Srikanta
Page 41
A neatly made bed stood in one corner. There was a small table beside it with a few books and a thala of bakul flowers on it. Someone had just lit the lamp and filled the air with incense smoke. I was tired from my long walk and, having avoided the gods all my life, I decided to take a nap instead of proceeding to the shrine. I changed my dhoti and lay down on the bed. I wondered whose it was. Had Kamal Lata lent me her own room and bed for the night? In other circumstances, such a thought would have made me uncomfortable. But it didn’t now. I felt I had come to my own people and a strange peace descended on me. I closed my eyes and drifted away—for how long I cannot tell. I awoke to the sound of an insistent rapping on the door accompanied by the words, ‘Natun gosain? Aren’t you coming to the shrine? They have sent me for you.’
I sat up hastily. The sounds of kirtan-singing accompanied by the tinkling of cymbals wafted in through the window. This was no loud chorus of clamouring voices. It was a woman’s voice—sweet and clear. I knew, without a doubt, that the voice was Kamal Lata’s. It was with her singing that Kamal Lata had woven a spell around Gahar, according to Nabin. I didn’t wonder at it for the voice was melodious enough to deserve all the attention it could get. I entered the shrine and sat quietly in a corner. No one looked up for all eyes were fixed on the divine pair.
In the centre of the ring of devotees stood Kamal Lata. She swayed from side to side, clashed her cymbals and sang:
Madan Gopal jai jai Jashoda dulal ki
Jashoda Dulal jai jai Nanda Dulal ki
Nanda Dulal jai jai Giridhari lal ki
Giridhari lal jai jai Govinda Gopal ki….
(Glory be to thee, Madan Gopal
Son of Yashoda, son of Nanda
Glory be to thee Giridhari Lal
Glory be to thee Govinda Gopal.)
Tears poured down the Vaishnavi’s cheeks as she repeated the few lines over and over again with slight variations. Her voice dipped and swelled, threatening to break with the intensity of her feelings. I stared at her in wonder. This was not the Kamal Lata of an hour ago—the bright, laughing woman who had teased me and taken care of me. She had become an instrument, a medium through which a torrent of love and devotion was passing. Her audience listened, mesmerized. Dwarika Das Babaji leaned against one wall, eyes shut, as if in a trance. The women who had been engaged in petty domestic tasks only a while ago and whom I had thought ordinary, even ugly, had undergone a transformation. In the dim lamplight, rendered dimmer with incense smoke, their faces took on an incredible beauty. Even I, though not generally moved by the spiritual, felt uplifted, pure. I had the strangest feeling that those graven images lived and breathed and heard Kamal Lata’s song.
Afraid of being swamped by the religious fervour that flowed around me, I rose and left the shrine. I found Gahar sitting outside in the courtyard, motionless as a statue. He didn’t move or open his eyes at the sound of my footsteps. I waited for a few moments but he showed not a flicker of recognition. As I crossed the courtyard I was aware of a curious sensation. I felt alienated, abandoned—as if all the inmates of the akhra, Gahar included, had set off on a journey to some distant land leaving me behind. I yearned to go with them but the path was strange and beset with many fears. I went back to my room, blew out the lamp and lay down on the bed. I knew myself to be superior to them all. I was a man of intelligence and learning whereas they were crude, unlearned rustics. Yet I felt as though I had failed at something they had all passed with flying colours. The thought saddened me and large tears rolled from the corners of my eyes and fell on the pillow. I don’t know when I fell asleep or how long I slept. I was awakened by a voice calling, ‘Natun gosain! O, Natun gosain!’
‘Who is that?’ I woke up with a start.
‘I’m your friend of the evening—don’t you remember? What a sleeper you are!’
‘I saw no sense in keeping awake. I’ve enjoyed a good nap and I consider the time well spent.’
‘I can see that. I came to ask if you were ready for the prasad.’
‘I most certainly am.’
‘How do you expect to get it if you go on sleeping?’
‘I know I’ll get it. My friend of the evening will not abandon me—be the night as long and dark as it will.’
‘Only a Vaishnav can claim that privilege,’ the Vaishnavi smiled. ‘Why should you?’
