Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  ‘I’ll do that,’ I said, ‘but you must give me a place in your bullock-cart.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked in genuine astonishment. ‘We have only two carts and there is just enough room for our luggage and ourselves.’

  ‘I can’t walk all the way, bon,’ I said. ‘I feel very unwell. I have a high fever.’

  My new sister’s face paled. ‘Fever? How terrible! You can’t mean it,’ she said and, without waiting for a reply, she walked out of the room.

  A strange lassitude had been weighing down my limbs for the past few days. I had ignored it, putting it down to the sleepless nights I had spent nursing the two boys. But last night I had vomited several times and from morning onwards my body burned with fever. After my hostess left, I sank into an exhausted sleep. When I awoke it was broad daylight. The house was deserted and locks hung from every door. From the outer room, where I lay, I could see the cattle track winding its way to Ara station. At least five or six carts passed this path everyday—their owners intent on flight.

  By late evening I was able to find myself a place in one of these. The old Bihari who befriended me dropped me off outside Ara station at crack of dawn. There was a tin shed under a tree which had once been used as a waiting room for passengers. It had become so dilapidated over the years that it was no longer fit for human use. Stray cattle and dogs sheltered in it against the rain. I was dragged into this shed by a couple of coolies and a young man that the Bihari had called in from the station. This young man laid me down on some tattered bedding that must have been his own, stifling my feeble protests with the assurance that he never used it. Then, bringing me a bowl of hot milk, he asked me if I wanted to inform anyone of my condition.

  I realized that I was very ill and, if such a high fever persisted, would lose consciousness in a few hours. But I couldn’t come to a decision as to whom I should inform. When he visited me again in the evening carrying a bowl of water and a lantern, I called him to my side and said, ‘If I pass into a coma abandon me to my fate. But before that write a postcard to Pyari Baiji of Patna. Tell her that Srikanta lies, mortally sick, in a tin shed outside Ara station.’

  The young man rose saying, ‘I’ll send off a telegram immediately and also write a letter.’

  To this day I regret the fact that I did not get to know him better. There was no time, for within a few hours of our conversation, I lost consciousness. Five or six months later, when I had regained my health, I made enquiries at Ara station and was told that he had died of smallpox a couple of months before then. All I could gather about him was that he had come from East Bengal and was a railway employee earning fifteen rupees a month.

  My last thought before I crossed the twilight zone between the conscious and the unconscious states was, ‘May God grant that Pyari receives the message.’ After that—merciful oblivion.

  The first thing I became aware of on regaining consciousness was the ice bag on my head. I was lying on a bed in the middle of a spacious room. A small table stood by my side with some medicine bottles on it. Someone in a red checked wrapper was lying on a string-cot that stood by the wall. I remembered, as if from a dream, faces passing before me; hands lifting me on to a palki; my head being shaved and medicine being poured down my throat. Then, someone spoke in a voice I recognized.

  ‘Banku, isn’t it time we changed the ice?’

  A young man of eighteen or nineteen rose from the string-cot. ‘I’ll change it,’ he said, ‘but why don’t you take a rest, Ma? The doctor said it isn’t smallpox. Why do you worry—?’

  ‘Goodness,’ Pyari’s voice cut him short. ‘Can women ever stop worrying? I’m quite all right, son. You change the ice and go back to bed.’

  Banku obeyed and presently faint snores came from the string-cot.

  I softly called out, ‘Pyari!’

  Pyari’s face appeared above mine instantly. ‘Do you recognize me? How do you feel now?’ Very tenderly she wiped the sweat off my brow with the edge of her sari.

  ‘Better,’ I said. ‘When did you come? Are we in Ara?’

  ‘Yes. We’re going back home tomorrow.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Home to Patna. Where else can I take you in this state?’

  ‘Who is the boy, Rajlakshmi?’

  ‘My stepson. But he is no less to me than a blood son. He lives with me and studies in Patna College. Now don’t talk anymore. Try and get some sleep!’

