Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  I hadn’t realized that the train had stopped. Shaken out of my reverie I looked up to see Thakurdada’s face at the window. Close behind him stood Ranga Didi with a girl of seventeen or so by her side. All three were laden with boxes and bundles and looked harassed from running up and down the platform.

  ‘The crowds in the other compartments—you wouldn’t believe—’ Thakurdada wiped the sweat pouring down his face. ‘Is yours reserved? Can we come in?’

  I opened the door. They tumbled in, scattering their belongings all over the floor.

  ‘Is this a first-class coach? I hope they don’t clamp a fine—’ Thakurdada looked around nervously as if expecting a guard to leap on him any moment.

  ‘Oh no. I’ll go down and speak to the collector.’

  On my return, I found my guests sprawled comfortably all over the padded seats—all signs of apprehension wiped off their faces.

  ‘How thin you’ve become, Srikanta,’ Ranga Didi commiserated as soon as the train started. ‘Were you ill again after leaving us? Why didn’t you write? We were so worried about you.’

  Fortunately, no one expects answers to questions like these so my silence was received without comment. Instead, Thakurdada rushed into explanations with characteristic gusto. He said that they were on their way back home from a pilgrimage to Gaya and that the girl with them was Ranga Didi’s sister’s granddaughter. Her father was willing to give a dowry of a thousand rupees for her but a suitable bridegroom could not to be found. They were taking her along with them in the hope of acquiring one in their own village.

  ‘Putu!’ he called after this introduction. ‘Open the pot of pedas. I hope you haven’t left the curd behind, ginni! Give Srikanta and me some on the sal leaves we’ve brought with us. It’s the best curd you’ve ever tasted, Srikanta. I promise you that. No, no, Putu, wash your hands before touching the pot. Remember you are serving someone special. It is time you learned these things.’

  Putu obeyed Thakurdada’s instructions very carefully and soon a sal leaf, with a mound of curd and a handful of pedas on it, was placed before me. Though this in itself was not unwelcome, the accompanying emotions were. Putu’s docility was faintly alarming. I hoped I was not under consideration as the ‘suitable bridegroom’ worth a thousand rupees. As the train moved further and further away from Gaya, Thakurdada and Ranga Didi outdid each other in their praises of Putu. They needn’t have exerted themselves so much, for I could see that she was pretty enough and pleasant enough. Neither of them mentioned Rajlakshmi. It seemed as though they had forgotten that part of my life altogether.

  Next morning, around ten o’clock, the train arrived at my ancestral village. Thakurdada expressed so much concern at parting from me, and Ranga Didi was so loath to let me go on without a bath and meal, that I was forced to alight. Once in the house, I was treated like a distinguished guest by everyone, including Putu, and within a few days the whole village knew that I was the lucky man who was to receive her and her father’s thousand rupees. Putu’s parents were sent for. Thakurdada was eager for the rites to be solemnized soon—that very Baisakh, * if possible. It was to be a grand wedding with all their relatives attending.

  ‘Wonder of wonders!’ Ranga Didi pronounced triumphantly over and over again. ‘Whoever would have thought that our own Srikanta?’ etc. etc. This kind of talk went on and I was powerless to stop it. I ignored it at first and tried to leave but the bonds of love were tied too tightly for me to break. Then I grew really alarmed. I felt the net closing around me but I could not escape. I even started wondering about my own commitment in the affair. Had I, in some unguarded moment, given my consent?

  One day, on Thakurdada’s enquiring if I had a horoscope, I took my courage in my hands and asked him point-blank, ‘Are you planning a marriage between Putu and me?’

  Thakurdada stared at me as if I had gone mad.

  ‘What a question, Srikanta!’ he said.

  ‘But I haven’t made up my mind.’

  ‘You haven’t? Then make it up fast. The girl is well past the age of marriage and—’

  ‘That’s not my fault.’

