Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  Babaji had not yet concluded his prefatory verses in praise of Lord Chaitanya when Rajlakshmi made an appearance. There was a hum of awed whispers from the crowd. Babaji’s voice shook a little and the mridanga player nearly missed a beat. Only Dwarika Das Babaji sat, immobile as a statue, eyes closed, back resting against a pillar. Rajlakshmi wore a sari of midnight blue whose intricately woven border of silver threads blended and became one with her powder blue blouse of fine silk. The same choice jewels hung upon her person but the sandal and saffron of her forehead had got rubbed off. Only the faintest traces remained, pale and glimmering like the mist on an autumn morn. She walked straight past me without deigning to throw a glance in my direction but her lips were curved in a smile—or so I imagined.

  That evening, Manohar Das Babaji failed to command the attention he usually did. The fault did not lie in his singing but in the audience, who were all eagerness to hear Rajlakshmi. Dwarika Das Babaji turned to her and said, ‘Come, Didi, sing something for my Radha Govinda,’ then, pointing to the khol (drum), he asked, ‘That won’t be in the way, will it?’

  ‘No.’ Rajlakshmi took her place composedly, facing the shrine. Her answer took the Babajis by surprise for they hadn’t expected such a degree of skill from a mere woman. But there was a greater surprise in store for them. A gasp rose from the audience as the rich, pure tones of a Vaishnav padavali cascaded from her throat with the force and clarity of a mountain stream. She had a naturally melodious voice and was rigorously trained in the classical music of the north. But I never knew that she had mastered this particular tradition of the devotional music of Bengal. Her intonation was perfect, her rhythm masterly and her diction unflawed. But there was more—much more. She sang, not with her voice alone, but with every fibre of her being. Her Radha Govinda were in front of her, her Durbasha muni behind her and I knew not for whom she sang these lines:

  E ke pada pankaja, panke bibhushita

  Kantake jara jara bhel

  Tua darashana asi kachhu nahi janulu

  Chira dukho aba dure gel

  Tohari murali jaha shravane prabeshilo

  Chhorunu griha sukho as

  Panthaka dukho tunhu kari na ganunu

  Kahe tahin Govinda Das….

  (Earth and slime adorn my lotus feet

  Thorns tear them to shreds

  At the hope of a glimpse of your wondrous form

  All pain is gone; all sorrow’s spent

  I left my home and kin for ever

  The day your flute’s melodious strain

  Entered my ears, my long dark path

  Is naught to me, so says Govinda Das.)

  Tears of ecstasy rolled down Dwarika Das Babaji’s cheeks. He stood up, swaying on his feet and, walking over to the shrine, took the thick garland of mallika flowers from Govindaji’s neck and put it around Rajlakshmi’s. ‘May all that is dark in your life be wiped away,’ he said. ‘May only truth and light guide you on your way.’

  Rajlakshmi bent her head in acceptance of his blessing then, rising, she came to me and touched the dust of my feet to her brow in everyone’s presence. Lowering her head she whispered, ‘This garland is yours. If you hadn’t threatened me with a reward, I would have put in round your neck, here and now.’

  While prasad was being distributed, I took her aside and said, ‘Keep the garland carefully. I won’t wear it here. Put it around my neck when we get home.’

  ‘Are you afraid of wearing it here because this is a place of God? Are you afraid that it will bind you in some way?’

  ‘No. I have no fears left. They’ve all been wiped away. If I had the world in my possession I would have laid it at your feet, tonight, Lakshmi.’

  ‘How generous of you! You know very well that whatever you give me will remain yours.’

  ‘Thank you a million times for this day, Lakshmi.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because today I know for certain how little I deserve you. I’m no match for you in anything—beauty, brains, accomplishments, love, passion, tenderness. What God has given me, he has given no one in the world. I’m humbly and truly grateful to you, Lakshmi.’

  ‘I don’t like such talk—’

  ‘You’ve thrown yourself away on an unworthy person. I don’t know where to keep this priceless treasure.’

  ‘Are you afraid someone will steal it if you’re not careful.’

  ‘No, Lakshmi. No one would dare do that. Where would the thief, poor fellow, find a storehouse large enough to contain you?’

