Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  Several hours later, as I lay on the borrowed chair, half dead with exhaustion and hunger, one of the Mussalman tailors from Khidirpur came up to me and said, ‘Babu moshai, a woman from the lower deck has sent for you—a Bengali woman.’ It must be Tagar, I thought, and what should she want me for except to act as an intermediary in her caste war with Nanda? But why me? I was in no mood to humour her.

  ‘Tell her I’ll come after a while,’ I said.

  The messenger looked crestfallen. ‘She’s in deep distress,’ he said. ‘She begs very humbly that you come to her aid at once.’

  The terms ‘deep distress’ and ‘begs very humbly’ didn’t quite fit in with Tagar’s personality but there was no doubt in my mind that it was she who had sent for me.

  ‘What about the man with her? What is he doing?’ I asked.

  ‘It is his illness that has upset her so. That is why she seeks your help.’

  After last night anybody might well be ill! Thinking this, I got up and accompanied the man who led me—not to Tagar and Nanda—but to the extreme end of the hold where, partially hidden by some enormous coils of rope, sat a young woman in her early twenties. On a piece of dirty matting by her side lay an emaciated young man. His eyes were closed and his breath came in gasps. I was surprised that I had not noticed them before for the woman’s face had something in it that held the eye. It was not a beautiful face—at least, not of a conventional beauty. A high forehead is not generally regarded as an asset in the female physiognomy but this woman’s large forehead was rendered attractive by the intelligence and force of character that was stamped on it. There was something about her that reminded me of Annada Didi. She was dressed in a cheap red-bordered cotton sari. Not a speck of gold adorned her body. Her only ornaments were a pair of conch bangles and the bright red sindoor that filled the parting of her hair. The iron hoop of wifehood hung from her wrist.

  She rose at my approach and addressed me with a directness that surprised me as I was completely unknown to her. ‘You are acquainted with the doctor,’ she said, looking straight into my eyes. ‘Would you ask him to come and examine him?’ she said, pointing to the man on the mat.

  ‘I made his acquaintance only this morning,’ I answered, ‘but he seems a kind man and will surely come.’

  ‘If he expects a fee,’ she said coolly, ‘we cannot pay. In that case you must help me take the patient upstairs.’

  ‘The ship’s doctor’s services are free, I believe,’ I said. ‘But what is the gentleman suffering from?’

  I had thought that the man was her husband, so I got a bit of a shock when she leaned over him and asked, ‘When did the stomach trouble start? Before you left home?’ Then, on the man’s nodding his head, she turned to me and said, ‘He was suffering from dysentery even before we boarded the ship. Then he had fever. It is very high this morning.’

  I bent down and touched the sick man’s forehead. The fever was, indeed, very high. I left her and went upstairs to call the doctor.

  After examining the patient and leaving medicines and instructions, Doctor Babu turned to me. ‘Come, Srikanta Babu,’ he said. ‘Let’s go up to my cabin and have a chat.’

  ‘You have no objections to tea, I hope,’ he asked after we had settled down.

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘And biscuits?’

  ‘Even less.’

  As we sat sipping our tea, Doctor Babu asked me a strange question.

  ‘How did you manage to find your way into that set up?’

  ‘The lady sent for me.’

  Doctor Babu wagged his head with an air of wisdom. ‘That’s only natural,’ he said. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then it might not be a bad idea! Hmmm! The man is suffering from typhoid and his constitution isn’t strong enough to fight it. He won’t live long—that’s certain. You’d better keep an eye on the woman or someone else will steal her from under your nose.’

  ‘I don’t understand a word of what you are saying,’ I said sharply.

  But Doctor Babu was neither embarrassed nor offended. ‘What do you think, Srikanta Babu?’ he went on, following his own line of thought. ‘Do you think the man seduced her or was it the other way around? She’s quite forward, isn’t she? And very articulate.’

  ‘What makes you so sure they aren’t husband and wife?’

  ‘Experience. There are couples like them on every boat. Last time there was a pair from Belghoria. Once you reach Burma you’ll see what I mean.’

