Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  She stood by the entrance, waiting. Looking me up and down she said without preamble, ‘You are not going to any burning-ghat. Is that clear?’

  I was startled enough to stammer foolishly, ‘Why, why?’

  ‘Because even if you don’t believe in ghosts—they exist. If you go tonight you’ll never come back,’ and suddenly, incomprehensibly, her face crumpled and she burst into tears. This was something so unexpected that I stared at her, speechless with astonishment.

  ‘All your life you have been the same—stubborn and rash,’ she continued between sobs. ‘Will you never grow up? I won’t let you go alone. That’s certain. If you insist on going I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Fine. Come along,’ I said.

  My sarcasm was not lost on her. Her eyes dried—turned hard and jewel bright.

  ‘What do you think of yourself?’ she cried passionately. ‘Don’t you have a family and a society to go back to? What will people say when they hear that you went on a ghost-hunt accompanied by a prostitute? Who ever dreamed that you could sink so low—could degrade yourself like this?’

  She bit her lip and fresh tears welled up in her eyes. Suddenly my anger melted away. I thought I recognized Pyari.

  ‘Does public opinion really matter?’ I asked gently. ‘Did anyone dream that you would degrade yourself the way you’ve done?’

  At my words a smile, like a faint ray of autumn sunshine, flickered over her face. But it was only for a moment. Then her eyes clouded once more and she asked in a frightened voice, ‘What do you know of me? Can you tell who I am?’

  ‘You are Pyari.’

  ‘Everyone knows that.’

  ‘Do you want me to admit that I know more about you than anyone else here? If you really wished that, you could have revealed your true identity on the very first day. But you didn’t and neither will I. I must go now. It is getting late.’

  Swift as a flash of lightning Pyari stood in front of me. ‘I won’t let you go,’ she said.

  ‘Why won’t you let me go?’

  ‘Because real ghosts exist and confronting them is dangerous. I swear I shall scream if you insist on going.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘I have never seen a real ghost,’ I said, ‘but I admit to having seen fakes. They laugh and cry and block one’s path. And sometimes they even devour human flesh.’

  Pyari’s face went white. ‘So you do recognize me,’ she said at last, ‘but what you said about fakes is incorrect. They do not devour human flesh—at least not of those they love. They have their near and dear ones just as you do.’

  ‘You are speaking of yourself,’ I said with a smile. ‘Are you a ghost?’

  ‘What is a ghost? One who inhabits the earth even after death. That is what you meant, didn’t you, when you spoke of fakes? It is true that in a sense I’m dead too. But I didn’t die of my own accord nor did I announce my death. My mother did that for me.’

  The moment she said that all my doubts vanished. She was Rajlakshmi—a young Brahmin widow of our village. She had accompanied her mother on a pilgrimage and never returned. She had died of cholera in Kashi—so her mother had announced after coming back alone. Pyari’s face and form had not struck a bell but I had been intrigued, from the moment I saw her, by a habit she had of biting her underlip whenever she was agitated or angry. The vaguest of feelings nagged me that somewhere, in the distant past, someone had done just that. Now I knew that the prostitute, Pyari, was the Kulin widow, Rajlakshmi. I stared at her in mute horror.

  About ten years ago, when I was still with my parents, a Brahmin lady came to live with her brother in our ancestral village. Her Kulin husband had driven her away after taking another wife and she had nowhere else to go. She had two daughters—Suralakshmi and Rajlakshmi. Rajlakshmi was eight years old at the time and Suralakshmi—twelve. Rajlakshmi was very fair but no beauty. Her skin was pale and waxy from years of untreated malaria. Her abdomen was distended due to an enlarged spleen and stuck out from her thin frame like a drum. Her arms and legs were like sticks and only the faintest copper coloured down covered her head. She used to come to the village pathshala where I was the head boy. I was a great bully and so great was Rajlakshmi’s fear of me that she would roam the forest everyday in search of ripe bainchis (a wild berry) which she would string into a garland and offer to me as a bribe for leaving her alone. If the garland was not long enough for my liking I would take her up on her lessons and slap her hard if she couldn’t answer my questions. She never rebelled or expressed any grievance. After the beating she would sit quietly in a corner biting her lip gloomily.

