I did not reply. Stretching out to my full length, I shut my burning eyes.
Eleven
AS SOON AS I REACHED HOME I WROTE MY PROMISED LETTER TO Pyari. Her reply came just as promptly. It contained no invitation to visit her in Patna but the last line of the letter was intriguing. ‘Remember me in your sorrow if not in your joy,’ she wrote. But, both in sorrow and in joy, her memory grew hazy and promised to fade away altogether as the days went by.
Then a strange thing happened. It was Holi night—I remember that well. Exhausted from the excitement of the festival, I lay on my bed—too lethargic even to wash the colour from my face and hair. The window by my pillow was wide open and a huge ashwatha tree that stood just outside it had a glorious full moon trapped in its branches. This I remember clearly. Then, I don’t know when, I rose and walking out of the door went straight to the railway station, bought a ticket to Patna and got on to the train. When I woke up the next morning the train was standing at Badh station. Patna was only a few miles away.
Suddenly, I have no idea why, I got off the train. I stood on the platform watching it glide away, gently at first, then gathering momentum on its path towards Pyari. Putting my hand in my pocket I fished out a two anna bit and ten pice in loose coins. This will do for the present, I thought and a curious happiness welled up within me. I walked to a sweet shop and had a lavish breakfast of chire (flattened rice), rich curd and molasses (which took care of half my cash) after which I set out to explore the village. I wandered about for sometime realizing, quite soon, that excellent as the food was, the air and water of the village were to be condemned, for the enormous meal I had eaten got digested so soon and so thoroughly that I felt as if not a grain had passed through my lips in years. I decided to leave the place. As I stood reflecting on which direction I should take, I saw a thin column of smoke rise from a mango grove just a little distance away. Smoke indicated fire and fire meant cooking. I decided to investigate.
The most wonderful of sights met my eyes as I pushed my way through the dense undergrowth. It was a makeshift ashram with every evidence of good living. What could be a holier combination? Tea, bubbling in a huge brass pot, ejected clouds of fragrant steam. A young sanyasi was milking a goat—an older one stirring bhang in a stone pot. Hookahs for smoking ganja were scattered about. Two camels, two mules and a plump milch cow with her calf were tethered to the trees. Amidst all these riches the Baba sat, coated with ashes from head to toe, eyes closed with devotion and ganja fumes. I was so entranced by the scene that I decided to become a part of it. ‘To hell with Pyari,’ I thought.
I clutched the Baba’s feet and said in a piteous voice, ‘I am your unfortunate, errant son, Babaji. Show me the true light. Give me the privilege of serving you and so lead me to a higher state of existence.’
Babaji smiled into his ashen beard. ‘Go home, son,’ he said in Hindustani. ‘The path of the ascetic is planted with thorns. It is not for you.’
‘Babaji,’ I implored, ‘the Mahabharata tells us that the demons, Jagai and Madhai found salvation through service to a rishi. Am I even lower than them that you do not deem me worthy of serving you? Keep me as the lowliest of all your servants and I will attain moksha. I know I will.’
Babaji was pleased. ‘You speak right, my son,’ he said with an indulgent smile. ‘As Ramji wishes!’
The elder of the two disciples now came forward with a huge glass of tea which he handed to the Baba. The Baba sipped from it and, having had his fill, distributed the dregs among the company. For, by virtue of touching the holy man’s lips, the tea had become prasad. Then, it being too early for bhang, Babaji ordered me to prepare a chillum of ganja. The speed and efficiency with which I accomplished this task won his approval. ‘You have many talents, my boy,’ he said. ‘You are fit to be my disciple.’ Thrilled at the turn my life had taken, I touched his feet.
Early next morning, I bathed in the river and put on the garb of my new calling. I was given a full suit of saffron, a dozen rows of rudraksha beads and a pair of heavy brass bangles. I took up a handful of ash from the censer and rubbed it on my face and hair for greater effect.
