‘What happened then?’ I asked.
The Vaishnavi’s face was turned away from me. I could see that she was struggling for self-control. In a little while she said, ‘Do you see, gosain, why sin should be so dreaded in the world?’
‘Well, yes. In a sense—though I’m not sure I understand what you mean.’
‘From that day onwards I saw the effects of sin as I never had before. The powerful and vicious commit evil and the innocent and weak pay for it. Manmatha and I lived on and still do, but little Jatin, who feared the taking of life above all else in the world, had to die by his own hands. He paid for his didi’s sin with his life. Such is God’s justice!’
I had no wish to argue. Her reasoning was neither clear nor convincing but if it gave her the strength to overcome the pain and humiliation of the past—who was I to interfere?
‘What happened then?’
Kamal Lata looked up. Her eyes were wild and tormented. ‘Tell me, honestly. Do you still wish to hear the rest of my story?’
‘I do. Believe me, I do, Kamal Lata.’
The Vaishnavi wiped her eyes and said, ‘Four days later, I delivered a stillborn child. I took him in my arms and walked down to the river. I laid him on the waves and watched him float away. Then I bathed in the Ganga and came home.
“I must go back to Calcutta, beti,” my father said, his voice heavy with tears. “I can’t stay here any longer.”
“Yes. You must go back.”
“You’ll send me your news from time to time?”
“No. You mustn’t seek it either.”
“Your mother—what shall I tell her?”
“Tell her I’m dead. She will grieve for me but it is better so. If my chaste and noble mother hears the truth she’ll never survive it.” My father wiped his eyes. Next morning he left for Calcutta.’
The Vaishnavi paused. I waited for what was still to come.
‘I had some money with me,’ she continued. ‘I paid the rent, wound up everything and left Nabadweep. I joined a group of pilgrims and went with them to Sri Vrindavan Dham. And after that—it was one pilgrimage after another. I walked the roads from dawn till dusk. At night I sheltered under the trees.’
‘What about the thousands of Babajis that lurk in those places? Didn’t any of them cast loving glances at you? Tell me the truth, Kamal Lata.’
The Vaishnavi laughed and said, ‘Their glances were all pure and holy. You mustn’t make fun of them, Natun gosain.’
‘I’m not making fun. I respect them highly. I’m curious to know the truth. That’s all.’
‘Our Shastras command us to hide the truth from those who love us.’ There was a hint of laughter in her voice.
‘So be it. Obey your Shastras. Tell me about Dwarika Das Babaji. From where did you pick him up?’
Kamal Lata bit her tongue and shook her head. ‘You mustn’t say things like that, gosain. He is my gurudev.’
‘Gurudev! Was it he who initiated you?’
‘No. But I revere him nonetheless.’
‘And all these other Vaishnavis? What are they? Handmaidens of the Lord?’
Kamal Lata bit her tongue again and said, ‘They are his disciples—the same as I am. He has redeemed them as he has redeemed me.’
‘I’m sure he has. But how? By making them his concubines? Isn’t there some such custom amongst you? I’ve heard Vaishnavs refer to it as the Parakiya * philosophy.’
The Vaishnavi’s face reddened. ‘You only betray your ignorance when you say things like that. You have never lived among us and know nothing of our philosophy. All you can do is jeer from a distance. Don’t ever say such things about Bara gosain again. He is an ascetic in every sense of the word.’
Her words and manner shamed me. She noticed it, smiled and said, ‘Why don’t you stay with us for a while? I don’t ask it for Bara gosain’s sake but for my own. You love me. Wouldn’t you like to know how I live? What I think and feel? We may never see each other again. I want you to go away knowing that I haven’t forgotten Jatin.’
I was silent. I didn’t accept her statement that I knew nothing of Vaishnavs and their ways. I remembered the pure Vaishnav-born Tagar, but I didn’t have the heart to tell Kamal Lata about her. Her mention of Jatin saddened me.
‘Tell me, gosain,’ she continued. ‘Have you ever been in love?’
