Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  I entered the hut and threw a quick glance around. I couldn’t see much in the dark but I noticed that the pictures on the walls were still intact. Jashoda had a craze for collecting pictures and pasting them on her walls. Mouldy and blurred with age and the lashings of many monsoons, her gods and goddesses and kings and queens still clung to the mud walls with desperate life. And the gaily daubed claypot in which she kept her vermilion stood, as it had always done, in a little niche on the wall. A few other things lay scattered about. I had the strangest feeling that they recognized me and tried to reach out to me. But they spoke a language I did not know.

  The dog followed me a little way. Then, overcome by fatigue, he stood gazing on my departing back with soulful eyes. We were of a kind, I thought sadly. I was on my way to an alien country and an unknown future, and he had no option but to return to an environment which, though familiar from infancy, was now strange and friendless.

  The trail turned and I lost sight of him. My heart twisted with pain and tears gushed to my eyes. ‘Why do these things happen?’ I asked myself over and over again. The agony of a dying dog may not have moved me, to any great extent, at any other time. But, today, my heart was heavy with clouds of misery and despair and a little waft of breeze was sufficient to set a fierce storm raging in my breast.

  I was lucky, for on reaching the station, I found the train to Calcutta standing on the platform. I bought my ticket and boarded it. The guard blew the whistle and the train moved away without a backward glance. It had no nostalgic memories. It didn’t bid any tearful farewells. ‘Ten days are so few in a man’s life and yet so many,’ I thought for the hundredth time that day. ‘Kamal Lata will pick her morning flowers without me. She will perform her innumerable duties, but her Natun gosain will not be by her side.’ I wondered how long it would take her to forget her friend of ten days. She had said that she was happy, that she had dedicated herself to one who would never reject her. ‘So be it,’ I said to myself. ‘May she find peace and fulfilment in the service of her Lord.’

  I have never had a goal before me for as long as I can remember. Nor have I desired anything with passion or conviction. Consequently, I have lived my life in another’s shadow. Conditioned by her needs and desires I have gradually lost the little capacity I was born with for independent thought and action. My acquaintances believe me to be weak and worthless but the truth is that a part of me does not belong to the ordinary world. I have resented that aspect of my being all my life; I have tried to disown it. Then, in a bairagi’s akhra, tucked away in the remote wilds of a Bengal village, it met me—not glaringly, not face to face, but in the form of a shadow, elusive and insubstantial. I have been compelled to acknowledge its presence ever since. I have seen its beckoning fingers and been haunted by its timid smile.

  And the Vaishnavi, Kamal Lata! Her life was a re-enactment of an ancient myth cast into verse and song by poets of old. One could fault the metre or look askance at the imagery but the tune went straight to the heart. She was like the sky at twilight, changing colour every moment. She defied description. ‘Come, Natun gosain,’ she had said. ‘Let’s roam the world together, singing for a living as we go along.’ She wouldn’t utter my name for she believed me to be the companion she had lost, over and over again, through many incarnations. She had no fears of me, no doubts. I was awed by the strength of the mantra her guru, Bara gosain, had given her.

  Suddenly, I remembered Rajlakshmi and the letter she had written. Its tone was harsh but it did not offend, for mixed with her selfish preoccupations was a strain of true and tender concern. I smiled to myself. I realized now, as never before, that my life was drawing to a dose and that my need of her was over. The place she occupied was a blank. I wondered if there was anyone in the world who could fill it.

  As I stared out of the window at the darkening expanse, I was overwhelmed by memories … that first meeting in Kumar Saheb’s tent … those bright, dark eyes fixed on my face in fascinated wonder. I had not recognized her—believing her to be dead. Then, her impassioned appeal when I declared my resolve to go to the burning-ghat at dead of night, and her anger, desperation and hurt bewilderment at my rejection. She had stood at the door of the tent blocking my path. ‘Do what you will, I shan’t let you go,’ she had said. ‘Who will look after you if anything happens? Your friends or I?’ It was then that I had recognized her.

