly on his lap. ‘Come home with me, Didi,’ he said. ‘My mother will look after you. You are no Mussalmani! You are a Hindu like us.’
Didi lay as if in a swoon. At last she arose and climbing down the bank waded out into the river. We followed her. She took off the iron hoop that encircled her wrist and threw it in the water. Then, breaking her lac bangles against a rock, she scooped up a handful of earth. With this she scoured out the sindoor from the parting of her hair. Then, dipping her head thrice in the Ganga, she bathed. As she walked back through the jungle, the rising sun irradiating her dripping form, she looked the image of a newly widowed Hindu woman of high birth and lineage.
Back in the hut, as we sat together, Didi told us that Shahji was her husband. Indra asked in disbelief, ‘Are you not a Hindu, then?’
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘My father was a Brahmin. So was my husband.’
‘Why did he change his religion?’ Indra probed.
‘That I cannot say for certain. But when he did I was obliged to do the same, for a woman must embrace her husband’s faith. I did not give up the faith of my ancestors of my own accord. Nor have I ever done anything to tarnish it.’
‘That I know,’ Indra said in a voice thick with emotion. ‘That is why—forgive me, Didi—I have often wondered why you were here; how you could so forget your birth and upbringing. But I won’t listen to another word. You must come home with me to my mother.’
Didi sat in silence for a while. Then, raising her head, she said decidedly, ‘I can’t go anywhere, Indranath.’
‘Why not, Didi?’
‘I know my husband has left some debts. I cannot leave without repaying them.’
Indra lost his temper. ‘Yes, he owes money in the toddy and ganja shops,’ he said. ‘But what is that to you? Who will dare ask you for money? You come with me and I’ll see who tries to stop you.’
Didi smiled at him. ‘Crazy boy! No one and nothing can stop me except my own conscience. My husband’s debts are my debts. How can I run away from them? Go home today, and take Srikanta with you. Come back again after two or three days.’
I had been listening quietly all this while. Now I spoke. ‘I have another five rupees at home. Shall I fetch them?’
Before I could complete the sentence Didi came up to me and, taking me in her arms, pressed my head against her breast. Then, kissing my forehead very tenderly, she said, ‘No, Srikanta. That will not be necessary. But I shall remember your offer to my dying day. May God dwell in your breast and make your heart weep for the afflicted through all the years of your life.’ Tears flooded her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
Around eight o’clock we got ready to leave. Didi walked part of the way with us. Before turning back she took Indra’s hand in hers and said, ‘I will not take the liberty of giving you my blessing, Indranath, for you are far above it. God follows you like a shadow and will make you his own.’
Indra touched Didi’s feet and said in a tearful voice, ‘I can’t leave you alone in this jungle, Didi. Something tells me I’ll never see you again.’
Didi did not reply. Turning, she walked rapidly away wiping her eyes with the edge of her sari. We stood and watched her weaving her way through the path till the forest swallowed her up. She didn’t look back and we both knew why.
Three days later I found Indranath waiting for me outside the school gate. His face was pale, his feet bare, and dust coated his legs right up to the knees. I had never seen him like that for he came from a rich family and was always neat and well-dressed. He came up to me and whispered urgently, ‘Didi has gone away. I don’t know where. I’ve been looking for her since yesterday. She left a note for you in the hut. Here.’ He handed me a piece of rough paper and walked away without a backward glance. I sat down right where I was and opened the note. Though many years have passed since then, I can more or less remember what she had written:
Srikanta,
I am leaving you but my blessings are with you and will ever remain so. Don’t grieve because I’m gone. I know that Indranath will wear himself out looking for me. Try to stop him if you can. You are both too young to understand fully what I am about to write in this letter. Yet, in the hope that you will do so when you are older, I am tempted to unburden myself. You may wonder why, instead of telling you about these events in my life, I am putting them down on paper. I wanted to tell you once. But I couldn’t for my story is also my husband’s and that is a painful record of guilt and depravity. I do not know what sins I have committed in this life. But I know, without a doubt, that the sins of my previous birth are grievous and innumerable. I did not wish to add to them by lowering my husband in your eyes. It is not that I can do so now because he is dead. Yet I cannot go away either, without sharing my lifelong anguish with you and Indra.