  She covered my mouth with her hand. I took it in mine and turning over on my side, fell asleep.

  Twelve

  I WAS SUFFERING FROM SOME FEVER BUT NOT FROM SMALLPOX. IT may have had a medical name but whatever it was—it was unknown to me. I gathered that Pyari had come post-haste to Ara the moment she received the telegram. Renting a house on the very day of her arrival, she had had me shifted and had brought all the doctors of Ara—good, bad and indifferent—to my bedside. It was well that she had done so, else the readers of Bharatvarsha * would not have been tested for their patience.

  Early next morning, Pyari woke Banku up. ‘Go to the station and reserve a second-class compartment to Patna. Don’t delay, son. The sooner we leave this place the better.’

  Banku rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘Are you in your senses, Ma? The gentleman is too ill to be moved.’

  ‘Get up and see him for yourself and then decide,’ Pyari said with a smile.

  Banku rose and, after examining my condition, he washed, changed his clothes and departed for the station. It was still quite early and we were alone in the room.

  ‘Pyari,’ I murmured.

  Pyari was resting on a string-cot at the foot of my bed. She sat up with a start. ‘What is it? Are you awake?’ She leaned over me and ran her fingers through my hair.

  ‘I have been awake for sometime.’

  ‘The fever has broken. Try to rest. You will soon be well.’

  ‘How long have I been ill?’

  ‘Thirteen days.’

  Then, assuming the voice and manner of an elderly matron, she said, ‘It is better not to use that name in front of the boy. Why don’t you call me Lakshmi? You have always done so.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember.’

  Then I said what I had been planning to say to her ever since I came out of the coma. ‘Have you not suffered enough for me? Why do you want to prolong it? Give up your plan of taking me with you.’

  ‘What do you wish me to do?’

  ‘I think I shall recover in three or four days. Stay with me till then. After that—go home.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Don’t worry. I’ll manage.’

  ‘That you will.’ Pyari smiled and sat on one side of the bed. ‘I know this fever will leave you—if not in three days, in ten or twelve. But who can cure you of your other malady—the real one?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You think something, say something else and do yet a third. This has been your problem ever since I can remember. You know very well that I won’t let you out of my sight before a month is out. Yet you advise me to go home and not suffer for you any more. If you were really so concerned about my sufferings—never mind—let me tell you what I saw when I first came to Ara. A sanyasi in a filthy saffron robe with lashings of rudraksha beads and hair caked with dirt, lying on a tattered sheet under a tin roof. I was so shocked I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.’ Her eyes filled and, lifting a hand she dashed the tears away. ‘What a day that was! Banku asked me who you were. I had nothing to say. Was ever a mother in such a predicament? Honestly, I rue the day I first saw you in the pathshala. I have suffered since then as no woman in the world has ever suffered. And now, when smallpox is raging in the town and I’m worried to distraction, you tell me to go away and leave you to your own fate.’

  We left for Patna that very night. A young doctor accompanied us with a case full of medicines against emergencies. Within a fortnight of our arrival I felt well enough to move about. One morning I decided t
o explore the house. As I went from room to room I noticed something that puzzled me. I was familiar with houses of this type. Their interiors were invariably dark and ornate and crammed with love tokens from a variety of donors. Carved furniture, pictures, glass-cases, mirrors and chandeliers fought for supremacy in every existing inch of space. I always had a curious feeling, on entering one of these houses, that the battle was a vicarious one—that the inanimate objects were involved in a struggle to ensure a place for their animate masters somewhere within its walls. In contrast, the rooms in this house were light and airy and the furniture, though expensive and beautiful, was limited to the essentials. I also felt that whatever there was, was selected by the mistress herself in accordance with her own needs and tastes. There was no sign, anywhere, of trespassers encroaching on her domain. I noticed another thing that seemed odd in the house of a famous singing girl. There were no musical instruments and no audience hall.