‘I too can become a Vaishnav and the slave of your slave—if you give me hope. If you could make Gahar a Vaishnav why not me?’
The smile left Kamal Lata’s face. Her voice grew deep and solemn as she said, ‘Don’t mock our sect, gosain. It isn’t worthy of you. And don’t jump to conclusions about Gahar gosain. He is not a Vaishnav. His own people call him a kafir but he hasn’t abandoned the religion of his ancestors. He is a good Mussalman.’
‘It doesn’t seem so from the way he behaves.’
‘That is the wonder of it. But don’t delay anymore. Come for your prasad.’ She turned to go, then thought the better of it. ‘Shall I bring it to your room?’ she asked.
‘Do that. But where is Gahar? Why don’t you serve the two of us together?’
‘You don’t mind eating in his company?’
‘I’ve eaten with him all my life. Besides, Gahar is a poet. Poets have no religion or caste.’
I couldn’t see the Vaishnavi’s face for she had moved away from the light. But I heard her suppress a sigh. ‘Gahar gosain isn’t here. I don’t know when he left the akhra.’
‘I saw him sitting in the yard a while ago. Don’t you allow him to enter the shrine?’
‘No.’
‘You accused me of mocking your sect. But are you not making a mockery of your God, Kamal Lata? I saw Gahar’s face this evening and—’
The Vaishnavi walked away, stopping me in mid-sentence and re-entered the room a few minutes later with a thala full of prasad in her hand. A young Vaishnavi followed her, carrying a lamp and an asan. Kamal Lata arranged the bowls with neat, deft fingers and said. ‘This may not be your idea of a good meal, Natun gosain, but nothing passes through our lips except Govindaji’s prasad. While in the akhra you’ll have to be content with that.’
‘Rest assured, my friend of the evening. I won’t spoil this beautiful moment with complaints about the food. I’m not such an oaf. You’ll find I’ve licked the thala clean when you return.’
‘Good. That’s the way to eat Govindaji’s prasad,’ said Kamal Lata.
Early next morning, I was awakened by a loud clamouring of bells. The morning arati was in full swing. In the pauses between the rhythmic clash of metal on metal I heard snatches of kirtan sung in a morning raga, mellifluous and tender:
Kanu gale banamala biraje
Rai gale moti saje
Arunita charane manjari ranjita
Khanjana ganjana laje….
(A string of wild flowers adorns the neck of Kanu
Pearls sway on Radha’s breast
Blossoms blush crimson at the touch of her rosy foot
And her eyes—fluttering like the wings of a bird
Are lowered in shame.)
The rest of the day was devoted to a worship of Govindaji that did not flag for an instant. The inmates of the akhra were all equally occupied in an endless round of prayer and kirtan-singing interspersed with the rituals of bathing and feeding the Lord, wiping his body and covering it with sandal-paste, then dressing it up in bright silks and garlands of flowers. It occurred to me that such unwavering attention and persistent service was possible only because the recipient was a figure of stone. Flesh and blood could not endure it and would have rebelled. Last night I had asked the Vaishnavi, ‘What are your hours for prayer and meditation?’ and she had answered, ‘Work is our prayer and meditation.’ Today, I acknowledged the truth of her statement.
Nevertheless I snatched a brief moment in which to ask her, ‘You are not like the others, Kamal Lata. Tell me, honestly, do you really believe that the symbol of God that you worship, that stone image in the shrine—?’
‘I know nothing of the spiritual, Kamal Lata,’ I said humbly. ‘I only asked a question. Do you really think that an image of stone can be imbued with the power, the consciousness of God?’
‘I don’t think. I know. I’ve seen Him manifest himself with my own eyes. People like you, who believe power and consciousness to be vested only in the human body, are miserably deluded. That is because you cannot break out of the conditioning your education has imposed on you. Why shouldn’t God be found in a stone? Is He not everywhere? Why else do we call him Omnipotent and Omnipresent?’
