Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  As a matter of fact, Ratan had done nothing of the kind. No one, not even I, had the courage to contradict Rajlakshmi these days. But there was no point in arguing about it.

  ‘What is the matter, Ratan?’ I asked.

  Ratan told me. How it had all happened he could not say (he was still in the process of collecting information) but Nabin Mandal was rotting in jail serving a five-year sentence and Malati had married her brother-in-law’s wealthy brother and had returned to Gangamati this morning. Had I not seen Malati only a little while ago I would not have believed him but, having done so, there was no reason to doubt his words. An acute depression weighed me down at the thought of the treachery and deception the human race was capable of and bitterness welled up in my heart.

  Rajlakshmi heard the story that night as she served me my meal. ‘What are you saying, Ratan?’ she asked in a wondering voice. The wench played a likely trick on us all. Two hundred rupees she got out of me and made me bathe at midnight! What is the matter with you? You have eaten nothing.’

  I remained silent as I generally did on occasions like this. Rajlakshmi had always kept a vigilant eye on what I ate and how much I ate. She would weep, scold, sulk, and coax by turns to make me eat a little more, just a little more. But that was long ago! Of late her senses had become dulled to everything other than her hours with Sunanda. Her remark that I had eaten nothing, after so many months of neglect, brought tears to my eyes. I rose hastily, before she could see them, and, entering my room, lay down on the bed.

  My days passed, one by one, in an endless round of drab and meaningless routine. I was well looked after, but beyond that my life held nothing. I rose the next morning, had a bath and a meal and sat by my window looking out at the expanse of bleak stony ground—the long, hot afternoon stretching out before me like a nightmare. I watched Rajlakshmi’s form moving rapidly away from the house and then, when it had disappeared from view, I took up the letters I had been writing the day before. I completed them with the intention of catching the three o’clock post but, as I re-read the letter I had written to Abhaya, something caught at my heart and stalled my hand. I had written—

  I haven’t had news of you for a long time. Not that I have tried to acquire any. I have only imagined, from time to time, your life with Rohini Babu. Your happiness or possible unhappiness has not been my concern. I leave that in the hands of God as I did the day we parted from one another. I have not known you for long but our relationship cannot be measured by time. It began at a point of intense suffering for you and Rohini Babu and ended at a similar point—for myself. Stranded in an alien land, sick to the point of death, friendless and helpless, I turned to you and you took me under your wing without a moment’s hesitation. Someone else had done the same for me on a similar occasion in my life. Today, sitting hundreds of miles away from you, I see the difference. The love, courage and sincerity that were yours were not different from hers in degree or quality. But in yours there was a selflessness, a general aloofness that saw nothing beyond my recovery and ultimate welfare. Too much love suffocates and swamps me! Perhaps that is why I long to see you again. Till I do, so much of what I think and feel will remain a mystery—even to me.

  By the time I completed the two letters it was past three o’clock and the post had gone. I was not disappointed. On the contrary I breathed a sigh of relief at the thought that I had another day in which to re-read my letter to Abhaya. As I was putting away my writing materials, Ratan came in with the message that Kushari moshai’s wife was waiting outside to speak to me and, within minutes, the lady was in the room.

  ‘Rajlakshmi is not at home,’ I said awkwardly. ‘She won’t be back before evening.’

  ‘I know that. I hear she seldom returns before dusk.’ And unrolling a mat, she seated herself calmly on the floor.

  I had heard that her newly acquired wealth had made her so haughty that she seldom condescended to visit anyone. She had come to this house only twice before—once to pay her respects to the zamindar’s lady and the second time in response to an invitation. Why she chose to come that afternoon and seat herself even though the mistress was absent, baffled me.

  ‘I hear that she and Sunanda are very close these days,’ she began, touching a sore spot in my heart with a careless finger.

  ‘That is true,’ I admitted. ‘She visits her quite often.’

  ‘Often? Every day—or so I hear. But does Sunanda return her visits? Oh no! Sunanda is too high and mighty for that.’ And she searched my face for tell-tale marks.