  Her strength had been her most significant attribute and it had remained with her through all the upheavals of her life. I had lain unconscious in Ara station and when I opened my eyes I had seen her sitting by my bed. It was from that moment onwards that I had entrusted myself to her keeping. I had surrendered body and soul. Then, again, when I lay sick with fever in our ancestral village—she had not hesitated to come to me. She had no place there. She was dead to its inhabitants. But she had braved everyone’s scorn for my sake. In her letter she had written, ‘Who will nurse you in your illness? Putu?’ I had not replied. I had not had the courage.

  My mind wandered over her many attributes—her beauty, her intelligence, her rigorous self-control and her ability to command. How little was the tender, humble flower, Kamal Lata, hidden away in a remote ashram, in comparison! Yet, it was in Kamal Lata’s gentle obscurity that my soul had found true affinity. I had had a taste of freedom. I had found space to breathe. I had value in her eyes. She would never take me in hand, as Rajlakshmi had done, and overwhelm me with her presence. What would I do in Burma? Why was I going? I had been there once. Had I come back enriched in any way? It wasn’t Kamal Lata alone who had welcomed my presence in the ashram. Bara gosain had begged me to return. Was that only a ploy to get at my money? I had discredited people like them all my life. I had believed them all to be hypocrites and charlatans. But my life wasn’t over yet. It might be that I still had a lot to learn. Was faith always to be scoffed at and scepticism to be idealized? I did not know.

  By the time the train entered Howrah station, I had arrived at a decision. I didn’t need a job and I didn’t want to go to Burma. I would spend the night in Calcutta but first thing, tomorrow morning, I would wind up my affairs, pay my creditors and leave for the akhra. On reaching my lodgings I washed, changed and was preparing to go to bed when a well remembered voice murmured behind me, ‘You’ve come back, Babu!’

  ‘Ratan!’ I turned round, dismayed. ‘Since when have you been here?’

  ‘I came just before dusk. I fell asleep on the veranda and didn’t hear you come in. There’s a fine breeze outside.’

  ‘Have you had your dinner?’

  ‘No, Babu. What about you?’

  I shook my head. I was hungry but there being nothing to eat I had decided to ignore the pangs.

  ‘All the better!’ Ratan said happily. ‘I’ll have the privilege of partaking of your prasad. *’

  ‘In that case,’ I said drily, cursing his self-possession, ‘you’d better go out and see if any prasad is to be bought at this hour. But what brings you here? Is there another letter?’

  ‘No, Babu. Letters are useless. She will say what she wishes to say with her own lips.’

  ‘Does that mean I’m to follow you to Kashi?’

  ‘Oh no! Ma is here.’

  ‘Here!’ I exclaimed, agitatedly. ‘Has she been sitting in the carriage all this while?’

  ‘No, Babu, though she is quite capable of it,’ Ratan smiled. ‘We’ve been in Calcutta for the last four days. I’ve been stationed here with instructions to catch you the minute you return and take you to her.’

  ‘Where is she? How far away?’

  ‘We’ve taken a house at a little distance from here but I have a carriage waiting. Let’s go.’

  There was nothing for me to do but put on my clothes, lock the door and follow Ratan into the carriage. We drove through half the city, then stopped before a handsome mansion with high walls enclosing a garden. Rajlakshmi’s old durwan, a man from Munger and a Kurmi by caste, opened the gate with a great salute of welcome.

  ‘How a
re you, Babuji?’

  ‘I am well, Tulsidas. And you?’

  He bent down and touched my feet. He had always stood in tremendous awe of me because I was a Brahmin. Another servant, a new one, came running out of the house at the sound of our arrival. He looked dazed and stupid with sleep and was roundly abused by the superior Ratan. ‘Why do you think you’re here? To eat and sleep? Go, get the hookahs ready at once.’ Bullying the other servants, shamelessly, was Ratan’s way of showing the special position he enjoyed in the household. This man, being new, was suitably impressed and darted back the way he had come.

