by K R Meera
At noon, Mano da and I went out to a bhelpuri seller, bought some bhelpuri, and stood munching it in front of Thakurbari. A garlic seller sat on his haunches by its grand arch, silently watching passers-by, waiting for buyers.
‘Esho esho, premamoy, amrito hashiti loye,’ I hummed again. Come, my darling, with that honey-filled smile . . .
Mano da gave me a surprised look and asked, his mouth full. ‘Are you really in love with this Sanjeev Kumar Mitra?’
‘Sometimes I want to kill him.’ I was chewing too. I didn’t look at him when I said that.
He looked at me carefully and rubbed his throat. ‘Where is he from, really?’
‘He has two houses here. One is a ruined mansion, with trees and creepers growing in it. The other is in Sonagachi, with spiral stairways and pillared verandas and marble floors.’
Mano da looked at me, alarmed.
‘He also knows a south Indian language. His father hails from the south. His mother is Bengali. That’s all I know of him. He claims that the ruined mansion was bought by his great-grandfather in the eighteenth century.’
When we were back in the Bhavishyath office, Mano da found the book South Indians in Kolkata by P. Thankappan Nair, opened the third chapter, and held it out for me to read.
There was contact between Calcutta and South India in the 18th century as the city was the capital of British India from 1774 to 1912. The Maharaja of Cochin State used to send his trading vessels to Calcutta in the 18th century.
I ran my eyes through the pages, confused. I had heard the story of how our ancestor Jnananatha Grddha Mullick had met one of the Malayalees in 1793. He had accompanied Captain Andre Barthalomeo D’Cruz in a trading ship which made its profits by buying rice from Bengal and transporting it to Ceylon. That memory broke through the moss-covered layers of my mind.
The assistants of the rich merchant Kunhi Pokki used to visit Calcutta for trade. The Calcutta Monthly Journal reports a robbery that took place in the house of one of these representatives.
Mano da looked at me.
‘If Sanjeev Kumar Mitra is the descendant of one of those Malayalees who came here then, oh, some coming that was, Chetu!’
I shut the book, turning to look at him. My mind was a void. The absurdity of romance between a trader and a hangman made my soul rant and rave again. Nischol da came in and turned on the TV. All the channels were airing the same news story.
‘The family of Mridula Chatterjee writes to the President . . . The family of the murdered Mridula Chatterjee has written to President A.P.J. Abdul Kalam requesting him to reject Jatindranath Banerjee’s mercy petition.’
‘See? The matter’s going to swell now. This is democracy—the people decide. Not all, but some.’ Mano da leaned back in the chair. The void widened inside me. I watched the news for some time and then got back to Mano da’s manuscript. The din of the trams outside made my heart beat faster. My ears ached for footsteps at the door. He would come, I was sure. I had got out of the house early today just to see him. That’s why I waited patiently till he arrived at the Bhavishyath office, make-up and clothes intact.
‘I have been waiting for you at your house for quite a while. What’s keeping you here?’ he asked brusquely.
‘I was waiting for you.’
I picked up my bag, shut the doors noisily and turned to him.
‘Let’s go.’
‘Where to?’
‘To your house. I’ve no peace till I finish what I’ve started.’
Sanjeev Kumar Mitra did not know what I meant. Our eyes met. Behind their smoky cover, his eyeballs rolled like two black marbles.
‘Your great-grandfather reached Kolkata by ship from Cochin, didn’t he?’ I asked.
Confusion reigned on his face.
This time, I walked in front. He followed. I stopped a cycle rickshaw and got in. He obeyed me when I gestured to him to get in.
‘Go straight and . . . ’ I gave directions to the rickshaw-wallah. We passed the tabla and tanpura shops and moved by the tram tracks past Jatrapara.
‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked me warily.
‘To your house!’
I hadn’t completed what I had begun, I remembered again. I leaned my head back on the ragged red seat and sang the rest of the song:
Esho esho, premamoy, amrito hashiti loye
Esho mor kache dheere ei hridaya nilaye
Chadibo na tomaye kabhu janame janame aar
Come, my darling, with that honey-filled smile,
Come with soft feet, I will never let you leave me,
I will never let you leave me from birth to birth, never.
‘Who is this darling? Me?’ he asked.
I looked at him tauntingly. And then, my tongue in searing pain, continued, ‘Tomare dekhi na jabe, tomare dekhi na jabe . . .’
41
Manasa was a goddess but she was an orphan, and wretched. The king of snakes, Vasuki, had been sculpting an idol of his mother’s form. Lord Shiva who was passing that way was seduced by its beauty. But Chandi, his wife, called to him and he had to hide his erection; as it happens with men in such circumstances, he ejaculated and the divine semen fell on the idol. The idol was impregnated by it and Manasa was born. That was Thakuma’s version. She was called Manasa because her birth was the result of sex that had taken place in Shiva’s mind. The terrified Shiva tried to hide his blunder by leaving the baby girl in a snake pit where thousands of eggs were hatching. The baby snakes protected her from the cold and the heat, clasping her with their tails. But the fluids from the sharp scales protecting their tender underbellies seared her skin and made it slimy. And so she turned a bluish black, as though she had swallowed venom. Only the tribals were willing to accept the black, orphaned goddess. The illegitimate daughter of the God of Destruction thus remained in the backyard of the Hindu faith as the untouchable goddess of the dark-skinned and the poor.