‘What do you think, Kamal Lata?’
‘I think—not. Yours is the nature of a true bairagi. You flit like a butterfly from flower to flower. Nothing and nobody can bind you.’
‘That’s a good comparison,’ I laughed. ‘Calculated to drive the woman I love to a fine fury—if there is such a woman.’
The Vaishnavi laughed too. ‘Never fear, Natun gosain. If there is such a woman she won’t believe a word I say. And she’ll never guess that your love is no more than a bubble of sweet nothings.’
‘Why worry about her then? Let her remain happy in her illusions.’
‘No,’ the Vaishnavi shook her head sagely. ‘A lie cannot pass for the truth—for any length of time. She may not know what makes her weep but weep she will. I’ve seen the effects of deceit, over and over again, in my own life. Self-deception is the worst. So many people dedicate their lives to the service of Govindaji but their dedication is a lie. So all their fasts and prayers and abstinences are like scatterings of sand on the sea. The waves engulf them in seconds—’ She paused to take a breath and went on, ‘Such people know nothing of true faith and true surrender. They waste their time in the futile service of a stone image. They torture and punish themselves. And, wearying of it all in a few days, they turn their thoughts elsewhere. It is these amongst us who deserve your taunts. But I wander from the point. What I’m trying to tell you is that the woman who loves you truly will have to weep for you all her days. You’ll forget her in a trice but she cannot forget you—ever.’
‘Are you trying to tell me that any woman who loves me is destined to be unhappy?’
‘I didn’t say anything about unhappiness. I only spoke of tears.’
‘Isn’t it the same thing?’
‘No, gosain. They are different. Women are not afraid of either. But you, of course, do not understand—’
‘I confess I don’t. Why speak to me of things I do not understand?’
‘I can’t help it. When you men declare you know all there is to know about love—I can’t resist a smile. You don’t know, nor do you care to know, that women love differently from men. In love men seek expansion, women—depth; men seek excitement, women—peace. Did you know, gosain, that we women are afraid of excessive love? That its passion and intoxication make our hearts quake?’
I was about to say something but the Vaishnavi swept on, ‘We accept them but never make them our own and we heave a sigh of relief when they are spent. What we truly yearn for in love is security. But you won’t give anyone that—’
‘You know it for certain?’
‘I do know it for certain. That is why I can’t abide your boasting.’
‘I’ve never boasted in my life, Kamal Lata. Not before you at any rate,’ I cried, stung by her words.
‘Not in words perhaps but that superior, withdrawn, roving mind of yours is a piece of arrogance—the likes of which I’ve never seen.’
‘We only met two days ago. You think you know all there is to know about me?’
‘I do. But that, you see, is because I love you.’
‘I know you too, Kamal Lata,’ I said to myself, a vague idea of the difference between tears and unhappiness dawning on me. I realized that what she was saying was the consequence of her years of wallowing in the sentiments of a religion of love.
‘Do you mean it, Kamal Lata?’ I said, aloud. ‘Do you truly love me?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you have dedicated yourself to Govindaji’s service. What will become of that?’
‘With you by my side my service to Him will grow in strength and meaning. Come, Natun gosain. Let us leave everything
behind us and walk out into the world.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m leaving the akhra tomorrow. But before I go I’d like to hear the truth about Gahar.’
The Vaishnavi sighed. ‘It’s no use. You won’t understand. Are you really going away?’
‘I am.’
She was silent for a minute or two, then fixing her eyes on mine, she said, ‘You’ll come back, again, one day but you won’t find Kamal Lata.’
Eight
I KNEW I SHOULDN’T STAY A MOMENT LONGER BUT, EVEN AS I TOOK the decision to leave, a voice whispered within me, ‘Don’t go. You wanted to stay a week. Why don’t you stay? There’s no lack of comfort here.’ That night, I lay on my bed thinking, ‘What are these beings that lurk within us and drive us mad with their secret promptings? Are they strangers or are they closer kin than reason, intelligence, thought and logic? Why are we swayed more by what they say than by what we recognize as the truth? This incessant conflict—will it never cease? Logic and reason tell me I must leave—for my own good. Why, then, do tears gush into my eyes at the thought? Why am I denied all peace and tranquillity.’
