Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  ‘Everything I say and do is wrong. But your headache is a fact, isn’t it? Why don’t you go and lie down? Where is Ratan? Why can’t he rub your temples down with eau-de-Cologne? The servants in this house are the most idle bunch of no-goods I’ve ever seen.’ And with that Rajlakshmi went about her own business.

  After a while Ratan came in with eau-de-Cologne and cool water. He looked a bit shame-faced. ‘How was I to know you had a headache, Babu?’ he grumbled. ‘Ma becomes so unreasonable at times. When she’s in a bad mood we servants get the worst of it.’

  ‘Why is she in a bad mood?’

  ‘How am I to know? Big people can afford to have moods ….’

  Pyari’s voice cut in from the dark, ‘If working in big people’s houses is so painful, Ratan, why don’t you just leave? I told you an hour ago that Babu had a headache. What were you doing all this while? And now you dare to talk about me behind my back. Start looking for another job from tomorrow. I can’t keep you anymore.’ She departed as silently as she had come and reappeared almost immediately. ‘I hear you are going home tomorrow.’

  I meant to leave Patna but I had no plans of going home.

  ‘Yes, I’m leaving tomorrow morning,’ I said.

  ‘What time is your train?’

  ‘I’ll start early and board the first train I can get.’

  ‘I’d better send someone to the station for a time-table,’ Rajlakshmi announced to the world at large and went in.

  Ratan completed his ministrations and left.

  The household noises died away and the world was wrapped in slumber. Only I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned on my bed tortured with the question of what I had done to offend Pyari. Why was she so eager for my departure? I was aware of her predicament but, as we were both reasonably intelligent and self-disciplined, I failed to see what danger lay in my presence. I tried hard to stifle the pain that welled up in my heart at the thought that perhaps, after all, she did not love me as I had thought.

  Sometime in the night, I do not know how late it was, I was awakened by a light footfall. Rajlakshmi entered the room. She lifted the lamp that burned at the table by my bed and stood it behind the door. Then she closed the window through which a draught of cold air was blowing straight from the river. For a moment or two she stood still. Then, coming up to my bed, she put her hand in through the mosquito net and felt my forehead and chest. After that she buttoned my shirt and, pulling the cover up to my shoulders, tucked me in as tenderly as she would a child. Her stealthy footsteps and secret ministrations were embarrassing to me till I reminded myself that she had nursed me back to health out of a deep coma. She left as silently as she had come, shutting the door gently behind her. All my tension eased away and my whole being was flooded with peace.

  She had come in secretly and I let her go the same way. She never guessed how much of herself she had left behind in my heart on that night of my desolation. I awoke the next morning—my body burning with fever. My eyes smarted and my head felt as heavy as a stone. But go away I must, I thought. I couldn’t trust myself a minute longer in her house. I realized that the self-control with which I had proudly encased myself was as delicate and brittle as the thinnest glass and could be shattered to fragments at the flick of a finger. I did not mind my own defeat. I minded hers. I had to leave her for her own sake. She had washed herself clean from the impurities of her past life. She had struggled with her deepest love and found the strength to reject it in return for the love and respect of her children. If I snatched her away from this bright world that was her due, I would be making a poor return for the noblest, purest love the world had ever seen.

  ‘How do you feel this morning?’ Pyari entered the room with a pale and anxious face.

  ‘Not bad. I’m well enough for the journey.’

  ‘Must you go? I mean—must you go today?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I must.’

  ‘Will you write me a letter as soon as you get home? We’ll be worried about you.’

  I was awed by the unwavering light in her eyes. ‘Certainly,’ I said, making my mind up, there and then, to go home as she had wished. ‘I’ll write to you the moment I get home.’

  ‘I too will write. I have something to ask of you.’