  As I walked along the upstairs gallery I came upon a room that I instantly recognized as Pyari’s bedroom even though it was completely different from what I had imagined. The floor was of milky marble, the walls pure and shining white. A narrow bed with a spotless cover was placed against one wall. A wooden rack with some clothes hanging from it stood at the other. A third item of furniture was an iron safe. That was all. The stark simplicity of the room was like a blow to my unprepared senses. A strange reluctance to put down a shod foot on that polished marble made me stoop at the threshold and take my shoes off. Then I walked in and, suddenly overcome with fatigue, sank on the bed. A slight shiver of a breeze blew in from the branches of a neem tree that reared its head just outside the window. As I watched the sunlight glinting through the leaves the sound of a sweet crooning filled my ears. I turned my head. Pyari had come into the room. Her sari was dripping wet from her early morning dip in the Ganga. Without glancing in the direction of the bed she walked straight to the rack and stretched out an arm.

  I said quickly, ‘Why don’t you take your sari to the ghat?’

  Pyari gave a startled laugh. ‘When did you come creeping into my room like a thief? No, no—don’t go. I’ll change in the other room.’ Then, garad sari in hand, she walked away, her footsteps light as air. Within five minutes she was back—a pleased smile on her face. She sat on the bed by my side and said, ‘There’s nothing of value in my room except myself. What did you come to steal? Not me, I hope.’

  ‘I’m not such an ingrate. To wish to steal you would be unforgivable. I am guilty of many sins but avarice is not one of them.’

  Pyari’s smile vanished and a pallor spread over the glowing face of a moment ago. I realized that my careless words had pained her. In an effort to cover up I said quickly, ‘Does anyone steal what belongs to them? Why should I want to steal you?’

  But she was unimpressed. ‘You needn’t try to please me,’ she said bluntly. ‘I am overwhelmed with gratitude that you deigned to send me a message when you thought you were dying.’

  ‘Lakshmi,’ I said in a genuine effort to bring back the radiance that I had robbed from that lovely face on this bright, sunny morning. ‘You must know my true feelings. Had you not come for me that day my corpse would be rotting by now in the dirt and filth of the tin shed. No one would have cared to even dump me in the local hospital. It was my great good fortune that, in my delirium, your words “Remember me in your sorrow if not in your joy”, came back to me. I owe my life to you.’

  ‘You admit that?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then I may claim what is mine whenever I like.’

  ‘You may. But my life is of such little value that you will find it useless.’

  The smile came back to Pyari’s face. ‘I’m glad that you’ve discovered your true worth after all these years,’ she said and grew solemn again.

  ‘You have recovered well enough,’ she added after a pause. ‘When do you propose to leave?’

  I was startled for I hadn’t expected such a question.

  ‘I have nothing special to get back to,’ I said. ‘I would like to stay on for a while.’

  ‘But my son might wonder about us if you stay too long.’

  ‘Is that so important? You are his benefactress. You need not fear him. I’m very comfortable here. I’m not leaving just yet.’

  Pyari’s face became sullen and a little resentful. ‘You don’t see the practical side,’ she said and, biting her lip, abruptly left the room.

  The next day, as I lay in an easy chair watching the sunset from the western veranda, Banku joined me. I took kindly to the boy. There was a simplicity and innocence about him that I liked.

  ‘What do you study, Banku?’ I asked.

  ‘I passed my Entrance last year.’

  ‘Are you in college now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many brothers and sisters are you?’

  ‘I am the only son. But I have four sisters.’

  ‘Are they married?’

  ‘Yes. Ma arranged and paid for their marriages.’

  ‘Is your own mother alive?’

  ‘Yes. She lives in our ancestral village.’

  ‘Has your stepmother ever been to the village?’

  ‘Oh yes! She only returned from there six months ago.’

  ‘Doesn’t her presence create a disturbance there?’

  ‘It does. The villagers ostracize us but I can’t throw my mother out because of that. And such a gem of a mother! Who has a mother like mine?’

  I wanted to ask him the reason for his excessive devotion but stopped myself just in time.