  Till that moment I had concerned myself solely with Rajlakshmi’s visits to Sunanda. Her words gave me a bit of a jolt, but what was there for me to say? However, the purpose of her visit was revealed by this outburst. She hoped to excite my indignation and enlist me on her side. I had the strongest impulse to tell her that she was making a grievous mistake if she thought I had any power or influence over Rajlakshmi. I was helpless and worthless and could do nothing for her.

  But these things can’t be said and to pay for my silence I was forced to hear a passionate account of her sufferings of the last ten years. The weary monologue went on and on. I must have missed quite a bit for my thoughts trailed away after a while. Then, on a new note creeping into her voice, I sat up and asked, ‘Why? What has happened?’

  ‘Thakurpo was seen at the haat (a village market) last evening. He was selling brinjals.’

  ‘Selling brinjals?’ I asked astonished. ‘Why would he do that? And where would he get them in the first place?’

  ‘They have a vegetable patch behind the house. It is all that wicked girl’s doing. How can we live on in the same village if they insist on humiliating us like this?’

  ‘Why should you feel humiliated? You don’t live together anymore. They needed money. They had something to sell and they sold it. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘If that is your verdict I have nothing more to say.’ She looked at me with dazed and saddened eyes. ‘I’ll take my leave.’ Her voice shook.

  I said gently, ‘Isn’t it better to ask your mistress to intervene? She might be able to help you.’

  She shook her head. ‘No one can help me now. Nor shall I ask for anyone’s help. I admit defeat. If Sunanda could make her husband sell vegetables—she can do anything.’ She paused a while and continued. ‘There was a time when she loved and respected us as if we were her own parents. But ever since she saw the weaver’s widow she has turned hard and cold as stone. I used to send her things for the house pretending they were from other people. My husband believed that she knew where they really came from. But I knew Sunanda. The moment she discovered the truth she sent everything back. She’ll watch her only son die of starvation but she won’t touch anything of ours. She is cruel and heartless. If only I could be like her!’

  She rose to leave but she suddenly turned around at the door. Her eyes were streaming and her hands were folded in humble supplication. ‘I hear Ma has a lot of influence over her. Can nothing be done? My heart is breaking, Babu. I can’t bear it anymore.’

  I had nothing to say. She waited for a while then, wiping her face with the end of her sari, she walked quietly away.

  Ten

  WITH RAJLAKSHMI’S HECTIC PREPARATIONS FOR THE LIFE hereafter, many of the shackles that she had lovingly fitted on me crumbled and fell away. It brought a measure of relief, for I was no longer constrained to consider my ‘poor health’ or the ‘convenience of the servants’ and sit down to a meal almost as soon as I left my bed. Now I was free to eat when I liked and as little as I liked—that is, as little as I could without offending the cook. The ordeal over, I would sit by my window looking out on the glaring plain of dust and sun and wonder about our relationship.

  That Rajlakshmi still loved me, I knew without a doubt. I was closer to her than any other human being in the world. But what of the world beyond? I had no document in my possession that would enable me to claim kinship with her in our next birth and, orthodox Hindu as she was, the fact
had not escaped her. She realized now, as never before, that this world was not an end in itself; that there was another—a more glorious one—to strive for and attain and that her love for me would not prove to be an asset in that endeavour.

  While she reasoned thus and acted upon her reasoning, my days passed in ever-widening circles of monotonous inactivity. The weary mornings trailed off into wearier afternoons and the sun set every evening on a soul throbbing with anguish. Ratan looked after my comforts as best as he could. Sometimes he brought a hookah, sometimes tea. I thought I saw pity in his eyes.

  ‘Let me shut the window, Babu. There’s a burning wind outside.’

  ‘No. Leave it, Ratan.’ I liked the feel of the wind on my face. It brought with it memories of many of my loved ones—now lost to me. I thought it possible that the same wind had passed over the form of my childhood friend, Indranath, before streaming in through my window. It bore the breath, perhaps, of Annada Didi if she still lived. As for Abhaya—Burma was just around the corner. I often had the illusion that in the smell of hot dust and withered leaves was mixed the faintest scent of Abhaya’s hair. The wind had carried it across the sea out of pity for my sufferings.