  Rajlakshmi took my hand and laid it on her breast without a word. Then she said, ‘The Vaishnavis will laugh if they see us whispering together in the dark. But I’m worried about something. Where will you sleep tonight?’

  ‘They’ll make some arrangement. You needn’t worry.’

  ‘I wonder what arrangement they’ll make. Everything is so disorganized here.’

  Things were disorganized with the sudden arrival of so many people. A bed was made for me in the veranda. Rajlakshmi grumbled about it but could do nothing. I’m sure she checked on me several times during the night but, tired with the journey and the varied events of the day, I slept like a log and knew nothing.

  On waking up the next morning, I saw Rajlakshmi and Kamal Lata enter the akhra with baskets heaped with flowers. I don’t know what passed between them in the privacy of the flower garden but the look on their faces removed the last of my fears. Peace flooded my soul. They had slept together the night before (the difference in their castes had not presented itself as an obstacle) and today they behaved as though they had known each other all their lives. Referring to yesterday’s incident, when Rajlakshmi had refused to eat anything touched by her, Kamal Lata laughed and said, ‘Don’t let that worry you, gosain. I’ve found a way to punish her. I’ll box her ears soundly in our next birth for I’ll be the older sister.’

  ‘I’ve agreed to that on one condition, gosain,’ Rajlakshmi retaliated. ‘If I die first she’ll have to leave the akhra and come and look after you. I know I’ll have no peace, even in heaven, worrying about you. Like the old demon in Sindbad’s story, I’ll sit on her back and make her do whatever I want.’

  ‘Ma go! I can’t carry you on my back, bon. So you’d better not think of dying first.’

  After drinking my tea I went out to look for Gahar. ‘Come back as soon as you can and bring Gahar gosain with you,’ Kamal Lata said. ‘I’ve got hold of a Brahmin cook, this morning, to prepare the bhog. Rajlakshmi is helping him. She’ll have a hard time for he is as dirty as he is lazy.

  ‘You’ve made this hew arrangement for Rajlakshmi’s sake. But I doubt if Govindaji will approve—’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Kamal Lata bit her tongue and shook her head. ‘If Rajlakshmi hears it she won’t let a drop of water pass through her lips.’

  ‘You met her only yesterday. Yet you understand her perfectly,’ I smiled.

  ‘Yes. I do understand her. She is one in a million. You are a lucky man, gosain.’

  Gahar was not at home. I was informed by Nabin that he had gone over to Sunam village where his maternal cousin—a widowed woman with many children—lived. A strange, new fever had appeared in those parts and was devastating the villages. Some of her children had been afflicted and Gahar had gone over to help her out. It was over a fortnight now but not a word had come from him. Nabin was distracted with worry but hadn’t a clue to where the village was. Suddenly, he burst out weeping—great, racking sobs shaking his chest. ‘He may be dying, Babu, and I’m sitting here doing nothing. I’m an ignorant, unlettered peasant. I don’t know where to go or what to do. I keep begging Chakravarty moshai to accompany me to Sunam village—I even offered him a hundred rupees—but the rascally Brahmin refuses to budge an inch. But I tell you this, Babu. If my master dies I’ll set fire to his house and burn him alive even if I have to jump into the flames myself. Such a base ingrate should not be allowed to live.’

  ‘Do you know the name of the zila, Nabin?’


  Nabin shook his head. ‘All I know is that it is somewhere near Nadia and that the village is situated several kos away from the railway station. One has to reach it by bullock-cart. The old man knows but he refuses to tell.’

  I told Nabin to bring me all the old letters and papers he could lay his hands upon but the examination yielded no result. Only one significant fact came to light. Nayan Chand Chakravarty had borrowed two hundred rupees from Gahar to get his widowed daughter remarried, two months ago. Gahar was a simpleton with a lot of money. Such people are the natural prey of cheats and swindlers. Resentment was useless. But I had to agree with Nabin that the extent of the old man’s villainy was rarely to be seen.

  ‘He wants my master to die,’ Nabin said. ‘Then he won’t have to pay back a paisa.’

  I couldn’t deny his logic but, there being nothing else to do, I took him along with me to Chakravarty moshai’s house. Such a kindly, humble, sympathetic, decent old soul was never to be found! But old age had afflicted him so grievously, had robbed him of his memory so ruthlessly that he could remember nothing—not the name of the zila nor the direction nor the name of the station.