  His words were confirmed, over and over again, during my years in Burma. But that was much later. At that moment, an acute depression overtook me. Taking leave of the doctor I went down to the hold to see Nanda Mistri.

  Nanda and Tagar were just settling down to their mid-day meal. Nanda glanced briefly at me and asked, ‘Who is the woman, Babu?’

  ‘What is that to you?’ Tagar snarled. She had a headache and had tied a piece of cloth tightly around her head. The face below the bandage was red and hot.

  ‘Look, Babu,’ Nanda appealed to me, ‘have you ever seen a woman with a fouler mind? A Bengali girl with a sick husband is travelling with us and I can’t even ask who she is.’

  Tagar threw her bandage off and her headache along with it. Fixing her protuberant cow-eyes on mine she said coldly, ‘Babu! Men like this creature here have passed through my hands in dozens. I know them inside out. Tell him not to try any tricks with me. Is he a doctor that he goes rushing off to see the sick man the minute I go upstairs to fetch water? Who is she to him? I warn you, Mistri—if I ever catch you even looking at her I’ll break your ….’

  ‘Are you my keeper?’ Nanda sprang up excitedly at her words. ‘Am I your pet monkey that I’ll dance to your tune? I’ll visit the sick man whenever I like. Do what you can.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Tagar said darkly, winding her piece of cloth back on her head.

  I walked away from them, back to my chair on the deck. Twenty years was a long time, I thought. Enough to make Tagar appreciate the fact that where there were no legitimate claims, only vigilance and a show of ownership kept a relationship going. She dared not relax her hold on Nanda, even infinitesimally, for the moment she did that, he would roll away from her hands as callously as her youth and beauty had. But the woman she had recognized as a potential rival, about whom Doctor Babu had made those snide remarks—who was she? Where did she come from? What was her history? Tagar and Doctor Babu had boasted of their experience in such matters, and claimed that they couldn’t be fooled. But I, who had known Annada Didi, could not accept their assessment without question. Yet, try as I would, I could not attune myself to the complete absence of womanly modesty in her speech and manner. The doctor had called her ‘forward’. She was that indeed! The fact irked me, despite myself.

  I was sent for, once again, late that night. Informing me that her companion was much better, she proceeded to tell me about herself. Her name was Abhaya, and she came from a Kayastha family of the Uttar Rarhi clan from a village near Baluchar. The man with her was from the same village. His name was Rohini Sinha. Abhaya’s husband had migrated to Burma eight years ago leaving her in her native village. He had kept in touch for the first two years—sending her letters and small sums of money from time to time. For the last six years, however, there had been a complete absence of communication. Her mother, her sole surviving relative, had died last month. Alone, abandoned by her husband and totally without support, she had found it impossible to stay on in her ancestral home. She had then taken the decision to journey Rangoon, look for her husband and claim maintenance. She had asked her Rohini Dada to accompany her and he had agreed. Now, in her candid, forthright manner, Abhaya extracted a promise from me to help her in her search once we set foot on Burmese soil.

  I must confess that something—a faint distaste—held me back from responding whole-heartedly to Abhaya’s friendly overtures. Yet, try as I would, I could not put a finger on what it was that I found distasteful. There was
not a trace of coquetry in her manner nor any garrulity in her speech. Common sense, warmth and honesty, together with a deep respect for the man who had stood by her, emanated from her personality.

  ‘Srikanta Babu,’ Abhaya asked suddenly, ‘Do you blame me for what I have done? Would it have been better for me to spend the rest of my life in passive acceptance of my fate instead of making an effort to reclaim what is mine? A young woman without a male protector is so vulnerable in our society. There are so many ways in which she can be exploited.’

  ‘Do you have any idea of why your husband has ceased to communicate with you?’

  ‘None at all.’ Then, reflecting a little, she added, ‘All I know is that he lives in Rangoon and works for the Burmese Railway. I have written many letters but have received no reply. Yet they must have reached him for not one came back to me.’

  I knew the reason for her husband’s silence. Doctor Babu had told me many stories about Burma—how Bengali men often took Burmese wives and started new families. Many never returned at all. They even died there and were buried according to Burmese rites.