  Before stepping into the palki I looked up at the house. I saw Pyari standing on an upstairs veranda—her hand on a column. Her face was as smooth and blank as polished marble. I suddenly remembered Annada Didi. Many years ago, centuries it seemed to me, she had stood with just such an expression on her face. The same look of resignation had been in the eyes that gazed at the blueing face and twisted lips of the dead Shahji. Those eyes had haunted me all these years but I had not read their meaning. Today, looking at another pair of dark unwavering eyes, a dim perception came into my own. A great love draws two hearts together with a magnetic force. But it also has the power to pull them apart with equal ruthlessness. If my love for Pyari had been formed of base metal I could never have resisted the temptation of being by her side—through eternity. I had voluntarily rejected this haven of love and peace for Pyari’s ultimate good.

  ‘Don’t grieve for me, Pyari,’ I murmured in my heart. ‘You gave me my life. I cannot squander it away on ignoble aspirations. That would be insulting your gift. Wherever I am, whatever I do, I shall hold that life as my dearest possession.’

  Exile

  One

  WITH MY PARTING FROM PYARI A CHANGE CAME OVER ME. IT WAS as if my life was split in two. One part of me went through the motions of living. But the other—was Pyari’s. It was because of her that the sky was a brighter blue, the earth more green and the breezes of heaven gentler and more balmy. The world was mine and I was of the world. I floated on a sea of divine content.

  Many years have passed since. I have lost the contentment I speak of but I have no regrets. It is enough for me that I once experienced a joy beyond compare. What fills me with an awesome wonder is the thought of the divine power that, working within me, enabled me to overcome the tensions and frets within and without, and kept my soul dancing on a wave of ecstasy. If I had only vested that great happiness in the hands that hold the world instead of Pyari’s frail, vulnerable ones, I would not have lost it the way I have done.

  I wrote my promised letter to Pyari immediately after my return from Patna. Her reply came several months later. She expressed her concern for my health and advised me to get married and settle down as soon as possible. Ending with the plea that, owing to her various commitments, she might not find the time to write, she requested me to drop a postcard, now and then, and apprise her of my well being.

  That was all. The castle I had built in the air crumbled to dust. If a few pieces fell to the ground I did not waste my time looking for them. I may have wept a little—I don’t remember. Anyhow, another six months went by.

  One morning, as I was about to leave the house, the postman brought me an envelope. It bore my name in a shaky female hand. As I drew out the contents, a small piece of yellowing paper fell out of a larger folded one. It was in my mother’s hand and bore her signature. It was in answer to a letter written by her Gangajal * thirteen years ago, just after the latter had had the misfortune of giving birth to a daughter. Distraught and unhappy, she had poured out her woes to my mother, hinting at her poverty and the difficulties of finding suitable husbands for daughters. My mother had written back, comforting her with the promise that if the worst came to the worst her own son would accept her Gangajal’s daughter as wife.

  I read the letter over and over again. It was no less than a legal document. Without giving it a thought, she had bound me to her promise as surely as if she had been an experienced lawyer. Not a loophole had she left for my escape! Why her Gangajal had preserved the document for thirteen years without staking her claim was obvious. She had hoped that someone better than me would turn up. When no such thing happened and her daughter’s physical enhancements started drawing the attention of her neighbours in a not too neighbourly
way, she was forced to draw out the weapon in her possession.

  If my mother had been living I would have swallowed her alive for putting me in this position. But she was so far above my reach that I couldn’t touch her toenail with the mightiest leap. I decided to try my luck with her Gangajal and with that pious intention, I boarded the train to her village the same night. When I reached her humble cottage, travel-stained and weary, it was mid-afternoon and Gangajal Ma was taking her afternoon nap. She started up on seeing me and, though she did not recognize me at first, she shed so many tears over me and lamented my motherless state so thoroughly that I was quite alarmed. Then, assuring me that no one stood more in the place of my dead mother than she herself, she asked me innumerable questions on what money and lands my father had left me; what jewels my mother had possessed; why I didn’t work for a living and if I did what salary I could expect. All this and much more she wormed out of me with consummate skill in a remarkably short period of time.