I hardened myself. Go I must. But how? There was a way I remembered from my childhood. I had used it often and could do so again. Tomorrow morning, at crack of dawn, even before Govindaji’s mangal arati began, I would rise from my bed and walk out of the akhra without a word of farewell or explanation or promise of return. I was here once, I was here no more. That was to be the final, the ultimate reality. I would leave that burden to be borne by those who discovered my absence. My plans were made. But there was one hitch. I had left my bag, with Putu’s dowry money in it, in Kamal Lata’s care. I decided to go without it. I had a few rupees in my pocket. It would suffice for the train journey to Calcutta. I would write to her from there or from Burma. Leaving my bag behind would ensure her continued presence in the akhra. She wouldn’t leave it before I reclaimed my money.
These thoughts ran frantically round in my tired brain till sleep overtook me. I don’t know how long I slept but it seemed only a few minutes before I woke to the sound of a woman’s voice singing a morning raga, caressing and sweet. I thought, at first, that I was dreaming. Then, still in the twilight zone between sleeping and waking, I thought that the night had just begun and the evening arati not yet concluded. But the familiar thudding of drums and clashing of cymbals were missing. The sound came closer, became words:
Rai jago, Rai jago
Suk sari bale
Kata nidra jao lo
Kalo maniker kole….
(The love birds call out to Rai
‘Awake, Radha, awake’
How much longer will you sleep,
In the lap of the dark jewel—Krishna?)
‘Wake up, gosainji. The night is over. How can you go on sleeping?’
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. The mosquito net had been lifted and the window was open. Through it, I caught a glimpse of the sky. It was dark but the east was streaked with dawn like a distant fire. A cloud of bats wheeled by. The rush of their wings came to my ears and my heart felt heavy. Faint stirrings came from the bakul tree beyond my window. Throngs of robins, nightingales and thrushes nested among its branches. Bengal was their country, I thought whimsically, and Calcutta their capital city. And the bakul tree must be their stock exchange. The business of the day had begun for them—the business of singing and dancing. They were all skilled professionals, no less untiring in their efforts than the famous ustads of Lucknow. The akhra was surrounded by woods in which they flew and sang. The inmates were drowned in music. If the one within ceased for a while the one without didn’t—ever. It went on relentless and overpowering. I remembered with what persistence a pair of hawk cuckoos had disturbed my afternoon siesta of the day before. I was not the only one they offended, for an egret, perched precariously on a hyacinth leaf, had scolded them heartily in a grating voice. I thanked heaven there were no peacocks in the woods. They would have compounded the confusion further.
I remembered my decision of the previous night. I had planned to escape before anyone was up. But Kamal Lata had been a step ahead. Like a careful gaoler she had taken up her position by my side even before the night was over.
‘I’m not Rai,’ I said angrily. ‘And I have no Shyam hidden in my bed. Why do you wake me up in the middle of the night?’
‘The night is over, gosain. It is dawn and you have a train to catch. Don’t you remember? Go have a quick wash while I make the tea. But don’t bathe. You’re not used to bathing at this hour. You may catch a chill.’
‘I could have caught a later train. Why are you trying to pack me off at crack of dawn?’
‘I would like to walk with you as far as the highway. We must leave before anyone awakes.’
Her face was not clearly visible in the dim light. But I could see that the long hair streaming down her back was damp and dinging. She had had her bath and was ready to leave.
‘Will you return to the akhra after we part?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ She put down my bag on the bed with the words, ‘Keep it carefully. Count the money first.’