  Abhaya threw me a sharp glance and said, ‘You believe he is dead—don’t you?’

  I shook my head. ‘On the contrary, I’m convinced he is alive and well.’

  Abhaya stooped quickly and touched my feet before I could stop her. ‘I pray that you are right, Srikanta Babu. I want nothing more in life than my husband’s health and happiness.’ We were silent for a while and then Abhaya said, ‘I know what you are thinking.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Don’t I? Am I not a woman and a wife? Do you think your suspicions have not been mine? But I am not afraid. If it comes to that—I can live quite amicably with a co-wife.’

  I did not speak. But Abhaya read my thoughts as if from a book. ‘You are wondering if my acceptance of her will be enough. She may not accept me.’

  ‘If that is how it is—what will you do?’ I asked, struck by her perception.

  Abhaya looked frightened and her eyes grew moist. She said, ‘In that case you must help me, Srikanta Babu. My Rohini Dada is too simple—too good. He won’t know what to do.’

  I promised to help her if I could but added that it might not be a good idea to bring in a third person to sort out marital differences. ‘These things are best handled by the two persons concerned,’ I said, and she agreed with a sigh.

  The ship was due to reach Rangoon at noon the next day. But from sunrise onwards I detected a certain restlessness and dread among the passengers. A new word, kerentin, was on everybody’s lips. On making enquiries I discovered that the word was quarantine. I was told that the British government, anxious to prevent the spread of the plague, had cordoned off a section of the shore, about ten miles downstream from Rangoon, and put up a row of sheds in which passengers from India were required to spend ten days before they were allowed to proceed to the city. The rule, however, was relaxed in the case of passengers with influential relatives in Burma who could obtain a sanction from the Port Health Officer on their behalf.

  Doctor Babu called me into his cabin and gave me all the information. ‘You should have made arrangements to avoid the quarantine before coming out, Srikanta Babu,’ he said. ‘These ten days are hell for the passengers. They are treated worse than animals. For one thing—no coolies are allowed to enter the quarantine sheds. Then everything is ripped open and sterilized in boiling water. What with the heat, the dust—.’

  ‘Is there no way of getting out of it, Doctor Babu?’ I asked quite alarmed.

  He shook his head. ‘No! But I’ll have a word with the English doctor’s clerk. He may be willing to vouch for you—’

  Before Doctor Babu could complete his sentence a commotion, accompanied by loud curses and screams, sent us hurrying to the deck. What we saw there shocked me beyond belief. The second officer of the ship was engaged in viciously kicking and cursing some five or six sailors who ran screaming helter-skelter in a desperate attempt to escape the heavy boots. I had observed the English youth’s arrogance and domineering ways and I knew that Doctor Babu had had words with him on several occasions.

  ‘This is highly irregular,’ Doctor Babu said, his voice choking with fury. ‘You’ll regret it some day—I warn you.’

  The Englishman turned round nonchalantly. ‘Why? What have I done?’

  ‘You have no right to kick the sailors.’

  ‘How does one manage cattle without kicking them?’

  Doctor Babu was a bit of a nationalist. He said hotly, ‘They are human beings—not animals. My countrymen are gentle and meek. That is why they do not report you to the Captain. And you know they won’t—so you dare heap these indignities on them.’

  Suddenly the Englishman smiled—a wide smile of pure delight. Taking the doctor by the elbow he pointed a finger and said, ‘Look, Doctor, they are your countrymen, you ought to be proud of them!’

  Looking in the direction of the pointing finger I saw the men who had been kicked only a few moments before peeping from behind some barrels and grinning from ear to ear. The Englishman laughed again and, wagging his thumbs in front of the doctor’s face, walked away swelled with triumph.

  I glanced at Doctor Babu. Anger, revulsion, humiliation and despair struggled against each other on his face. He walked rapidly up to the men and said harshly, ‘What are you grinning at, you rascals?’

  At this a good measure of self-respect returned to our countrymen. They stopped laughing and, advancing aggressively, spoke as if in one voice, ‘Who are you to call us rascals? Are we your servants that we have to take your permission before we laugh?’