I couldn’t resist the temptation of seeing how I looked. I winked at Babaji and asked for a mirror. I could see that Babaji had a sense of humour. He smiled conspiratorially and opening a tin trunk, handed me a small mirror of the type that barbers use. I retreated with it to a safe distance and examined myself. I couldn’t stop laughing at the face that looked back at me. No one could recognize me now for the elegant young man who had consorted with princes and been entertained by singing and dancing girls, only a few days ago. After an hour or so, when my mirth was under control, I returned the mirror to my guru maharaj and sought a formal initiation into my new life. My humble request pleased him exceedingly but he forebore to grant it.
‘Wait a month or two, my son,’ he said.
Then he proceeded to treat his disciples to a discourse on the life of the ascetic. He told us that it was based on a stoic renunciation of the joys of the flesh and a total submergence of self in the Eternal and the Infinite that was represented in the world by the guru. He spoke bitterly of charlatans who had tarnished this noblest of callings and enjoined upon us to follow his instructions to the letter, for only by so doing could we avoid the pitfalls that lay on the road to salvation.
He then proceeded to give us some practical advice. He told us that the fruits and leaves of certain bushes and shrubs contain properties that, if inhaled or partaken of orally, act as a miraculous aid to the kind of renunciation and submergence he advocated. However, along with this treatment, care must be taken to feed the body on substances that help to sublimate the mind and keep one’s thoughts and actions pure and holy. The spiritually uplifting foods recommended by Babaji—roti, milk, butter, ghee, curds, chire, sugar, etc.—were all freely available in our ashram. I was an obedient disciple and followed my guru’s instructions closely. The result was a blossoming in health and looks which my body had not seen in years. In a few days the faintest swell of a paunch became visible beneath my ascetic’s robe.
There were only two things that irked me in my new calling. One was the mandatory begging for alms that was an integral part of the life of a sanyasi. I found it most distasteful but, it being one of the primary tasks allotted to me, I couldn’t escape it. In time, however, I came to accept it and it was made endurable by the fact that Bihari women, as a rule, were more open-handed than their Bengali sisters. Unlike the latter, the women I begged from never advised me to try next door or asked point-blank why a hulking young fellow couldn’t work for a living. On the contrary, the moment they saw a saffron robe they voluntarily offered a portion of what they had. The second—the mosquito menace—threatened to shake the foundations of my new found faith. During the day, life in the mango grove was idyllic. But the moment the sun set, such a buzzing and stinging was let loose that the temptation to abandon my great quest for moksha became irresistible. But the days passed and, as the thin Bengali skin I deplored grew thicker and less vulnerable, I was enabled to come to terms with this as well.
While things were in this state our guru was struck with a sudden inspiration. One morning, after a bath in the river, I came back to the mango grove in search of some spiritual refreshment, when I heard Babaji chanting some verses in praise of Bharadwaj muni—who was a great servant of Ram and the presiding deity of Prayag.
Bharadwaj muni basahi prayaga
jinhi Ram pada ati anuraga …
Babaji sang in a cracked nasal voice. The message was clear: pack up and begin the journey to Prayag. There was nothing to do but obey. Strapping our belongings on the backs of the camels and gathering our livestock together, we set off. After walking five miles or so we reached the outskirts of a village named Bithaura and entered a grove of wild lichees and rose-apples. The sun was setting and the green leaves were dappled with gold. It was such a charming scene that it won Babaji’s instant approval. Spotting a spreading banyan tree
he ordered us to unpack and set up our camp in its shade. Though I wondered how long it would take us to get to Prayag at the rate we were going, I was not disappointed for I was in no hurry.
Why I still remember this village and its name is another story and I propose to tell it here. One day, as I was doing my rounds, my eyes fell on a Bengali girl through the open door of a courtyard. I was intrigued for, in the five or six days we had spent in Bithaura, I had never seen a Bengali—male or female. I noticed that her sari was of the cheap local weave that Bihari village women wear. But the manner of wearing it was distinctly Bengali. Sanyasis enjoy privileges that other men don’t. I walked in through the open door and stood face to face with her. I can never forget the eyes that stared into mine. She was a child, no more than ten or eleven, but despair and agony streamed out of every feature, and every limb of her small face and form.