  Thakurdada found my answer illogical to a degree that was not to be borne, ‘Is it my fault, then?’ he shouted, losing his temper. At the sound of his voice, the girl’s parents, Ranga Didi and even some of the neighbours crowded near the door. Tears and recriminations followed. The men of the village decided that I was the biggest scoundrel they had ever seen and threatened to teach me a lesson. My wily Thakurdada shut up like a clam and so did everyone else. But above all considerations loomed the spectre of the girl who had passed marriageable age five years ago. Putu crept about the house in abject humiliation and her mother cursed her incessantly. ‘Ill fated, wretched girl!’ she lamented over and over again. ‘She was born to bring me disgrace and ruin. What accursed destiny made me bear her in my womb!’

  I thought the cursed destiny was Putu’s—not her mother’s. My heart went out to her and to all the miserable girls who had had the misfortune of being born among us.

  I gave Thakurdada my Calcutta address the day before I left. ‘I need someone’s permission before I marry,’ I said. ‘If I get it, I’ll come back.’

  Thakurdada’s face crumpled and he took my hands in his old trembling ones. ‘Do your best to get it, son. The girl is as good as dead—as you can see.’

  ‘I’m confident there’ll be no objection.’

  ‘When shall I come to you?’

  ‘In a week or so.’

  Ranga Didi and Putu’s parents came with me to the door. There were tears in everyone’s eyes. I felt a curious relief. I had as good as given my word. Now there was no looking back. Rajlakshmi would give her consent. I had not a doubt of that.

  Two

  I REACHED THE STATION JUST IN TIME TO SEE THE CALCUTTA TRAIN glide past. There were a couple of hours to go before the next one came. I was looking around for some diversion when a young man came up and peering into my face asked, smiling, ‘You’re Srikanta, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘Don’t you recognize me? I’m Gahar.’ He grasped me by the hand so tightly that I winced. Then, twining an arm around my neck, he said, ‘Where were you going? To Calcutta. Go another day. Come home with me.’

  Gahar was a friend of my pathshala days. He was four years older than I and had always been somewhat eccentric. For one thing, he would never take ‘no’ for an answer. I could see that, with age, this inability had grown. I realized that I was in his clutches, for the night at least, and the thought made me quake. Oblivious of the fact that I had not responded with half his fervour, he slung my bag across his shoulder and, calling a carriage, practically pushed me in. The village in which he lived was a couple of miles away from mine along the river-bank. We had played about in the woods, as children, shooting birds with an ancient musket that had belonged to his father. I used to go to their house often in those days. His mother was always glad to see me and would give me big bowls of muri mixed with milk, banana and molasses. They were wealthy and had plenty of land.

  ‘Where were you all these years, Srikanta?’ Gahar asked as soon as the carriage started moving.

  ‘Here and there.’ I gave a brief résumé of my past and asked, ‘What do you do, Gahar?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘How is your mother?’

  ‘Dead. I’ve lost both my parents. I’m alone in the world.’

  ‘You didn’t marry?’

  ‘She’s dead too.’

  I understood why he was so eager for company. For want of anything better to say, I asked, ‘Do you still have that musket, Gahar?’

  Gahar laughed delightedly. ‘What a memory you have, Srikanta! Yes, I have it. And a rifle I bought some years ago. If you wish to go shooting I’ll come with you. But I don’t kill birds anymore. I can’t bear to see them die.’

  ‘Strange! There was a time when you thought of nothing but shooting birds.’

  ‘True. But I’ve given it up.�
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  There was another side to Gahar’s personality. He was a poet. As a child he had a marvellous gift. He could reel out rhymed stanzas on any subject conceivable. I realize, now, that the rhymes were doggerel and the ideas trite but I can never forget the excitement with which I would hear him recount the exploits of Raja Tikendrajit in the battle of Manipur.

  ‘You remember you wanted to write a Ramayana that would put Krittibas to shame? Have you abandoned the project?’ I asked with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

  Gahar’s face grew solemn in an instant. ‘Such projects are not conceived to be abandoned, Srikanta. I’ve been working on it day and night—for years. It’s my whole existence. I’ll read out some extracts to you, tonight, if you don’t believe me.’

  His eyes shone with poetic fervour while mine grew dim with anxious fears. If he carried out his threat I may well be kept awake the whole night. ‘It was an idle question, Gahar,’ I said, quickly. ‘I knew you would do it. I’m proud of you.’

  ‘You’ll be prouder after you’ve read what I’ve written. I shouldn’t boast about it, but—’

  ‘I don’t feel well at all,’ I said, desperately. ‘I’ve been feverish since morning. I’m dying to go to bed.’