As an argument, this was neither clear nor conclusive. And it was certainly open to question. But she drove home her point with the authority of a divine edict. Her words were an expression of a deep-rooted conviction. Before her unswerving faith, I felt lost and vaguely defeated. I couldn’t summon up the courage to argue, to prove her wrong, for I knew that, try as I would, I couldn’t fight it. I realized that her whole-hearted surrender to an object, whatever it might be, was the source of her strength. And the same was true of the others. They were not children playing a game. Had they believed that, even for a moment, the whole cult would have disintegrated. It stood by virtue of their faith, their genuine belief that they served Him who was above all others. And so their numbers grew and their joys multiplied a hundredfold.
‘Why don’t you speak?’ the Vaishnavi asked.
‘I’m thinking.’
‘Of whom?’
‘Of you.’
‘Really? I feel flattered.’ She paused a moment and added, ‘Yet you are leaving me and going off to Burma. Do you really need a job that badly?’
‘I do, for the simple reason that one must live somehow. If I had a throng of devoted disciples and the wealth of a math (a monastery) to enjoy, I wouldn’t go.’
‘God provides.’
‘I doubt it. You doubt it too or you wouldn’t go a-begging.’
‘We go because it is His hand that is held out to us from every door. If it weren’t for that we would never go “a-begging” as you call it. No, not even if we starved to death.’
‘Where do you come from, Kamal Lata?’
‘I told you yesterday. The path is my village and my home under the trees.’
‘Then why do you stay in the akhra?’
‘I wandered about for years. I would go away again, this moment, if I found company.’
‘That shouldn’t be difficult. Anyone would be happy to go with you.’
‘Would you?’
‘Certainly. As a boy I wasn’t afraid of wandering about with a jatra dal (an opera troupe). Why should the prospect of going off with a Vaishnavi frighten me, now that I’m an adult?’
‘You were with a jatra dal? Then you must know how to sing.’
‘No. The manager threw me out long before I reached that stage. Who knows what would have happened if you were in his place!’
The Vaishnavi laughed. ‘I would have thrown you out too.’ Then, sobering down, she said, ‘You’ve never been to Sri Vrindavan Dham, you said. Why don’t we go together? I’ll show you everything. We will beg as we walk. I can sing and you—you may take God’s name as you will. People give alms easily. The truth is that I feel cooped up here in the akhra. I long to set foot on the path again—the path to Vrindavan. Come with me, Natun gosain.’
I looked up at her, amazed. ‘Kamal Lata,’ I said, ‘You’ve known me for less than twenty-four hours. What makes you trust me so implicitly?’
‘Trust is not a one-way affair, gosain. You must trust me too or you’ll be in trouble in strange lands and climes. But I know we won’t let each other down. Shall we leave tomorrow? It is the fifth day of the new moon—a very auspicious day. And if you get tired and wish to return, you may take a train back. I won’t stop you.’
I scrutinized her face. I had not a doubt that she meant every word she said. For some reason or the other she wanted to leave the akhra and go off on a pilgrimage and she would do it with or without me. It was obvious that her links with the akhra were crumbling. Its air had grown oppressive to her and she was anxious to escape. At this moment, a Vaishnavi came in and announced that prasad had been served.
‘Let’s go to your room,’ Kamal Lata said.
‘My room! That’s a joke.’
I entered it, however, and found a sumptuous meal of prasad laid ready on the floor. I would have enjoyed discussing the details of our flight while I ate, but no sooner did I sit down to do so than a Vaishnavi came and took Kamal Lata away. I finished my meal and came out into the yard. But there was no sign of Kamal Lata or of Dwarika Das Babaji. A cluster of ancient Vaishnavis with dour faces went about their tasks. I recalled that these very faces had appeared angelic to my eyes last evening in the dim light of the shrine. But daylight dispelled the illusion with a ruthlessness I couldn’t bear. Sickened, I walked out of the akhra as rapidly as my legs could carry me till I came to the faint trickle, choked with sedge and hyacinth, that was the river. Around me, on all sides, were dark, thorny woods, thick with reeds and bamboo clumps. A shiver ran down my spine for I hadn’t been in these woods for many years.