  He continued enthusiastically, ‘What harm has Ma ever done anyone? She sings for a living. What is wrong with that? Is it not much better than idling away one’s time in gossip and scandal-mongering? Ma pays for the education of ten boys from our village. She distributes clothes and blankets to the poor every winter. Are these not to be admired?’

  ‘Certainly they are,’ I agreed.

  ‘Only last year we fired bricks and rebuilt our house. Ma decided to enlarge the quarry and convert it into a pond because of the acute scarcity of water in our village. But the villagers are so wicked—they refused to draw water from it.’

  ‘Good God!’ I cried. ‘They preferred to go without water than to ….’

  ‘That’s just it,’ Banku interrupted with a laugh. ‘How long can such senseless malice last? People started coming to the pond on the sly—first the Shudras, then the Brahmins and Kayasthas. But the villagers did not allow Ma to perform the consecration ceremony. She was deeply hurt but did not utter a word of protest.’

  ‘This is cutting off the nose to spite the face,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly!’ Banku agreed enthusiastically. ‘Who wants to be part of such a community? I’m glad we are outcastes and can keep to ourselves. What do you say, Srikanta Babu?’

  I smiled and nodded. I saw that the boy really loved Pyari. He went on singing her praises, with mounting enthusiasm, till he realized that he was doing all the talking and my role was reduced to that of an audience. Slightly shame-faced, he changed the subject.

  ‘You’ll be with us for a little longer, I hope.’

  ‘No. I intend leaving tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked, genuinely astonished. ‘You look far from well yet. Do you feel fully recovered?’

  ‘Till this morning I did. Now I’m not so sure. I have a slight headache.’

  ‘Then why do you wish to leave? Is there anything that disturbs you here?’

  The boy scanned my face for tell-tale marks. I watched him in silence. I saw a clean honest face—simple and childlike. I wondered if I should tell him the truth. Before I could do so a slow crimson spread over Banku’s cheeks—downy with the first flush of manhood.

  ‘Don’t leave just yet,’ he pleaded. ‘Your presence makes Ma very happy.’ Then, blushing fiercely, he rose abruptly and left the room.

  I saw that the boy was simple but not unintelligent. I realized now what Pyari meant when she had
said that if I prolonged my stay Banku might wonder what our relationship was. My conversation with Banku did something else for me. I understood Pyari as I had never done before. I saw that, beneath her glamorous exterior, lay maternal yearnings that tore at her heart. She was beautiful, wealthy and sought after by the highest people in the land. She was completely free to live the life she chose. Yet, from the moment that she had stepped into the role of a mother to some ordinary village children, she had bound herself with invisible chains. Her own loves and lusts, her hopes and desires paled into insignificance before her respect for her new found maternity. She could cheerfully gamble away the former for one look of love and trust on her son’s face. I was filled with wonder at the thought. I imagined her exotic, passionate youth—the luxuriant days, the moon-kissed nights. Someone who had loved her deeply had given her the name of Pyari—the name with which she had assumed her new identity. Yet, she had not hesitated before abandoning both for the sake of her son.

  The sun dipped and sank. Looking at it I experienced the strangest sensation. My whole being was suffused with the rose-gold hues of that magnificent sunset. I felt my heart melt and merge with that great ball of fire. I loved Pyari. I knew that without a doubt. We were drawn irresistibly to one another, linked by memories that dated from our early childhood. But Banku’s mother stood between us like a colossal peak and we had to respect her presence.

  ‘I must break all bonds with Pyari,’ I thought. ‘When I leave tomorrow morning, it must be forever. On no account must I yield to the temptation of leaving the slightest thread hanging between us.’

  I sat, watching the twilight fade. Dusk came flowing in from the river wrapping me in a cool soft haze.

  ‘Why are you sitting out in the cold with a headache?’

  Pyari crossed the veranda, censer in hand, as she went from room to room fumigating them with incense smoke.

  ‘It isn’t cold at all, Lakshmi,’ I smiled up at her.

  ‘Well! There’s a chill wind blowing.’

  ‘You are wrong, there’s no wind at all—chill or warm.’