‘Alms for a sanyasi, beti?’ I said in Bengali. Her eyes held mine for a few seconds. Then her lips began to tremble and she burst into tears. I was alarmed for, though there was no one in sight, I could hear voices within, speaking in the local dialect. If someone came out and saw us together what would they think? I stood irresolute, wondering if I should attempt to console her or rush out of the house. Before I could do either she sobbed out a string of questions in fluent Bengali.
‘Where are you coming from? Do you live in Bardhaman district? Do you know a village there called Rajpur? When are you going back there? Do you know Gauri Tewari of Rajpur village?’
‘Is that where you come from?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ The girl wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘My father’s name is Gauri Tewari. My brother’s name is Ram Lal Tewari. Do you know them? I have been married these three months but I haven’t had any news from home. How are Ma, Baba, Khoka, Giribala? Do you see that house by the banyan tree? That is my sister’s husband’s house. Last Monday my sister hanged herself from a hook in the kitchen. Her in-laws say she died of cholera.’
‘Why did she hang herself?’
‘She was terribly homesick. She used to cry all the time. She wouldn’t do the work she was told to do. She wouldn’t eat. So they tied her by her hair to a beam and kept her hanging for a whole day and night. That’s why she killed herself.’
‘Are your in-laws Bihari too?’
‘Yes.’ Fresh tears welled up in the girl’s eyes. ‘I can’t understand what they say. I can’t eat their food. I cry all day and all night. But Baba doesn’t come to take me away.’
‘Why did your father marry you off to a Bihari?’
‘Because we are Biharis. Our caste name is Tewari. My father couldn’t find husbands for us in Bengal. He was forced to send us here.’
‘Do your in-laws beat you?’
‘Don’t they? Look!’ And she showed me bruises and welts on her arms, back and neck. ‘I’ll die too like Didi,’ she sobbed bitterly, ‘I’ll kill myself.’
I couldn’t stand there another moment. Turning my face away to hide the tears that were burning in my eyes I walked out of the house.
She came after me. ‘You’ll go to my father? You’ll tell him to come and take me away? If not I’ll—’
I nodded my head vigorously stopping her in mid-sentence. Then, with the little girl’s impassioned plea ringing in my ears, I rushed out of the house.
A small grocer’s shop stood at the end of the road. As I entered it, the grocer rose greeting me with the deference due to an ascetic. When I asked for a postcard and a pen and ink instead of food stuffs, he complied, though not without a surprised stare. I sat down and wrote a letter to Gauri Tewari. I described the exact circumstances in which I had found his daughter and repeated, word for word, what she had said. I did not hesitate even a little to inform him that his elder daughter had committed suicide. With the warning that the younger one would follow in her sister’s footsteps if he did not come to her aid immediately, I ended the letter, signed my true name and addressed it to village—Rajpur, in District Bardhaman. I don’t know if the letter reached him or, if it did, if he took any action. But the memory of the child-bride remains with me to this day. Everytime that innocent, stricken face comes before me, my heart is filled with a terrible hatred for our ancient heritage—our great Hindu culture which, under cover of its network of caste and creed, encourages and propagates the most sordid discrimination against the women of our land.
Hindu philosophers tell us that it is by virtue of our strict adherence to the levels and gradings spelled out by the caste-system that our culture has been able to survive for centuries where so many others have crumbled away to nothingness. I am well aware that, in the face of this great historical truth, the violent deaths of two tender young girls in an obscure village of Bihar may be dismissed as unimportant. But is the survival of any religion or culture the sole test of its greatness? Innumerable tribal faiths have survived for centuries in India, Africa, America and in the many archipelagos of the oceans of the world. Some of them are older than civilization itself and are governed by laws that make our flesh creep. What, then, is the worth of such survival, based as they are on the dominance of one class over another and of men over women? How did Gauri Tewari feel when he was forced between two alternatives—the loss of his daughters or the loss of his place in the Hindu order? What choice did the poor man have but to sacrifice his daughters faced by the pressures of his inherited faith? What is the worth of a structure that cannot accommodate the lives and well-being of two innocent children? Could a truly great religion be so inflexible and static?