  But the vanquisher of Krittibas brushed my ailments aside. ‘You remember that part,’ he cried enthusiastically, ‘when Sita is being carried away in the flower-chariot? When she flings off her ornaments, one by one? I tell you, truly, Srikanta, whoever reads it has tears in his eyes. You will too.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You remember old Nayan Chand Chakravarty? He comes over every evening. “Baba Gahar,” he says “Just read that passage out to me once again. You are no Mussalman, my son. The purest of pure Brahmin blood must flow in your veins to make you write like that?”’

  The name Nayan Chand, being an uncommon one, rang a bell. ‘Nayan Chand Chakravarty?’ I exclaimed. ‘That wily old man who was your father’s bitterest enemy—’

  ‘The same. There was a long court case and Chakravarty moshai lost it. His property was auctioned and my father bought it up—lands, orchards and even the ancestral house. After Baba’s death I returned the house and the bit of pond from which they draw their water. They are very poor, Srikanta. I couldn’t bear the old man’s tears.’

  ‘I trust his tears have dried by now,’ I said, beginning to understand the old man’s fascination for Gahar’s verse.

  ‘He is a good man at heart,’ Gahar replied. ‘He did worry Baba a great deal, I know. But that was because he was up to his ears in debt. All men turn nasty when they are cornered. We have a mango grove of theirs, each sapling of which Chakravarty moshai planted with his own hands. The trees get laden with fruit every summer. He has so many grandchildren and I have no one—’

  ‘True. Why don’t you return it to him?’

  ‘I ought to. The poor are so deprived, Srikanta. When all the other villagers are gorging themselves on mangoes and jackfruit, the little ones look on with hungry eyes. All my other orchards are leased out to traders but not this one. I’ve told Chakravarty moshai that his grandchildren can pick as many mangoes as they like.’

  I told myself that Gahar was a poet. Naturally he was indifferent to material things. And if poverty-stricken Nayan Chakravarty was making a living out of this indifference, who was I to complain?

  It was the middle of Chaitra * and spring was in the air. Gahar opened the door of the carriage and a warm, sweet wind, laden with the scent of bakul flowers, gushed in.

  ‘The wind from the south,’ Gahar murmured. ‘Do you feel it, Srikanta?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Do you know how the poet welcomes spring? Aaj dakshin duar khola (the door to the south is open today). Have you heard the song, Srikanta?’

  Before I could reply, the wind churned up masses of dust and dried leaves from the path and lashed out at our clothes and hair. ‘Shut the door, Gahar,’ I said irritably. ‘Or you may have to change the words of your song. Yama may walk in through your dakshin duar if you’re not careful.’

  Gahar laughed and cried ecstatically, ‘Spring! Enchanting Spring! The shaddock trees are bursting with bloom. You can smell them a kos (two miles) away. The rose-apple tree in my yard is smothered with madhavi vines. The malati vine is yet to flower but every tendril is heavy with buds. And the mango trees are weighed down with moul (fruit blossoms). Bees hum from out of the flowers and nightingales and cuckoos sing all day long. Even the nights, warm and sweet with moonlight, are resonant with the cuckoo’s call. If you keep your window open you won’t sleep a wink for the scents and sounds of the night. I’ll tell you straight away, Srikanta. I’m not letting go of you in a hurry. As for your meals—Chakravarty moshai will arrange everything. I only have to tell him. He’ll look after you as if you were his gurudev.’

  I was carried away by Gahar’s warmth and memories of our shared boyhood. I was seeing him after so many years but he was the same Gahar, the simple unaffected boy of nature he had always been. His delight at our reunion was genuine and heartfelt. A wave of nostalgia swept over me!

  Gahar came from a line of fakirs. I have heard that his grandfather went from village to village singing Ramprasadi songs and begging for alms for a living. He had a pet blackbird whose singing prowess was famed in those days. Gahar’s father had abandoned the family vocation and started a jute business that had brought him plenty of money. He acquired a lot of property and, later in life, became a prosperous moneylender. It was obvious that Gahar had not inherited his father’s business capabilities. He was a throw-back of his fakir ancestors and their love of poetry and music flowed strongly in his blood. I had grave doubts about his ability to hold on to the wealth that his father had amassed for him.

