She wanted to leave the ashram and would do so, sooner or later. She would resume the journey that had started from Nabadweep, walking the path on her solitary way, singing as she went, till her journey’s end was in sight. Whenever I thought of her like that—alone, unprotected, begging for a living—I couldn’t stop the tears from gushing out of my eyes. In my helplessness I turned, more eagerly than ever, to Rajlakshmi—my strong, beautiful Rajlakshmi, my goddess of bounty, ever loving, ever giving. She worked from early dawn till late into the night—her hands busy in the service of others. Compassion rained from her eyes and the smile never left her lips. A flood of love welled up in my heart at every thought of her and my soul floated on a sea of divine content.
She hadn’t forgotten that phase of her life when, led astray by Sunanda’s irresistible influence, she had driven me away from her. The thought never ceased to torture her. Out of that pain and guilt she had found herself again, had become the old Rajlakshmi she had always been.
Even now, she whispers in my ear, time and again; ‘You were cruel, cruel! Whoever dreamed that my heart, my soul and all my senses would rush away from me and follow you on the path you took the moment you were gone? What a terrible affliction that was! I shudder even to think of that time. It’s a wonder my heart didn’t burst.’
It is impossible, these days, to find fault with Rajlakshmi’s treatment of me. Despite the innumerable pressures on her, one eye and one ear are ever alert to my smallest needs. She comes into my room a hundred times a day. Sometimes she pushes my book away and says, ‘Lie down and shut your eyes. Let me stroke your forehead for a while. You’ll get a headache if you read so much.’
Ananda’s voice booms from outside, ‘I’ve something to ask you, Didi. Can I come in?’
‘Of course. Since when do you have to take permission?’
Ananda walks into the room and, taking in the scene, asks in a surprised voice, ‘Are you putting him to sleep? At this hour?’
‘What if I am? He’s not going to take the cows in your pathshala out grazing even if he stays awake, is he?’
‘You’ll be the ruin of him.’
‘What else can I do. The only alternative is ruining myself and my work.’
‘You’re both going mad,’ Ananda announces dramatically and leaves the room.
One day, a letter arrived for me. It had been redirected from our Calcutta address and had travelled through many post offices, to judge by the number of postmarks on it. It was from Nabin and contained the news that Gahar was dying and wanted to see me. The letter was a week old.
Rajlakshmi looked thoughtful. ‘You’ll have to go, of course.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll come too.’
‘Where will you stay? Don’t forget, it’s a house of mourning.’
Rajlakshmi nodded. I thought she would suggest staying at the akhra but she didn’t. She said, instead, ‘Ratan is down with fever since yesterday. Whom shall I send with you? Shall I ask Ananda?’
‘No. He’s not a coolie to bear my loads.’
‘Take Kishen with you, then.’
‘I will, if you insist. But it isn’t necessary.’
‘You must write to me everyday.’
‘If I get the time—’
‘No. No excuses. The day I don’t get a letter I’ll come over to you myself.’
I had to agree. Promising to send her a daily bulletin of my health, I left Gangamati. As I took my place in the bullock-cart, I saw Rajlakshmi standing at the door, her face pale and tense with anxiety. ‘Promise me you’ll look after yourself,’ she said for the last time, wiping her eyes with the end of her sari.
‘I promise, dearest.’
‘You’ll come back as soon as—’
‘I will.’
Late one afternoon, in the month of Asadh, * I stood outside Gahar’s door. Nabin heard me come and, rushing up to me, threw himself at my feet, his body shaking with sobs. The big, strong man’s unrestrained grief told me all I needed to know. I looked at Nabin with new eyes. His grief was as vast and deep as it was true and sincere. I saw, in a flash of intuition, that although no mother had wept over Gahar’s body, no wife or sister either—he had not left the world unloved, unmourned, in rags like a beggar. He had travelled like a king to that other world. Nabin had seen to that.
‘When did Gahar die?’ I asked when, exhausted with weeping, Nabin sat up and wiped his eyes.