  I dragged Doctor Babu away, back to his own cabin. Holding his head between his hands he sank down on the bed. ‘God,’ he groaned, pulling savagely at his hair. Not another word could he utter.

  At eleven o’clock the small steamer that was to carry the passengers to the dreaded quarantine docked alongside the ship. Everyone got busy packing and getting his luggage together. I was in no hurry, for word had reached me that the doctor’s clerk had agreed to sponsor me. As I stood idly on the deck watching the sailors at work, a voice spoke behind me. It was Abhaya’s.

  ‘Why haven’t you packed?’

  ‘I don’t have to. I’m getting off at Rangoon.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ she said. ‘You must come with me.’

  ‘Impossible!’ I exclaimed, astounded at her tone. ‘I’m not going to the quarantine.’

  ‘Then I’m not either,’ she announced. ‘I’d rather jump into the sea and drown. I’ve heard about it. It’s a horrible place. I won’t go there without you.’

  I stood and stared at her.

  ‘I didn’t dream that you could be so cruel,’ she continued, dabbing at her eyes with the edge of her sari. ‘Come, get your things together. You know I have a sick man on my hands—you’ll just have to come with me.’

  I realized that Abhaya was involving me in her life to an extent that I had never sought. But I couldn’t refuse her.

  As the steamer glided away with me on board I saw Doctor Babu making frantic signs from the deck of the ship. ‘You don’t have to go,’ he shouted waving his arms. ‘Come back. You’ve been given permission.’

  ‘Many thanks,’ I yelled, ‘but another command has come my way.’

  The doctor’s eyes fell on Abhaya and Rohini Babu. He smirked and added, ‘Very good. But why did put me through the ordeal of getting you a sponsor?’

  ‘I’m truly sorry. I beg forgiveness.’

  ‘You are forgiven. Goodbye and good luck.’

  And Doctor Babu waved a friendly hand in farewell.

  Five

  QUARANTINE, UNDER THE BRITISH REGIME, IS A FORM OF imprisonment fit only for the lowest of the low. And anyone who cannot pay more than the minimum ten rupees for a passage to Burma is automatically relegated to that category. And since such people have few or no possessions (thus the British mind analyses) it is perfectly in order that they carry their own luggage thro
ugh the half-mile walk from the jetty to the encampment. Although I cannot disprove this logic, the reality of being offloaded on the burning sands of a strange river with an alien sun raining its fiery beams on my head and the steaming air clogging my lungs, was too much for me. My fellow passengers, with the adaptability and resilience I have already admired, expertly shifted the heavier among their belongings on to the heads and backs of their women and, picking up an odd pot or a blanket, walked briskly to the encampment. Within minutes the three of us were left alone, staring at each other while our luggage, strewn in untidy piles, littered the shore.

  Presently, Rohini Babu sank trembling on the sand and, leaning against a bundle, shut his eyes. Prolonged dysentery, fever and fatigue had reduced him to such a state that he could barely sit—let alone walk. Abhaya was a woman. Thus the only bridge between the encampment and the boxes and bundles that represented our worldly possessions was myself.

  Although I’m quite sure that the more idealistic among my readers will praise me to the skies for my selfless service to my fellowmen, I have to admit that anything but love and pity for Abhaya and Rohini Babu dominated my emotions of the moment. Self-disgust and self-pity were uppermost. I kept telling myself that no greater ass than myself was ever born on this planet. But what filled me with wonder was how Abhaya had unerringly picked me from a shipful of passengers to carry her loads when I looked just as human as anyone else.

  A low laugh from Abhaya made me turn round and look at her. Worry, despair and extreme fatigue were marked on her countenance but her laughter rang out pure and clear. I was surprised. I had expected her to cringe before me in gratitude and humility for what was she, after all, but an ignorant village girl?

  Instead she laughed again and said, ‘If you think you are being shamelessly exploited you are quite wrong, Srikanta Babu. No one could have prevented you from going your own way. That you chose to come with me was owing to your own generosity. Not everyone gets an opportunity of proving their generosity to the world. You should thank me for providing you with one. But come, let’s leave our things here for the present and carry Rohini Dada to the shed.’