  It did her no good, however, for it was evident, at the end of it, that her hopes had been severely dashed. In a final effort she told me, with a mournful face, that a relative of hers had made a fortune in distant Burma—a land whose cities had streets paved with gold and where Bengalis were at such a premium that they were lifted bodily from ships carrying them the moment the latter touched the shore, and carried away by Englishmen to be showered with jobs, money, power and prestige. For the first time in my conversation with Gangajal Ma I sat up, alert and interested. It was not that her description of the wealth and status enjoyed by Bengalis in Burma—a foolish misconception and one shared by many others as I later found out—enthused me particularly. My roving instinct which had lain dormant for so many years was roused by the thought of that fabled land which one could reach only after crossing an infinite stretch of wild and violent sea. I longed to go.

  I had taken it for granted that Gangajal Ma had given up her idea of securing me for her daughter. I was wrong. That night, after serving my meal, she sat by me and treated me to a long monologue on happiness in marriage and how it rested on the girl’s fate alone. She cited many examples (corroborating them with names and dates) of marriages arranged after careful consideration of the wealth, education and lineage of the groom, coming to naught because the girl was not fated to enjoy them. On the other hand, many marriages which were considered unfortunate during the negotiations turned out very happy and in many cases men who were both uneducated and poor miraculously attained wealth and status solely by virtue of being the husbands of their wives.

  I told her, as firmly as I dared, that though I had no quarrel with wealth and status I had no intention of securing them through marriage and, in any case, there was no guarantee that her daughter was one of the lucky ones. But she brushed aside my fears and wishes. Having had me in her power for thirteen years she was loath to let me off so lightly. She spoke to me sentimentally of mother love and what a beautiful thing it was; of mothers’ promises and how it was the duty of all grown-up sons to redeem them or else the mother might suffer pangs of guilt even in paradise. My fears had reached alarming proportions and my tired brain ran in circles desperately seeking a loophole of escape when Gangajal Ma suddenly announced that there was an eligible bachelor in the next village who was prepared to marry her daughter with a dowry of five hundred rupees.

  I heaved a sigh of relief but it was only for a moment. Five hundred rupees! Where would I find such a sum? I tried to reason with myself. Why should I bind myself to an idle promise made by a woman long dead and gone? But, however hard I tried, I could not shake off the sense of responsibility. My mother had given her word and there was no escape. Satisfying Gangajal Ma for the present with the promise that I would return with the money in a month’s time, I departed.

  The only person I could think of approaching for the five hundred rupees was Pyari, but I hesitated. It was over a year now since I had seen her or even heard from her. Except for that one letter I had written after leaving Patna, and her brief reply, there had been no correspondence between us. Yet, surprisingly enough, I arrived in Patna one evening with the ostensible objective of begging Pyari to finance the marriage of a poor village girl. As I walked in through the gate the two uniformed guards who sat on either side stared at me as if they had never seen the likes of me in all their living years. I realized that unbathed, unshaven and shabbily dressed as I was, I was an anomaly in these surroundings. I wondered why Pyari had exchanged her old and courteous darwan for these arrogant strangers.

  Undecided about whether I should ignore them and walk in or to seek permission to enter, I stood hesitating, when Ratan came running out of the house and, touching his forehead to the ground at my feet, asked with a beaming face, ‘What are you doing outside, Babu? Why don’t you come in?’

  ‘I’ve just arrived, Ratan. How are you all?’

  ‘We are well. Go right upstairs, Babu. I’m going out to buy some ice. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  ‘Is your mistress upstairs?’

  ‘Yes,’ and with that Ratan departed.

  As I went up, snatches of conversation and sounds of gay laughter wafted down from a room at the top of the stairs. I was surprised, for that room had not been in use the last time I had been here. It had had furniture piled up at one end and only Ratan entered it, once in a while, to dust and sweep. As I walked in through the door my surprise turned to amazement. The marble floor was covered with the finest carpets over which spotless white sheets were spread. Velvet cushions and bolsters were scattered about and resting against them, half-lying, half-reclining, sat a group of men. My entrance must have startled them for they stared at me as though they were seeing a ghost. Although they wore dhotis like Bengali gentlemen, I guessed that they were Biharis from the embroidered muslin caps on their heads. A tabla player with his instrument occupied one corner and near him, a harmonium in front of her, sat Pyari Baiji herself, resplendent in silk and brocade, and flashing with jewels.