  As the carriage clattered over the narrow track, I was overwhelmed with memories. I dimly recalled the house and the thick jungle one had to cross in order to reach it. Suddenly Gahar gave a shout, ‘Stop! Stop!’ and the horses were jerked to a halt startling me considerably. Gahar leaped out of the carriage crying, ‘Get out, Srikanta. Give me your bag.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘The horses can’t go any further. Don’t you see there’s no path?’

  It was true. In front of me, as far as the eye could see, stretched a sea of thornberry bushes and clumps of reeds so tall and thick that they blotted out whatever light was left in the sky. I followed Gahar into the dim wilderness, my clothes getting torn and skin being pricked by thorns and rough branches. By the time we reached the poet’s haven, the sun had set and the soft darkness of a spring night was upon us. Around the house were dense forests of bamboos and reeds out of which, if one were to believe Gahar, cuckoos and nightingales sang all day long, driving the poet to the brink of a divine frenzy. But now they were silent. The only sounds to be heard were the rushing of the wind and the crackle of fallen leaves as they swept into the house, covering the yard and the veranda and even the floors of the rooms. Soon a bright moon would rise, silvering the forest and lending it magic and mystery, but now there was no light except from the lantern that Gahar had lit to guide me to my room. An elderly servant turned a key in a rusty old lock and said, ‘You will sleep here, Babu.’

  I peered into the room. The wind from the south had come in before me through a window our host had left hospitably open, and had covered the wooden cot and floor with dry leaves and creepers. I was afraid to step in for who knew what lurked in the masses of leaves? Even in the dim light I noticed a couple of holes in the earthen floor. ‘Don’t you ever use this room, Gahar?’ I shivered involuntarily.

  ‘I don’t need to,’ he answered, carelessly. ‘One needs only one room to sleep in. I’ll get it all cleaned up tomorrow, Srikanta.’

  ‘But there might be snakes in these holes.’

  ‘There were two snakes,’ the servant informed me, ‘but they’ve gone. Snakes never stay indoors in spring. The south wind draws them out.’

  ‘Who told you that, mian?’

 
; Gahar gave a roar of laughter. ‘He’s no mian. * He’s Nabin. Don’t you remember? He used to look after the cows. Now he’s my friend, guide and counsellor. He does everything for me and knows what I have better than I do.’

  I remembered Nabin but that didn’t help me overcome my fears. I was convinced that he had caught the ‘south wind’ fever from his master and was not to be trusted. ‘What you say may be true, Nabin,’ I said. ‘The wind may draw them out of doors. But what is to prevent them from coming in?’

  Gahar realized that my fears were genuine. He said in a comforting tone, ‘Even if they come in they’ll crawl on the floor. You’ll be on the bed. Besides, snakes are everywhere. How can one escape them? Even Raja Parikshit couldn’t. Who are we? Sweep the floor, Nabin, and put bricks over the holes. What will you eat tonight, Srikanta?’

  ‘Whatever I get.’

  ‘We have muri, milk and molasses. If you could make do with that—just for tonight.’

  ‘Excellent! Excellent! That’s just what I’m used to eating in this house. But please get a large brick to cover the hole, Nabin. I don’t want the creeping pair to come romancing into my room after they’ve had their fill of moonlight.’

  Nabin peered under the bed and shook his head mournfully. ‘Impossible!’ he said.

  ‘What is impossible, Nabin?’

  ‘To cover the holes. There are far too many of them. We’ll need a cartload of bricks.’

  Gahar didn’t seem unduly agitated by the announcement. ‘Get it done tomorrow,’ he told Nabin. ‘Now fetch water for Babu to wash. And some muri and milk.’

  ‘What will you have, Gahar?’ I asked after a while, digging into my bowl.

  ‘An old aunt of mine lives with me. I’ll have whatever she has cooked. After we’ve both eaten, I’ll read out the passage I promised. Shall I ask Nabin to make the bed? I can spend the night here with you, if you like.’

  ‘No, Gahar. I’m very tired and need some rest. I’ll hear what you’ve written tomorrow morning.’