  Then a marriage was arranged for the two girls. Her uncle was on the point of being excommunicated by the village elders for his inability to find grooms for his nieces when he discovered that the old cook in the house of the Dattas, was a Kulin Brahmin and therefore, an eligible parti for his elder niece. Offering fifty-one rupees as dowry, he started the negotiations. But the prospective bridegroom, though he looked fat and foolish, was self-interested enough to drive a shrewd bargain.

  ‘Impossible!’ he exclaimed, shaking his head vigorously. ‘You have no idea of current prices. You can’t get a pair of healthy rams for fifty-one rupees and you’re looking for a son-in-law. Make it hundred-and-one and I’ll marry both the girls. Nothing can be fairer than that. The least you can give me is the price of two bullocks.’

  No one doubted the justice of his claims but the uncle was poor and had daughters of his own. After a great deal of haggling and entreaty the sum was brought down to seventy rupees and Suralakshmi and Rajlakshmi were married in a single night.

  Next morning, the wily Brahmin left the village for his home town of Bankura—the seventy rupees tucked securely in the folds of his dhoti. No one ever heard of him again. Within a year and a half of the marriage, Suralakshmi died of splenetic fever and another year and a half later Rajlakshmi was sanctified by her death in Kashi.

  ‘I can read your thoughts,’ Pyari said suddenly.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘You’re saying to yourself, “Poor girl! How badly I treated her when we were children. I made her pick berries from thorny bushes and beat her mercilessly if she couldn’t pick enough. And she never complained—never asked for anything in return—till tonight. Let me give her what she wants. I won’t go to the burning-ghat if it makes her happy.” That’s what you were thinking, weren’t you?’

  I burst out laughing and Pyari joined in. ‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘I knew that you would not spurn me once you realized who I was. The love one bears in childhood is never lost. But why are we standing outside? Come in and sit down. I have so much to tell you. What are you laughing at?’

  ‘I’m laughing at the skill with which women like you can charm a man into submission to their will.’

  ‘I don’t deny my skills but I wouldn’t try them on one who has held me in the hollow of his hand since my earliest childhood. How strange that you forgot me so completely! You should be ashamed of yourself.’ Pyari laughed till her diamond ear drops trembled and twinkled in the star light.

  ‘I was so little aware of you that forgetting you was the most natural thing in the world. In fact I’m surprised that I remember you now. But it’s nearly twelve o’clock. I must go.’

  Pyari’s smile vanished—her face became ashen. She said in a small voice, ‘Even if there are no ghosts—there are snakes and other wild creatures in the jungle. You must admit that.’

  ‘I know that and I’ve taken every precaution.’

  ‘I knew I couldn’t stop you,’ Pyari sighed. ‘Still I tried. Well, go if you must. But remember—if anything happens to you in this God-forsaken place you’ll find no one but myself at your side. Your rich and powerful friends will not spare you a glance. You boasted to my face that you were unaware of me. That was a very manly thing to do. But I, being a woman, cannot return the compliment when the time comes.’

  Her words clutched at my heart but, ignoring them, I said with a sneer, ‘Tha
nk you for your kindness, Baiji. I have no one in the world. It gives me great satisfaction to know that there is one who will not disown me when I am in trouble.’

  Pyari’s eyes blazed. ‘You knew that all along. Yet you call me Baiji and insult and humiliate me. I wish I could disown you. That is what you deserve. But women are disgusting creatures. If they love once, they are lost forever.’

  ‘Very good,’ I said. ‘I hope some evil befalls me tonight. Then your love can be put to the test and you may come out in flying colours.’

  ‘Durga! Durga!’ Pyari shuddered and said, ‘Don’t say such things. You don’t have to test my love. Doubt it by all means. Only come back alive—and well.’ Her voice broke and she turned her face away. ‘I was born unfortunate and will die so,’ she said. ‘It is not for me to look after you in health and nurse you in sickness. If I could—well, it would be the one good thing I did in this life.’

  ‘Who knows?’ I taunted her. ‘God may grant you your heart’s desire.’