  The blood drained from her face as she looked up at me. After what seemed hours (though it was only a few seconds) she forced a smile to her wan lips and said brightly, ‘Aré! It is Srikanta Babu. What a surprise! How long have you been in Patna?’

  ‘I arrived today.’

  ‘When? Where are you staying?’

  I looked around me in a daze. I couldn’t find my voice for a minute but when I did, it was steady.

  ‘You don’t know everyone in Patna,’ I smiled. ‘Their name would mean nothing to you.’

  The gentleman who sat in the centre of the room, and was probably the chief person in it, now extended a cordial welcome. ‘Come, Babuji. Take a seat,’ he said, patting the cushion beside him with a smirk. Without saying a word he had conveyed to the company that he knew, to the last detail, what my relations were with Pyari. My face burned. With a word of thanks I bent down to untie my shoe laces debating furiously with myself as to what my conduct should be. In the few seconds that I had, I decided that I would not betray, by a word or glance, the hurt bewilderment that had taken hold of me. As I went in and sat in the place indicated, I knew that my face bore not a trace of the storm that was raging in my heart.

  Flashing a brilliant smile at Pyari I said, ‘Baiji Bibi, if I had had Sukhdev muni’s address I would have dragged him here and tested his powers of resistance. What have you done? You have drowned us all in the ocean of your beauty.’

  The Bihari gentleman, who was from Purnea and understood Bengali, smiled at this fulsome praise and wagged his head in appreciation. But a slow, rich red crept up from Pyari’s neck and suffused her face till even her ears were flaming. That this was prompted not by pleasure but by anger and humiliation was not hidden from me.

  I turned to the company and said, ‘My arrival seems to have disturbed you in your merry-making. Please forgive me. Let the singing continue.’

  The Bihari gentleman slapped me on the back in a gush of fellow feeling. ‘By all means,’ he cried, ‘Pyari Bibi! Let us have another
song.’

  Pyari pushed away the harmonium and stood up. ‘After dusk,’ she said shortly and went out of the room.

  After her departure the gentleman started conversing with me in a low voice. He was a zamindar from Purnea, he said, and a relative of the Maharaja of Darbhanga. He had known Pyari Baiji for seven years and admired her singing. She had performed in his ancestral home on several occasions and he himself came to Patna three or four times a year, staying up to ten days sometimes, to hear her sing. Only three months ago he had spent a week in her house. He then asked me bluntly why I had come. Before I could think of a suitable reply Pyari came into the room.

  ‘Why don’t you ask Baiji that?’ I said.

  Pyari threw me a sharp look but her voice, when she spoke, was gentle and subdued.

  ‘He is from my village,’ she murmured.

  ‘Babuji,’ I said in a hard bright voice glancing out of the corner of my eye at the pensive form that stood by my side. ‘Where there is honey—bees will congregate, be they from the same village or otherwise.’

  The Purnea zamindar didn’t seem to appreciate what I said. His face darkened and grew solemn and when his servant came and announced that all had been arranged for the evening’s puja he rose and left without a word. The tabla player and the other men in the room followed.

  Ratan came in and asked Pyari, ‘Ma, which room shall I prepare for Srikanta Babu?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Pyari said angrily. ‘Can’t you do any thinking for yourself? Is there a dearth of rooms in the house?’ And she swept out of my sight with an arrogant swish of silk and brocade.

  I realized that my unexpected arrival had thrown the domestic arrangements out of gear.

  Pyari returned in a short while and, giving me a long and level look, asked quietly, ‘Why this sudden visit?’ and, without waiting for a reply, ‘Do you intend to stay here for the night?’

  ‘If you invite me to do so—I will.’