‘The day before yesterday. We buried him yesterday, at dawn.’
‘Where did you bury him?’
‘By the river, under the mango trees. He had wished it so.’ Nabin looked up the sky as if he sought something there and went on, ‘He returned from his cousin’s house burning with fever. It never left him.’
‘Did you send for the doctor?’
‘We did everything that was possible here. But nothing worked. He knew he was dying.’
‘Didn’t Bara gosain come over from the akhra?’
‘Once or twice. His gurudev has arrived from Nabadweep. So he couldn’t come very often.’
I wanted to ask about one other person but couldn’t bring myself to do so at first. Then I said with a kind of desperation, ‘Did no one else come over from the akhra?’
‘Yes. Kamal Lata Didi.’
‘When did she come?’
‘She came every day. She didn’t go back at all the last three days. She sat by Babu’s bedside and didn’t leave it even once—not even to bathe and eat.’
I didn’t ask any more questions. I had heard all that I wanted to hear.
‘Are you going to the akhra, Babu?’
‘Yes, Nabin.’
‘Wait a minute.’ He went inside and came out with a tin box in his hands. Giving it to me, he said, ‘Babu told me to give you this.’
‘What is in the box, Nabin?’
‘Open it and see.’ He handed me a key. I opened the box and found a pile of notebooks tied with string. It was Gahar’s Ramayana. On a piece of paper, on top of the pile were written the words:
Srikanta, I couldn’t complete my Ramayana. I didn’t get the time. Give the manuscript to Bara gosain and tell him to keep it in the ashram. It mustn’t get lost.
There was another, smaller bundle tied with a red cloth. Opening it I found wads of notes of different denominations. There was another letter for me. It read:
Bhai Srikanta, I think I’m dying. I doubt I’ll ever see you again. I’m leaving this money in your care. Give it to Kamal Lata if she ever needs it. If she refuses—do what you like with it. May the blessings of Allah be with you—Gahar.
Not a hint of pride or complacency marred the nobility of his gesture. No flattery or servility, either. He had expressed his dying wish and invoked the blessings of Allah for the childhood friend he loved. He had had no doubts, no fears in the face of death. He had not struggled against it or drowned himself in self-pity. He was a poet, the inheritor of a tradition of Mussalman sufism that his fakir forefathers had carried in their blood. He had taken up his pen with a quiet determination and written his last composition in a few, choice, simple words. My eyes had been dry all this while but now tears sprang up in them and rolled down my cheeks in large drops.
The long day of Asadh was on the wane. A mass of jewel-blue clouds loomed over the western horizon, then swept across half the sky. And, from out of a crevice of the cloud cover, the setting sun burst out like a flame. Its beams irradiated the tips of the dying rose-apple tree by the wall—the same rose-apple that had inspired Gahar, and to whose blighted branches the madhavi and the malati vines had clung with desperate life. It had been spring then and the vines newly in bud. Now, nurtured by the new falling rain, they were laden with clusters of flowers. So many had been swept away by the wind, so many had fallen to the ground. I remembered Gahar’s desire to give me some flowers and his frustration at the sight of the wood ants that had crawled all over the trunk. I bent down and picked up a handful and felt that it was my friend’s last gift—given to me with hi
s own hands.
Nabin said, ‘Come, Babu. Let me take you to the akhra.’
‘Can you open up the room in which I slept when I was here last, Nabin? I wish to see it once before I leave.’
Nabin unlocked the door and I went in. Everything was the same—the wooden cot with bedding rolled up at its head, the holes in the floor, the gaping window. A sheet of paper lay on the table with Gahar’s pencil beside it. It was here, in this room, that Gahar had sung verses from his Ramayana—the tragic episode of Sita’s captivity. I had eaten and slept here so often in my childhood; I had played within these walls. I had fought and sparred with Gahar and heard stories from his mother. No one was left to share those memories. My roots were being cut away from me but there was no one, today, to shed a tear.