  I did not know then that my words were prophetic. As I walked out of the tent I could hear Pyari call ‘Durga! Durga!’ after me. I walked rapidly across the dark expanse of the mango grove, then along the bank of the river till I stood on the bridge. My mind was in a whirl. How strange and incomprehensible was the female psyche! And how wonderfully superior to the male! Years ago, a little girl with thin arms and legs and a stomach like a drum had offered me her infant adoration in the form of bainchi garlands. And I had been totally unaware. I had ignored her and later forgotten her. But she, through all the bitter battles of her life and all the degradations of her profession, had kept my image burning bright and clear within her. She had professed many a false love but had cherished and preserved her true love. The more I thought of it, the more it overwhelmed me.

  Ba-ap! A night bird shrieked. I came to with a start. Before me stretched a vast tract of sand with a thread-thin stream of water twisting painfully on its surface as far as the eye could see. Clumps of catkin, ten feet high, dotted the landscape. From where I stood they looked like giant men who had just walked across as I had done, to see the dance of the demons. Above my head, out of a dense velvety sky, innumerable stars and planets stared at the earth below. Not a leaf stirred. Not a sound marred the silence of the night save the beating of my heart. I turned my face westwards where the burning-ghat lay. Tall silk-cotton trees with spreading branches stood before me like sentinels guarding the dead. As I walked through them a low moaning sound came to my ears—like the soft whimpering of an exhausted child who has wept for his mother so long and so loud that he can weep no more. I recognized the sound. It was the cry of a baby vulture who had lost his mother in the dark. I looked up and found that I was right. Above my head the branches of the silk-cotton trees were hung with the dark shapeless forms of hundreds of vultures.

  When I reached the burning-ghat I realized that the old man’s description of a hundred human skulls was not a wild exaggeration. The ground was criss-crossed with the bones of innumerable skeletons, brittle and bleached white by a million suns. Interspersed among them the grinning skulls gleamed wickedly in the faint starlight. The balls and rackets were there but where were the players? I fitted some cartridges into my gun and sitting on a sand heap, waited for the game to begin.

  Suddenly, I thought of Pyari. She had pointed out the illogicality of risking my life to see something that I knew did not exist. ‘Why did I come?’ I asked myself. ‘To put to the test an old man’s foolish assertions and prove him wrong in the eyes of the world? Or to prove my own valour before a bunch of ignorant Bihari yokels who had said Bengalis were cowards?’

  All of a sudden, a gust of wind whipped up a cloud of dust and leaves and swirled them across my face. Then another and another. The forest came alive with the moaning and crackling of silk-cotton stems and the skeletons around me breathed deeply. I shivered in spite of myself. I knew that it was only the wind passing through the cavities of the skulls. But, try as I would, I could not subdue the primeval fear that, however deeply buried beneath layers of conscious reasoning, rose up now to awe and frighten the fear of life after death. I sensed that if I could not control this fear there was no knowing what would happen to me. I knew, now, that I shouldn’t have come. I was no Indranath. I had neither his courage nor his faith. I yearned to see something living—even a tiger or a wolf—but nothing lived. The dead surrounded me on all sides. The air grew thick with their sighs and muffled moans. I felt, rather than saw, the skeletons arise and position themselves all around me. One of them stood close behind breathing down my ear and neck. I didn’t turn my head but I saw him—a vast gaping skull with monstrous nose holes through which air gushed out as chill as death. My legs shook under me. I tried to control them but I couldn’t for they were not mine. ‘I must not faint,’ I repeated over and over again to the beat of my thumping heart.

  From the leaves of the silk-cotton tree the baby vulture whimpered on. Then others joined him and the chorus of moans surged and billowed around me like the waves of an unknown sea. Through the terrible clamour that crashed into my ears one sound acquired a focus—became distinct. Babu-u-u-u followed by Babu sahe-e-e-e-b. It roared and dipped, swelled and ebbed. Then the clamour died away.

  Human voices reached out to me. Words that I understood fell on my ears as sweetly as dewdrops on flowers.

  ‘Don’t shoot. For God’s sake, don’t shoot. It is I—Ratan.’