  I got hold of a railway guide and read out the names of all the stations in North and East Bengal but not one of them rang a bell. It grieved him excessively and he shook his head in self-pity. ‘I’m an old man, Baba, and my powers are failing me. People cheat me in so many ways. They borrow money and household articles but nothing is returned. I can’t recall who took what. I’m resigned to my fate. “God is watching everybody,” I say to myself, “and He will dispense justice. He will give the righteous their due.’

  Nabin could bear it no longer. ‘Yes,’ he roared, ‘He will dispense justice. If He doesn’t, I will.’

  Chakravarty clicked his tongue gently and shook his head. ‘Don’t distrust me, Nabin. I’m an old man with a foot already on the road to heaven. Am I likely to tell a lie? Besides, don’t I love Gahar as my own son?’

  ‘I don’t know all that. I’m asking you for the last time. Will you or will you not take me to my master? If you don’t and anything happens to him—remember that you have me to reckon with.’

  Chakravarty moshai tapped his forehead with a shaking hand. ‘Destiny,’ he moaned. ‘All is preordained. If it were not so would you be standing here talking to me in that tone of voice?’

  We returned—defeated. I waited outside his door for a while in the hope that he might, in a moment of repentance, come out and tell us what we wanted to know. But nothing of the kind happened. I glanced within, for the door was ajar, and saw him pick up his discarded hookah and proceed to pack it with tobacco, his countenance as calm and benign as it always was.

  It was three o’clock in the afternoon when I returned to the akhra. The Babajis were not to be seen. I guessed that, worn out with the effort of swallowing the enormous meal of prasad that was habitual with them, they were enjoying a prolonged siesta with true ascetic fervour. The same amount of time and energy would be required at night. No wonder they needed to recharge themselves. A little knot of women huddled around someone on the veranda. Looking over their shoulders, I saw that it was an astrologer complete with almanac, slate, pencils, chalk and other essentials of his trade.

  Padma was the first to see me. ‘There’s Natun gosain,’ she cried.

  Kamal Lata looked up eagerly. ‘I knew Gahar gosain wouldn’t let you come away without a meal. What did you have?’

  Rajlakshmi clapped her hand on the Vaishnavi’s mouth. ‘Don’t, Didi,’ she begged, ‘don’t ask him that—for God’s sake.’

  Kamal Lata removed the restraining hand gently but firmly and said, ‘You look hot and tired and your hair is full of dust. Have you had a bath?’

  Nabin had begged me, many times, to have a bath and a meal in the house but, needless to say, I had refused.

  ‘Ganak Thakur tells me that I have a great future. I shall be a queen some day,’ Lakshmi informed me, mightily pleased.

  ‘How much did you give him?’

  ‘Five rupees,’ Padma answered for her.

  ‘If you had given them to me I would have predicted something better for you.’

  The astrologer was an Oriya Brahmin but he knew Bengali and spoke it well. He smiled at my words and said, ‘No, moshai! It wasn’t the money. I earn enough, in my profession, to keep me in comfort. Her hand is unique. I haven’t seen one like it in all my years of fortune-telling. Mark my words, I won’t be proved wrong.’

  ‘Can you tell me something I want to know without looking at my palm?’

  ‘I can. Take the name of a flower.’

  ‘Simul (silk-cotton).’

  The astrologer laughed. ‘So be it,’ he said, and proceeded to draw a number of lines and figures on his slate. Then he looked up and said, ‘You are worried about something. You are looking for information.’

  ‘What kind of information?’

  He looked me in the eye and said, ‘No. It has nothing to do with a court case. You want to know the whereabouts of a certain person.’

  ‘Can you tell me, Thakur?’

  ‘I can tell you that he is alive and will return home in a couple of days. There’s no cause for worry.’

  I must admit that his answer startled me. It must have shown in my face for Rajlakshmi exclaimed triumphantly, ‘I told you, he is a very good astrologer. But you are such a sceptic.’

  Kamal Lata rushed to my defence. ‘He’s not,’ she said. ‘Show your palm to Ganak Thakur, gosain.’