I was struck dumb for a minute. Then I said, ‘You are no Vaishnavi, Kamal Lata. You were born Usha and Usha you have remained.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Why did you ask me to count the money? Do you really believe me capable of it? There is a name for people who say one thing and mean another. It is hypocrite. And that’s what you are—a hypocrite. Before I leave the akhra I’ll tell Bara gosain to strike your name from the akhra register. You are in the wrong place.’
The Vaishnavi didn’t say a word and I didn’t press her. I said instead, ‘I have no desire to leave the akhra. Not today, at any rate.’
‘Then sleep a while longer. Send word to me when you wake up.’
‘What will you do now?’
‘I’ll go out and pick flowers.’
‘So early? You won’t be afraid to enter the forest at this hour?’
‘Why should I be afraid? I always pick the flowers for the morning puja.’
I had noticed, in my two days in the akhra, that Kamal Lata always took upon herself the duties that were most difficult and demanding. It was she who arranged everything and looked after everyone’s comfort. The Vaishnavis worked under her direction and the akhra ran on oiled wheels. No feuds or tensions marred the routine. It saddened me to think that she was being compelled to leave the place she loved because her past had caught up with her. As for the akhra, her absence would plunge its inmates into confusion and despair. Like a satellite that had lost sight of its sun, it would spin crazily in a million different orbits till it was shattered into fragments.
‘Come, Kamal Lata,’ I said. ‘Let us pick flowers together.’
‘You haven’t bathed or changed. Your flowers will not be acceptable to God.’
‘I needn’t touch them. I’ll pull the branches down for you. That will be a help, will it not?’
‘The trees are not too high. I can reach them by myself.’
‘We can chat as we go along. It will keep you entertained.’
‘You show a lot of concern for me—all of a sudden. Come along then. Wash your face and hands and change your clothes. I’ll fetch the basket in the meantime.’
The flower garden was situated a little distance away from the akhra. We walked through a mango grove, dark and shadowy, the Vaishnavi leading—I following in her footsteps. Piles of dry leaves crackled beneath my feet. As far as I could see, there was no trail.
‘I hope you won’t lose your way, Kamal Lata.’
‘I can’t afford to, now that you’re with me.’
‘Will you say “yes” to a request of mine.’
‘What is it?’
‘Don’t leave the akhra.’
‘How does my leaving or staying back affect you?’
I had no answer. The Vaishnavi went on, ‘There’s a verse by Murari Thakur. Have you heard it?
Sakhi hé, phiriya apa
n ghare jao
Jiyanti maria je apna khaiyachhe
Tara tumi ki ar bujhao….
(Go back home, dear friend
What do you hope to teach one
Who has lost herself in a
life-in-death.)
‘You leave this evening, don’t you, gosain?’
‘I haven’t made up my mind. Let’s see what the morning brings.’
The Vaishnavi made no further comment. After a while she started humming under her breath:
Kahe Chandidas shuno Binodini
Sukho dukho duti bhai
Sukher lagiya je kare piriti
Dukho jai tari thain….
(‘Listen Binodini—’ says Chandidas,
‘Happiness and sorrow are twin brothers
If your love is a quest for happiness
Sorrow will follow you for ever.’)
‘And then?’ I prompted.
‘Then—nothing.’
‘Sing something else.’
The Vaishnavi sang softly:
Chandidas bani, shuno Binodini
Piriti na kahe katha
Piriti lagiya paran chharile
Piriti milaye tatha….
(‘Listen Binodini—’ says Chandidas,
‘Love is dumb and bereft of words
If you lose your soul in your quest for love
Love will find her way to you.’)
‘And then?’
‘Then—nothing. This is the end.’
It was the end. Silence fell between us. A madness came upon me all of a sudden. I wanted to rush up to her and seize her hand and walk the path holding it in mine. I knew she wouldn’t reject me, she wouldn’t pull her hand away. Yet, I could neither move nor speak. I followed her, dragging my feet, till we came to the edge of the wood. In front of us, under a patch of open sky, was a garden full of flowers. It was neatly fenced on all sides and had a bamboo gate.
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