On our way to the akhra, Nabin gave me the details of Gahar’s will. The bulk of his estate was to be divided up among his maternal cousins but a part of it had been put aside, in trust, to pay for the maintenance of a mosque his father had got built. A bundle of notes, similar to the one in the trunk, had been left for Nabin’s sons.
On reaching the ashram I found it crammed with people. Bara gosain’s gurudev sat in state, surrounded by throngs of disciples. Looking at them it was easy to see that every luxury the akhra could afford was being lavished on them and that they were not likely to leave in a hurry. Dwarika Das came forward to greet me. He expressed grief at Gahar’s death but there was something in his face I had never seen before: a dazed, withdrawn look—as if he was not quite comfortable talking to me. I presumed it was the strain of playing host to so many strangers for such a long period of time at a stretch.
Padma heard of my arrival and came to see me. But her face was unhappy, her eyes furtive. Far from being thrilled at my coming she seemed anxious to escape.
‘Your Kamal Lata Didi is very busy. Isn’t that so, Padma?’
‘No. Shall I send her to you?’ Padma hurried away from the room without waiting for an answer. I had never seen her behave so oddly. And Bara gosain’s manner had been strange, to say the least. I grew alarmed.
Kamal Lata came in after a little while. ‘Come to my room, gosain,’ she said. ‘We can talk there.’
I had left my bedding at the station. I only had my bag with me and Gahar’s tin box. Handing them to her I said, ‘Keep the box carefully. There’s a lot of money in it.’
‘I know.’ She pushed it under the bed and turned to me. ‘You haven’t had your tea yet, have you?’
‘No.’
‘When did you arrive?’
‘In the afternoon.’
‘I’ll go and bring it.’ She left the room taking the servant with her. Padma brought me water to wash but didn’t stop or speak a word. I wondered, again, what the matter was. Kamal Lata brought my tea and some sweets and fruits—Govindaji’s morning prasad. I hadn’t eaten all day so I fell to with a will. As I ate I heard the blowing of conches and the ringing of bells that signalled the commencement of the evening arati.
‘Shouldn’t you be at the shrine?’ I asked, surprised.
‘No. I’ve been forbidden to enter it.’
‘Forbidden to enter it? Why? What does that mean?’
Kamal Lata smiled a wan smile. ‘Forbidden means forbidden, gosain. I’ve been commanded to keep away from Govindaji’s temple.’
‘Who commanded you?’
‘Bara gosain’s gurudev. And all those who’ve come with him.’
My appetite vanished. I pushed my thala away. ‘Why?’ I asked.
‘They think I’m unchaste, impure. They say God will be polluted by my touch.’
‘Unchaste! You?’ The truth dawned upon me in a flash. ‘Is it—was it—anything to do with Gahar?’ I asked wonderingly.
‘Yes.’
I knew nothing about Gahar and Kamal Lata but a denial, born out of an innate conviction rose swiftly to my lips. ‘Impossible!’ I exclaimed.
‘Why is it impossible, gosain?’
‘I don’t know why. I only know that there’s no bigger lie in the world. This is your reward, Kamal Lata, for nursing your dying friend, for making his last moments endurable. The world in which we live values your goodness thus.’
Her eyes swam with tears. ‘I have no regrets, gosain. Not anymore. I wasn’t afraid of God for he can look into my soul. I was only afraid of you. I’m so relieved—I could die, this moment, quite happily, gosain.’
‘There are so many people in the world, Kamal Lata,’ I said in a wondering voice. ‘Yet you feared no one—only me?’
‘Yes. Only you.’
We sat, as though frozen in our places for a long while. Then I roused myself and asked, ‘What does Bara gosain say?’
‘What can he say? If he allows me into the shrine, no Vaishnav will ever set foot in the akhra again.’ She thought for a moment or two and murmured to herself, ‘I knew I would have to go some day. But I never thought it would be like this.’ Then, fixing her dark eyes on mine, she said, ‘I’m worried about Padma. The poor child will weep her eyes out for me. She’s an orphan. Bara gosain picked her up from the streets of Nabadweep. Look after her, gosain, if you can. If she doesn’t wish to stay on in the akhra after I’m gone, take her away with you. Raju will look after her.’