As I turned to retrace my steps, a man moved from behind a tree and stood before me. I jumped, for I hadn’t expected anyone to come creeping out of the jungle. I judged the man to be about my age or some ten years older. His body was thin and worn away; his complexion was sallow, and there was something odd about his face for the lower part was disproportionately small and the upper adorned with a pair of eyebrows of astonishing length, breadth and thickness. It seemed as if Nature, in a whimsical mood, had planted a pair of fierce moustaches on his brow. He was dressed like a Vaishnav with thick ropes of basil knotted about his throat but his clothes were soiled and torn and his general appearance was wild and dishevelled.
‘Moshai!’ he said, blocking my path.
‘Command me.’
‘May I ask when you came here, without giving offence?’
‘You may. I came last evening.’
‘Did you spend the night at the akhra?’
‘I did.’
‘Oh!’
A brief silence followed. As I took a step forward he stopped me again. ‘It is obvious, from your appearance, that you are a gentleman—not a Vaishnav. How did they let you stay?’
‘You had better put the question to the inmates of the akhra.’
‘Was it Kamal Lata who asked you to spend the night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know her real name? It is Ushangini. She is from Sylhet though she pretends she’s a Calcutta woman. We both come from a village called Mahmudpur. Would you like to hear the truth about her morals and character?’
‘No,’ I said, shortly. But, overcome with curiosity, I added, ‘Are you related to Kamal Lata?’
‘Am I not?’
‘How?’
The man hesitated a little then, working himself up, roared in a menacing voice, ‘I’m her husband. That’s who I am. A kanthi badal * took place between us with her father as witness. He’s dead now but there are other witnesses.’
I didn’t believe him—why, I do not know. ‘What caste are you?’ I probed.
‘We are Tilis.’
‘And Kamal Lata’s family?’
‘They are Sunris.’ The eyebrows shrank with distaste. ‘We don’t even wash our feet in their water. Can you send her to me?’
‘No I can’t. You many go in and speak to her yourself, if you wish. Everyone is welcome in the akhra.’
‘I will do that,’ the man said angrily. ‘I’m not afraid. I’ve bribed the constable and he has promised me a couple of men. I’ll go in one of these days and drag her out by the hair. That rascal of a Babaji wouldn’t dare stop me.’
I walked away in disgust. His voice came from behind, harsh and grating, ‘What sort of a gentleman are you? Why can’t you send her to me? What harm will it do you?’ He spat out the word gentleman with a venom that made me walk rapidly away. I feared that if I turned back, I’d thrash the puny fellow till his bones rattled. At last I understood or thought I understood Kamal Lata’s need to escape.
On reaching the akhra I went straight to my room and shut the door. Then, carrying the lamp to the head of the bed, I picked up a volume of Vaishnav philosophy from the pile on the table and lay down on the bed. As I turned the pages (books of Vaishnav philosophy are not meant to be read) I went over the afternoon’s encounter. Needless to say, it had disturbed me considerably. And the disturbance was compounded further by the fact that Kamal Lata kept assiduously away. Dusk fell and the sweet sounds of cymbals and kirtan-singing wafted in through the window. The evening arati had begun, but no one came to call me and take me to the shrine. I wondered where Gahar was. I hadn’t seen him all day and the fact puzzled me. I had planned to spend a few days at the akhra but, as matters stood, I thought the better of it. I decided to leave for Calcutta the next morning.
Late that night, there was a tap on the door accompanied by a voice calling, ‘Natun gosain!’ I sat up on the bed.
Kamal Lata stood in the doorway, her form dim and shadowy in the dark. ‘You are sad, Natun gosain,’ she said softly. ‘Is it because I didn’t come to you?’
‘Yes.’
The Vaishnavi hesitated a little and asked, ‘What was that man saying to you—in the woods?’
‘Did you see him?’
‘Yes.’
‘He said he was your husband.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
The Vaishnavi sighed softly and asked, ‘Did he hint that I was a woman of loose morals.’
‘Yes.’
‘And my caste—’
‘He said you came from a family of Sunris.’
There was a long silence. Then a voice, seemingly disembodied, spoke from out of the dark. ‘Shall I tell you my story, Natun gosain? My childhood and youth—but no, you will despise me if I do.’