  I stretched out my hand. The astrologer took it in his and studied it carefully. Then, making his calculations, he looked up gravely. ‘You have a bad time ahead of you, moshai.’

  ‘A bad time? When?’

  ‘Very soon now. It’s a question of life and death.’

  I looked at Rajlakshmi. She was as white as a sheet. The astrologer turned to her and said, ‘Let me have another look at your palm, Ma.’

  But, this time, Rajlakshmi turned on him and snapped, ‘No. I’ve no need of your predictions.’ Her sudden, violent change of mood was obvious and the wily astrologer knew that his shaft had gone home.

  ‘I’m only a mirror, Ma,’ he said humbly. ‘The future is reflected in me and my mouth utters what the inner eye sees. That’s all. But it is possible to dilute the influence of evil planets. There are certain rituals for which a little money is required. A paltry ten or twenty rupees.’ Rajlakshmi did not reply. It was obvious that though she had full faith in the man’s prediction, she had grave doubts about his ability to get around the planets.

  ‘Come, Natun gosain,’ Kamal Lata said. ‘It is time you had your tea.’

  ‘I’ll make it,’ Rajlakshmi rose hastily. ‘Where is Ratan? I haven’t seen a hair of his head since yesterday. Ask him to prepare a hookah, Didi.’

  Ratan dusted the string-cot on the southern veranda, brought me water to wash and prepared a hookah, his face red and indignant. He hadn’t had a moment’s rest since yesterday and his mistress complained that she hadn’t seen a hair of his head! If I were to tell him of the Rahu that threatened to swallow me up in the near future he would, I’m convinced, have answered, ‘No, Babu. Not you. It is I who am about to be swallowed up and I know by whom.’

  I was telling Kamal Lata about Gahar’s disappearance when Rajlakshmi came in with the tea. She put the cup down on a stool and said, ‘I’ve told you, again and again, not to wander about in the woods alone. Who knows what might happen? I beg you with folded hands—listen to me, please.’ She must have thought this up while making the tea. For, what else could happen ‘very soon’?

  Kamal Lata looked up, surprised. ‘When has gosain been wandering about in the woods?’

  ‘How do I know? Is it possible for me to keep a watch on him every minute of the day? Have I nothing else to do?’

  ‘She hasn’t seen anything. She only assumes it,’ I said, irritably. ‘That son of an astrologer has made life hell for me.’

  Ratan smirked and walked away hastily an
d Rajlakshmi turned on me. ‘Why do you blame the astrologer? He only told us what he saw on your palm. Haven’t you heard of such things before? Have you never seen anyone going through a bad phase?’

  There was no point in arguing with her, so I didn’t. Neither did Kamal Lata. Rajlakshmi looked sharply at me for a minute and asked, ‘Why are your eyes so red? Have you been bathing in the river?’

  ‘No. I haven’t bathed at all today.’

  ‘Have you been eating anything you shouldn’t?’

  ‘I haven’t eaten anything at all. I wasn’t hungry.’

  Rajlakshmi hurried to my side and laid a hand on my brow. Then, feeling my chest under the shirt, she exclaimed, ‘Just what I thought! Touch him and see, Kamal Didi. He’s very warm—’

  Kamal Lata stayed where she was and answered composedly, ‘What if he is? Why do you worry?’

  ‘He has fever—’

  ‘If he has fever we’ll do something about it. You have come to us. You are our responsibility.’

  Her cool measured tones and matter-of-fact manner shamed Rajlakshmi into exercising a measure of self-control. ‘I know that,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Only there are no doctors and I’ve noticed that his fevers always turn serious at some stage. Besides, that sour-faced astrologer has frightened me so—’

  ‘You shouldn’t allow anyone to frighten you.’

  ‘You’re right, Kamal Didi. But I’ve noticed something about astrologers. When their predictions are good they never come true but when they are bad—God help us!’

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Raju.’ Kamal Lata smiled kindly at her. ‘It won’t come true this time. Gosain has been out all afternoon and has got a touch of the sun. That’s all. He’ll be as fit as any of us by tomorrow morning.’

  At this moment Lalur Ma appeared with the message that Rajlakshmi’s presence was urgently required in the kitchen. Rajlakshmi hastened away but not before throwing a grateful glance towards Kamal Lata.