  I tried to call out but no sound came. With a tremendous effort I managed to turn my head. Three or four men bearing lanterns were rapidly approaching the sand heap on which I sat. As they drew near I recognized them. They were Pyari’s guard, Ganesh, her tabla player, Chhotu Lal, Ratan and the village chowkidar.

  ‘It is three o’clock, Babu,’ Ratan said. ‘Come back to the camp.’

  I stood up.

  ‘I envy you your courage, Babu,’ Ratan said as we walked away. ‘We were four together and we were frightened to death.’

  ‘Why did you come then?’

  ‘We have been given a month’s wages for coming here tonight.’ Then coming closer he whispered, ‘After you left I saw Ma sitting in a corner and crying. She told me to take Ganesh and Chhotu Lal and go after you. But I hesitated. I was scared and I didn’t know the way. Then Ma asked the chowkidar to go with us.’ Ratan shuddered and gripped the edge of my coat. ‘Did you hear a baby crying, Babu? What was that but a ghost? We would surely have lost our lives tonight if Ganesh Pande had not been with us. He is a Brahmin and ghosts are scared of Brahmins.’

  I was too exhausted to protest or laugh. ‘Did you see anything, Babu?’ Ratan probed.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you offended because we came after you? If you had seen the way Ma cried—.’

  ‘No, Ratan. I’m not in the least offended.’

  As we approached the camp the chowkidar, tabla player and guard took their leave. Ratan said, ‘Ma wanted to see you before you went to your tent.’

  I hesitated. My whole being went out to Pyari. I visualized her sitting before a flickering lamp with tears in her eyes waiting anxiously for my return.

  ‘Come,’ Ratan said.

  I shut my eyes and looked within myself, flashing a powerful beam in all the nooks and corners. I saw a thousand drunken devils leap up at her name. I felt them throbbing in my blood and hammering at my heart. No. I could not go to Pyari like this.

  ‘Come, Babu,’ Ratan said again.

  ‘No, Ratan.’ I was surprised at the calm of my voice. ‘Not now.’

  ‘Ma has been waiting—’

  ‘Give her my regards and my apologies. I will see her tomorrow before I leave. I’m very sleepy. Good night, Ratan,’ and leaving him staring after me in puzzled indignation, I walked away towards my tent.

  Nine

  THERE IS NO GREATER FOOL IN THE WORLD THAN THE MAN WHO attempts to analyse himself for he has taken into his own hands a task that he should have left to God. Some go even further. They attempt to draw conclu
sions about others—even characters out of books. ‘So and so could never have acted as he did,’ and, ‘The reaction of such and such is most unconvincing,’ they proclaim confidently and, in nine cases out of ten, win the acclaim of readers. They are successful critics and respected for their ability to pull another’s created world to pieces. I am ashamed of such men. It is not that I resent their criticism. Far from it. The world is full of flaws and my books certainly are. What I do resent is their ignorance of the complexities that make up the human psyche and their proud parading of this ignorance. They have no knowledge of the many emotions that lie dormant in the consciousness, ready to erupt and explode at a spark.

  Let me speak for myself. From childhood onwards I had cherished an image of womanhood and held it close to my heart. Needless to say it was that of Annada Didi. Day by day it had grown brighter and more chiselled under my jealous care. I had wept innumerable tears over it, made promises to it and dreamed dreams. I had believed in its immortality. If someone had told me, even a week ago, that my image was made of clay and could be reduced to dust by a singing girl’s smiles and tears I would have called him mad. For I was as firm as a rock about one thing—that only the woman who could reach the height of stoic idealism that Annada Didi had set as a standard, could find a place in my heart. Yet, the morning after my night’s vigil at the burning-ghat I woke up with a strange pain lacerating it—a pain irretrievably linked with Pyari’s tear-filled eyes and trembling mouth. But how could such a thing happen? How could Pyari’s memory throw a shadow on Annada Didi’s? What did the two have in common? One wore a crown of thorns—the other wallowed in silk and velvet. One was the picture of renunciation—the other of erotic extravagance. I had thought that my heart, sealed as it was with Annada Didi’s burnished gold, would never admit baser metal. But alas! Unworthy and despicable brass had shattered the gold and tumbled joyfully in, filling all the nooks and corners.