Mercifully, our thoughts are neither seen nor heard. I left the shop—the picture of a calm, steadfast, Hindu ascetic. I found Babaji in a foul mood. He complained that the people of Bithaura were lacking in deference to sadhus and holy men. The alms they gave was insufficient and he had no desire of prolonging his stay. I welcomed his suggestion of moving, for a secret urge to visit Patna was making me restless. And I had had enough of the villages of Bihar. They didn’t stand comparison with those of Bengal. Everything about them—their women, trees, rivers—was drab and uninteresting. Oh, for the lush luxuriance of rural Bengal! Had I never left it I would never have learned to value it. Our ponds choke with rotting sedge—our abdomens with diseased spleens. Our air is thick with malaria! Factions and squabbles divide every family and every clan and each village is the sworn enemy of every other. But it is my land and I remembered it with nostalgia. The urge to cast off my ascetic leanings and flee from these dull, unfamiliar surroundings became so strong at times that I could barely resist it.
The next day we left Bithaura and continued on our journey. My secret wish was not gratified for Patna was ten miles off the direct route to Prayag. I came to terms with my disappointment with the thought that, in my present state of sainthood, I should not lust in my heart for such an unworthy object as Pyari. One evening we set up camp at a little village called Chhota Bagia—about fifteen miles away from Ara station. Here I became acquainted with a Bengali gentleman whose real name I do not propose to disclose. He was middle-aged and very warm and effusive. I never learned why he had left his native Bengal and settled down in this remote village of Bihar, and how he had acquired his property. It was obvious that he was in comfortable circumstances. He had a young, second wife and three or four children. I met him once again many years later, but he did not know who I was. This did not surprise me. Benevolent men like him prefer to let their good deeds lie in the dark. Since he is about to feature in my story for a little longer and since I respect his desire to remain incognito I shall give him a pseudonym. Let us call him Ram Babu.
The morning after our halt we heard that there was a severe outbreak of smallpox in Chhota Bagia and its surrounding villages. People are apt to be more generous to the mendicant in times of stress. In consequence, Babaji was inspired to break journey and take a well-earned rest. In return for a pinch of ashes from the censer and a sprinkle of water from our holy urn, we were overwhelmed with gifts. Food, livestock and money
poured into the ashram. I noticed something about the psychology of renunciation that my subsequent encounters with holy men have confirmed. The true sadhu cannot resist the goods of the world even if his life is at stake. Like the locals, Babaji believed in the principle: Javat jeevat sukhang jeevat (while you live, live happily). But, in his pursuit of sukhang jeevat, Babaji forgot that one must be alive to enjoy life. Treating the risk of catching smallpox as of little importance he encouraged us to make our rounds and collect as much as we could from the distraught villagers.
It was in these circumstances that I first met Ram Babu. One morning he burst into the ashram sobbing out a tale of woe. One of his sons was stricken with smallpox and the other lay delirious with a high fever. Seeing a fellow-Bengali in distress I went with him to see what I could do. I would like to skip over the events of the next three weeks. How the boys escaped the jaws of death and regained their health is a long story and it would tire me to tell it and the reader to hear it. I will just mention the event that changed the course of my life.
When Babaji was ready to move on, after ten days or so, Ram Babu’s wife threw herself at my feet. ‘Sanyasi Dada,’ she wept. ‘You are not a real sanyasi. You are loving and humane. If you desert me now my sons will die. I know they will.’
Ram Babu joined his pleas with those of his wife. I couldn’t refuse. I told Babaji that I could not leave just yet but that I would join him either on the road to Prayag or in it. Babaji received my proposal coldly and tried to make me change my mind. Then, giving up the attempt, he advised me to join him as soon as I could and departed.
The boys recovered but the pestilence raged on, increasing in fury everyday. Soon people started leaving the village. The evening before Ram Babu and his family were to leave his wife came into my room.
‘Sanyasi Dada,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come with us to Ara? We can catch our separate trains from there.’
Srikanta Page 11