Srikanta, your unfortunate sister’s name is Annada. My father was a wealthy man and a Brahmin of high lineage. We were two sisters. To take the place of the son he never had, he brought home a poor Brahmin boy and married him to me. He wanted to educate him and make a man of him. But though he succeeded in the first endeavour he failed miserably in the second. My widowed elder sister lived with us. My husband murdered her one day and disappeared from the house. He was never traced so it is possible that he left the country. You will wonder why he did this terrible thing. I cannot enlighten you for you are children and have no knowledge of such things. But someday, when you are older, you will understand. Then you will also sense the shame and humiliation which this deed heaped on my head. That fire burns in my breast to this day!
Seven years passed before I saw my husband again. He was wearing the garb in which you have seen him, charming snakes before a crowd in front of our house. He was unrecognizable—but not to me. He told me that he had undertaken this dangerous venture for my sake but that was a lie. Nevertheless, at dead of night, I left my father’s house. I went away with my husband but everyone knew that I—a Hindu wife—had eloped with a Mussalman snake-charmer. I have carried this stigma all these years and will do so till the day of my death. While my husband was alive I could not reveal the truth. I knew my father. He would never forgive the killer of his flesh and blood. Now that my husband is dead I could go back. But who will believe my story after all these years? There is no place for me in my father’s home. Besides, now I am a Mussalmani!
I had a pair of earrings hidden away which I sold to pay my husband’s debts. I have not spent the five rupees you left with me that first day. They are lying with the owner of a dry goods shop that stands at the corner of the path from my hut. He has instructions to hand them over to you. Go to him and reclaim the money. Don’t be disappointed because I return it. I take with me something far more precious—your tender little heart locked away in my breast. Don’t grieve for me, Srikanta. Suffering doesn’t frighten me and pain cannot torture me anymore. My sweet little brothers! If the wishes of a chaste wife have any value in God’s eyes may your friendship never die.
your loving sister,
Annada
Seven
I WENT TO THE SHOP AND STOOD BEFORE THE OWNER. UNTYING A tiny rag bundle he took out a pair of earrings and five silver rupees. He handed me the coins with the words, ‘Bahu sold me her earrings for twenty-one rupees and paid off Shahji’s debts. Then she went away—I don’t know where.’ Making a mental estimate of what Shahji had owed he added, ‘She had only five annas and one pice w
ith her when she left.’
So twenty-two pice were all that Didi had when she started out on her long and arduous journey into the world! Tears rushed to my eyes at the thought. To hide them from the old man I turned and walked away. My ego was hurt because she had returned my money. ‘She took from Indra but not from me,’ I thought resentfully. I was a child then and did not realize that Indra and I were not the same in Didi’s eyes. She could accept his charity but not mine for Indra was Indra and I was far beneath him.
I have travelled far and wide in my later life but I never set eyes on Didi again. Through my youth and manhood, whenever I thought of her and her stoic adherence to her ideals, I was filled with resentment against God and Man. In a country like ours, where Sita and Savitri are deified for their chastity, why was Didi made to suffer such shame and humiliation? Why was her brow, pure and shining as that of any goddess in heaven, blackened with the stain of a false faithlessness? I would rave against God, ‘You took from her everything she had. Her father, sister, friends and relations. You even robbed her of her faith. But what did you give her in return? She, who should have taken her place with the brightest beings of your creation, has had to live out her life bowed down by the condemnation of the world. What justice is in this?’ I would ask in despair. I longed to go to her father and reveal the truth. I wanted to proclaim to the world that Annada was no wanton but a shining example of chaste wifehood—a woman whose devotion to her husband had been like a bright and unwavering flame.
For many days after he gave me the letter there was no sign of Indra. But whenever I walked by the river I saw his dinghy tossing about in the water under the open sky. Only once, after our trip to the hut on the night of Shahji’s death, did we sit in the boat again. That was the last time for both Indra and me. I remember it well not only because it was our last boat ride together but because, on that trip, I came across the most perfect embodiment of selfish self-centredness that I have yet to see.
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