  Abhaya! I imagined her sitting by the window, even as I was, stitching a tiny vest or pillowcase, her eyes resting from time to time on the face of her sleeping infant. That wondrous being, innocent and pure as a new-blown flower, breathed out a fragrance of honey dew. Yet it had to be hidden from the public eye out of the fear that it might be mocked or reviled for being born of shame. What a travesty of morality this was! What a shattering comment on the human race!

  The hot wind dried my tears as fast as they came. Thoughts of Abhaya crowded into my mind, possessed me, and would not let me rest. I asked myself, over and over again, why Abhaya had not abandoned me even at a time when the plague was raging like a hundred-headed demon in the city of Rangoon, when brothers fled from a sick brother’s side and children left parents to their fate in a desperate endeavour to save their own lives? Why did she risk the tearing apart of the fragile web of happiness that she had wrought for herself with so much pain and so many tears?

  Suddenly, I had the answer. Suddenly, I saw the truth about Abhaya. I saw that she had a steel-like quality about her that feared nothing—not want, not sickness, not even death. But it wasn’t only fear that she had conquered. She had conquered desire. The needs of her body, the cries of her heart were as nothing to her. She could brush them away with as careless a hand as she could a cobweb from a mouldy wall. This revelation left me with the strangest feeling. I felt small, insignificant, low. I thought of how our lives had changed. She had changed hers, voluntarily, with strength and purpose while I was trapped in my own passivity and incapacity for action.

  Exhausted by the weary indolence of the long, hot afternoons, I generally went out walking in the evenings along the dusty tracks over which the bullock-cart had brought me to Gangamati. On one such walk, as I stood aside to allow a horseman enveloped in a cloud of dust to pass, a voice fell on my ears. ‘You are Srikanta Babu, aren’t you? Don’t you recognize me?’

  That is my name, but I’m afraid I don’t recognize you.’

  The man jumped off his horse and came forward. He wore a threadbare suit of English tweed and a sola topi. ‘I am Satish Bharadwaj. We were in school together.’

  ‘Frog!’ I exclaimed (that was the name we had had for him at school). ‘Where are you off to, all suited and booted?’

  ‘I’m a sub-overseer for Railway Constructions,’ he said with a hint of pride in his voice. ‘We are building a new railway line from Sainthia. I have to wear English clothes or the coolies won’t obey me. Why don’t you join me for a cup of tea? My camp is only a mile away’

  ‘Some other time,’ I demurred.

  Frog asked me where I stayed, what I did, how many children I had and many other questions. Needless to say my answers were brief and evasive. But Frog was a simple soul who took everything as it came. Instead of trying to bore holes in the wall of my reserve he proceeded to tell me all about himself. The life he lived was comfortable enough. The place was healthy and vegetables were cheap. Fish and milk were difficult to procure but he had tremendous powers of management. The evenings were lonely (there was practically no company) but were made endurable with the aid of a little liquor. The work was hard but the pay was good. He could put in a word for me with the bara saheb if I was interested in a similar job. Walking his sickly horse, he came with me part of the way and after extracting a promise that I would visit him soon, he rode away.

  I reached home rather late that night. As I sat down to my evening meal, Rajlakshmi came in. Dropping down on the floor by my side she said with a radiant smile, ‘Promise me you’ll give your consent.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Without hearing what I’ve come to say?’

  ‘If you feel like telling me, do so—sometime.’

  Rajlakshmi’s smile faded and her face grew tense. Suddenly, her eyes fell on my thala. She asked angrily, ‘Why are you eating rice? Do you want to fall ill again?’ Then, raising her voice, she called out to the cook, ‘Maharaj! I’ve told you a thousand times that Babu is to be served luchi in the evening. I’m going to cut a month’s salary for disobedience.’