Another silence followed. ‘And Gahar’s money?’ I asked. ‘Won’t you take it?’
‘No. I’m a Vaishnavi. I beg for a living. What would I do with all that money?’
‘You may need it someday.’
Kamal Lata laughed. ‘I had a lot of money, once. Was it of any use? Still, if I ever need any, I’ll take it from you. Why should I take money from strangers?’
I stared at her. I didn’t have a word to say.
‘No, gosain,’ she took up the subject again. ‘I don’t need anyone’s money. I’ve surrendered myself in the hands of one who will never cast me off. All my needs will be fulfilled. Don’t worry about me.’
Padma appeared at the door. ‘Where shall I serve the prasad?’ she asked Kala Lata.
‘Bring it here. Have you fed the servant?’
‘Yes.’ But Padma wouldn’t go. She stood at the door, hesitating. ‘Won’t you eat anything, Didi?’ she asked.
‘I will, bon, I will. You’ll push it down my throat, if I don’t won’t you?’
Padma looked relieved and went off to bring the prasad.
I looked out for Kamal Lata the next morning but she was nowhere to be seen. Padma informed me that she spent her days away from the akhra and returned only in the evening. But the news gave me little comfort. I remembered her words of the night before and was tortured by the thought that she may have gone and that I might never see her again.
I took Gahar’s Ramayana to Bara gosain and told him of my friend’s last request. Bara gosain accepted it with the words, ‘His wish shall be respected, Natun gosain. I shall keep the manuscript, carefully, with the other books of the akhra.’
I waited a few moments before saying, ‘This scandal about Kamal Lata and Gahar—do you believe it?’
‘No.’ Dwarika Das raised his eyes and held mine.
‘Yet she’s being compelled to leave the akhra.’
‘I’m leaving too, gosain. I can’t drive out an innocent woman and stay within these walls myself. I chose this path out of all others so that I may live a life of truth. If I abandon it now, all my years of service to Radha Govinda will cease to have any meaning.’
‘You are the master of the akhra. You can take your own decisions. You can ask her to stay.’
‘Guru, guru, guru.’ Bara gosain hung his head and shut his eyes. I understood that this was his guru’s command and he couldn’t disobey it.
‘I’m leaving today, gosain,’ I said, rising. He lifted his head. Tears poured down his cheeks. He brought his hands together in a namaskar. I did the same. Then I left the room.
The afternoon melted into evening and then dusk. Night fell but there was no sign of Kamal Lata. Nabin sent a man to take me to the station. Kishen had everythin
g packed and ready and was in a hurry to leave. But Kamal Lata didn’t return. Padma insisted that she would come but, as the hours passed, my doubts increased till I knew, for a certainty, that she wouldn’t. Avoiding the stress of a last farewell she had run away, without any clothes to change into. She had said that she was a beggar woman, a Vaishnavi who sang for a living. Her words, only words till yesterday, had become an accomplished fact.
Padma came to the door as I was leaving. She burst out weeping in the loud, bewildered voice of a lost child. I gave her my address and said, ‘Your Didi left you in my care. You must write to me and ask me for anything you wish.’
‘I can’t write very well, gosain.’
‘Write as you can. I promise to read every word.’
‘Won’t you meet Didi before you go?’
‘We’ll meet some other time.’ And, with these words, I walked out of the akhra.
Fourteen
I STRAINED MY EYES IN THE DARK, LOOKING FOR HER, ALL THE WAY to the station. But the moment I stepped on the platform I saw. her, standing a little apart from the crowd. She came forward on seeing me, and said in a normal, everyday voice, ‘You must buy me a ticket, gosain.’
‘You’re really leaving us all, Kamal Lata?’
‘What else can I do?’
‘Doesn’t it hurt?’
‘Why do you ask, gosain? You know.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘To Vrindavan. But you needn’t buy a ticket for all the way. I’ll get off somewhere and—’
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