  We went up a flight of steps and, crossing a veranda walked into a huge, beautiful room, lavishly spread with carpets and bolsters and bright with gas light. My favourite hookah—dear and familiar with years of use—stood in a corner and by it were my gold embroidered velvet slippers. Rajlakshmi had made these herself and given them to me as a birthday present some years ago. There was another room leading from it with a connecting door. This being open, I caught a glimpse of the interior. There was a neatly made up bed and a clothes-horse with some clothes on it that I recognized as mine. They had been bought just before we left for Gangamati but I had never worn them and had consequently forgotten that they existed. All the furniture was new and bright with polish but both rooms were empty.

  ‘Ma!’ Ratan called and the next moment Rajlakshmi stood in the room. She bent down to touch my feet then, turning to Ratan, said, ‘Bring up some tobacco, Ratan, then go and rest. You’ve had a hard time these four days.’

  ‘I don’t worry about myself, Ma,’ Ratan replied. ‘I’m thankful I could bring him to you safe and sound.’

  I looked at Rajlakshmi with new eyes. This was the old Pyari—but not quite. Bathed in the tears and suffering of the last few years she had emerged in a new form, —infinitely brighter and incredibly beautiful. Her jewels, few but choice and expensive, dazzled the eyes. Yet her sari was a simple one of ordinary cotton. Its finely worked border encircled the lovely face and little tendrils of silky, black hair peeped out from under it and rested on her glowing cheek and brow. I stared at her, fascinated.

  ‘Why do you stare at me? Am I a stranger?’

  ‘That is what it seems.’

  ‘Do you know what I feel like doing?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I feel like putting my arms around your neck.’ Rajlakshmi laughed, peal after peal of delighted laughter. ‘Will you push me away if I do?’

  ‘Try me,’ I laughed with her. ‘You seem intoxicated. Have you had shiddhi?’

  The sound of approaching footsteps (the intelligent Ratan always made a great clatter as he approached us) forced her to control herself. She whispered threateningly, ‘I’ll show you what I’ve had in a minute. Wait till Ratan leaves.’ Then, suddenly her voice became heavy and tearful. ‘It is just like you to leave me alone in a strange city and go off to attend Putu’s wedding. Do you have any idea of how I’ve spent my time?’

  ‘How was I to know you were here?’

  ‘You knew it well enough. You wanted to punish me and that’s why you disappeared.’

  At this point, Ratan entered with the tobacco and, turning to Rajlakshmi, said, ‘Shall I tell the cook to serve Babu’s meal? I’m to get some prasad and it is past midnight.’

  ‘I’ll bring it up myself.’ Rajlakshmi rose hurriedly. ‘Spread an asan on the floor of my bedroom, Ratan.’

  I remembered my last days in Gangamati when the cook and Ratan were the custodians of my welfare, when Rajlakshmi had had no time for me. Today, she would do everything for me with her own hands. She could trust no one. I heaved a sigh of relief for this was the old, the true Rajlakshmi. The other was an aberration.

  ‘What was the wedding like?’ Rajlakshmi asked after I had eaten.

  ‘I didn’t attend it but I’ve heard it went off very well.’

  ‘You didn’t attend it? Then, where were you all these days?’

  I told her of my meeting with Kalidas Babu and its consequences and she was suitably impressed.

  ‘It’s a strange world,’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘You should have gone to the wedding and given the girl a present.’

  ‘You can do that for me.’

  ‘I will do that but not on your behalf. You still haven’t told me where you were.’

  ‘Do you remember the Babaji’s akhra at Muraripur?’

  ‘Of course. The Vaishnavis used to come singing to our door I remember my childhood very well.’

  ‘That’s where I was.’

  Rajlakshmi shuddered from head to foot. ‘In the Babaji’s akhra!’ she exclaimed. ‘Ma go Ma! I’ve heard they lead lives as filthy as hell!’ Then, quite unaccountably, she burst out laughing. ‘You are the limit. You really are. Remember the sanyasi at Ara? The matted hair and brass bangles and rudraksha beads? What a beauty—’ she could say no more for, overcome with laughter, she rolled all over the bed. I took her by the shoulders and made her sit up. She went on laughing, then controlling herself with a great effort, she said, ‘What did the Vaishnavis say to you? There are lots of them there—all flat-nosed and tattooed ….’ She burst into another fit of laughter.