  The loss of a month’s salary was a threat that Rajlakshmi often held over the heads of her servants. But it was never carried out and they knew it. This evening however, the maharaj chose to take offence. ‘Ma,’ he said irritably, ‘I’ve told you several times that there is no ghee in the house but you don’t seem to remember anything these days. How can I make luchi without ghee?’

  Rajlakshmi’s face paled. ‘Since when—?’ she began.

  ‘For the past six days.’

  ‘Six days! You’ve been giving Babu rice for six days? Ratan, you could have got the ghee, couldn’t you?’

  Ratan wasn’t very happy with his mistress’ behaviour of the past month or so. Her constant absence from the house and her neglect of me had not met with his approval.

  ‘How could I? Have I ever done anything except on your express command?’ he said—all servantly obedience. ‘I thought you didn’t send for the ghee on purpose—it being so expensive.’

  Rajlakshmi swallowed the barb, then rising, she slowly left the room.

  That night I was very restless. It was very hot and sleep wouldn’t come. As I tossed and turned on my bed, the door opened and Rajlakshmi came in.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ she asked softly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve wanted you all my life from early childhood,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve done everything I could to possess you. With even half that effort, God would have been mine. But you didn’t give yourself to me.’

  ‘Perhaps human beings are more elusive than God.’

  ‘Human beings!’ she echoed. ‘Love is a kind of bondage. I admit it. And you find it irksome.’

  I was silent. This particular argument was old and oft repeated. It had started with the genesis of the human race and was still going on. I was surprised, however, that Rajlakshmi did not press me for an answer to the question that was so important to both of us. She said instead, ‘Nyaya Ratna moshai was telling me of a religious rite that is very difficult to perform. It goes on for three days. Sunanda is very keen on taking it up and so am I. If you have no objection we can do it together.’

  ‘Are my objections of any value?’

  ‘Of course they are.’

  ‘Then I forbid you to take up anything of the kind.’

  ‘But why? You are teasing me—’

  ‘I’m not. I genuinely dislike these elaborate rituals.’

  A cloud came over Rajlakshmi’s face. She hesitated a bit, then said, ‘But all my arrangements are made. Half the things are bought. What shall I tell Nyaya Ratna moshai? And Sunanda will be so disappointed! I know you are teasing me. Please, please give your consent.’

  ‘You’ve never concerned yourself with my likes and dislikes, L
akshmi, and I’ve never claimed any right to guide your actions. Why is my consent so important all of a sudden?’

  ‘It is and you must give it without any reservations, or the entire ritual will be useless,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘You win,’ I turned over to my side. ‘I give my consent for whatever it is worth. You’ll be leaving early tomorrow morning. Go, get some sleep.’

  Rajlakshmi did not leave the room. She sat at the foot of my bed and trailed her fingers over my feet. All through my convalescence, after she picked me up from Ara station, she had put me to sleep thus. I had never asked for such devotion, not knowing what to do with it. I had fought her with all my strength but she had forced her way into my life with the passion and turbulence of a mountain stream, shattering all resistance. Now the stream was changing direction with the same ruthlessness with which it had come and my faint cries of distress were lost in the sound of rushing waters.

  Rajlakshmi left the room after a long time. She thought I was asleep but had she taken a closer look she would have seen the tears dropping slowly from my fevered, burning eyes. An overwhelming sense of loss was upon me at that moment. I stifled it as best as I could but the tears went on falling.

  Eleven

  I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING TO FIND RAJLAKSHMI GONE. THE COOK informed me that she had bathed at crack of dawn and had set out for Jadunath Kushari’s house taking Ratan with her. She had left word for me that she would be away for three days. I had no idea which religious rites were being performed in the crumbling house across the canal or how far they would carry Rajlakshmi on the road to heaven. I was not curious to know either.

  Ratan came home every evening and said with a hint of censure in his voice, ‘You haven’t visited Ma even once, Babu!’

  ‘Is it necessary to do so?’

  ‘Well, yes. Not really.’ Ratan would dither at a straight question like that. ‘But you know how people are. They may think you disapprove. It is awkward for Ma.’