  ‘You’d better stop laughing at once,’ I said sternly, ‘or I’ll teach you such a lesson you’ll be ashamed to show your face to the servants.’ Rajlakshmi sat up quickly and drew herself away, out of my reach. However, that didn’t prevent her from saying witheringly, ‘You’ll never have the guts. You are the biggest coward the world has ever known.’

  ‘You know nothing of me, Lakshmi. You call me a coward but there was a Vaishnavi in the akhra who said I was arrogant and superior.’

  ‘Why? What had you done to her?’

  ‘Nothing. She called me Natun gosain and said that my withdrawn, roving mind was a piece of arrogance—the like of which she had never seen. So you see, I’m a strong man and a hero—not a coward at all.’

  ‘From where did the Vaishnavi slut get the key to your roving mind?’

  ‘Mind your language, Lakshmi. Remember that Vaishnavis are women of God.’

  Rajlakshmi swept my admonition aside with a wave of her hand. ‘She called you Natun gosain. What did you call her?’

  ‘Her name is Kamal Lata. Some call her Kamli Lata and swear she’s a sorceresws. Her singing drives men mad and they lay their souls down at her feet.’

  ‘Have you heard her sing?’

  ‘Yes. Her voice is beautiful.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘About your age. A little older, perhaps.’

  ‘What does she look like?’

  ‘She’s attractive enough. Not ugly at any rate—certainly not flat-nosed and tattooed. She comes from a good family.’

  ‘I knew that the moment I heard what she had said. Did she look after you while you were in the akhra!’

  ‘Yes, very well.’

  Rajlakshmi suppressed a sigh and rose. ‘She has no idea of what she has undertaken. It is easier to realize God—she’ll learn that soon enough. Why should I feel threatened?’ And she swept out of the room. I lay back on my pillows and pulled deeply on my hookah. As the rich, scented smoke curled into my lungs my eyes fell on a corner of the ceiling where a tiny spider ran around in circles, weaving a web. In the dim light its shadow took on immense proportions and hung from the beam like some gigantic animal—grotesque and frightening. I thought of how the shadow overcomes the substance in the absence of true light, and a sigh escaped me.

  Rajlakshmi returned a few minutes later and lay down beside me—her elbow resting on my pillow. I put out a hand and stroked her face. It was damp. ‘What made you decide to come to Calcutta all of a sudden?’ I asked.

  ‘It wasn’t sudden. I’ve been wanting to come to you ever since the day you left Kashi. I’ve been so unhappy—I was afraid I’d die without ever seeing you again.’ She put out a hand and pushed the pipe away. ‘Give over puffing for a moment and listen to me. I can’t see your face for the smoke.’

  I let go of
the hookah and took her hand instead. ‘How is Banku behaving?’ I enquired.

  ‘The way sons behave when daughters-in-law take over.’

  ‘Just that much and no more?’

  ‘I can’t specify the quantity. Anyway, Banku’s behaviour does not worry me in the least. How much pain can he inflict? True affliction, for a woman, can only come from the man she loves—as mine does.’

  ‘Have I ever hurt you in any way, Lakshmi?’ I asked, gently.

  ‘No,’ she said instantly, stroking my brow with a gentle hand. ‘On the contrary, it is I who have hurt you over and over again. I reduced you in the eyes of the world out of my selfish love, and, having entangled you in my life, I neglected you upon a whim. I’m being punished for it—can’t you see?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘You must be wearing blinkers, then,’ she said with a flash of her old spirit. Then her voice softened and her eyes grew dim. ‘I was the lowliest of sinners but God didn’t forsake me. He gave you to me out of his great goodness. And what did I do? I threw away his gift in the belief that, in rejecting it, I was being purified. Not content with abandoning you, I turned you away from my door when you came again to me.’ Tears rolled down her cheeks. She put up a hand to wipe them away and continued, ‘I planted the poison tree with my own hands and the fruit was too bitter to swallow. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. Doubts and fears beset me from all sides. Gurudev tied an amulet on my arm and commanded me to chant the name of God ten thousand times a day. I sat in my prayer room for hours on end but God was not with me. Then your letter arrived and the disease was diagnosed.’