We passed the stately homes in the area that spread over Cornwallis Street, Bowbazar and Maniktola from Chitpur Road, and reached the white-painted bungalow. Sanjeev Kumar Mitra was, by this time, fairly squirming with unease and distrust. The place was just like it had been the last time we visited. Men, some of them in a chauffeur’s uniform, stood chatting beside the parked cars. The nine pillars of the front veranda rose to the sky as before. The grand entrance at the head of the steps opened out into a central courtyard reminiscent of the Jorasanko Thakurbari. In the courtyard, as before, three middle-aged women, head covered and nose decorated with heavy studs, washed dirty dishes. Like the other day, the sounds of dance, music, conversations and peals of laughter, and the scents of various kinds of food, wafted in from the many rooms in that mansion. Sanjeev Kumar opened the door on the right side of the second storey. The blood-red satin sofas and paintings with gold frames drew me in swiftly, like powerful magnets. The red coverlet and the carved bed with its large frame too were the same. And once again I felt that rats were frolicking on it. A thousand snakes stuck out their icy tongues from within my body. My cells became their snake pits. The fluids oozing from the sharp scales on their underbelly seared my skin and turned it slimy. Sanjeev Kumar rested his hand on my shoulder and tried to study me, anxiety and wariness evident in his face.
‘Why did you say you wanted to come here?’
I beamed. ‘When is Nagpanchami this year?’
‘Uh, who knows? There’s no Nagpanchami where I come from,’ he said, discontent writ large on his face.
‘Every place has it.’
‘Actually, I don’t even know what it is!’
He moved away from me and went to sit on the bed. I ran my fingers over the carved image of the snake coiling up its leg.
‘That’s the festival of Devi Manasa.’
I went up to him and sat down beside him, but he didn’t try to touch me. He had propped himself on his arms.
I took off his dark glasses and looked at him through them. His fair yellow-tinged skin looked as though it had received a coat of blue washing. Through the dark lenses, the red bedcover looked like clotted blood and the black wood of the rosewood bed looked like the alluvium from the banks of the Ganga. That was an interesting sight. Only the golden tongue of the statue of Durga at the head of the bed was a deep yellow.
‘Tell me, what is the connection between Nagpanchami and your visit here?’
‘The goddess of Bengal is not Durga.’
I put my hand on his shoulder and caressed the soft white skin of his throat with my index finger. He squirmed as if my touch tickled him, then firmly held my finger in his hand. Though she may be unarmed, be wary of the woman who comes into your bedroom of her own will—that is what men learn from the world. Thakuma said if the prey who should be running away in terror decides to turn around, raise its head and walk straight back to the predator, that will scare away any beast, no matter how menacing.
‘Doesn’t the whole world celebrate Durga as the goddess of Bengal?’
‘That’s because they fear Devi Manasa.’
I took his hand in mine and began to stroke it gently. He took fright and shrank into himself. A thousand tiny baby snakes of fear and suspicion began to uncoil and writhe all over him; those green eyes revealed that helplessly.
‘Ah—say, what made you bring me here?’ He withdrew his hand slowly.
‘I haven’t had an iota of peace,’ I told him truthfully. ‘It’s like someone threw a noose around my neck the last time I came here, and has been pulling the other end hard since.’
He smiled weakly. ‘No escape from the noose for even a moment!’
‘What to do, can’t help it—am I not of the hangman’s blood?’ I sounded powerless. ‘I wanted to see you. I wished to talk to you, wander about Kolkata with you, see all the streets and roads I’ve seen only on TV with you. I want to experience them with you.’
Sanjeev Kumar’s brow furrowed. The cord of suspicion was tightening further. I enjoyed the unease and anxiety on his face.
‘Sanju babu, I am a poor girl from an ordinary family. People like me—we don’t have the right to even see this world. That’s reserved for people like you. What, then, are people like me to do?’
‘Why are you putting yourself down? Surely you are no ordinary girl?’
Fearing that he would start lecturing me again about womanhood and self-respect, I pressed my lips to his. He was thoroughly confounded.
‘Hey! What’re you doing?’ He jerked away from me.
The snakes raised Manasa after her father abandoned her in the snake pit and ran for his life. They carried her out of the snake pit and bathed her in the Adi Ganga. They fed her; became her cradle and her swing. Black, white and red snakes became her ornaments. Their tails became her garments. Seven black cobras with priceless nagamani jewels encrusted on their hood formed her diadem. When she perspired, venom-coloured blue sapphires fell off her forehead, breasts and navel. When she came of age, Vasuki took her to her father, the god Shiva. Not recognizing his own daughter, Shiva first tried to marry her. When she opened her third eye to curse him, he realized who she was. Her dazzling beauty made Chandi apprehensive. She began to conspire to drive her away, while Manasa tried hard to win the love of her father and stepmother. However, all her efforts were in vain. It was she who saved him from the deadly venom he swallowed during the churning of the Ocean of Milk, but Chandi was so envious of her beauty that she even stabbed her in the eye when she was asleep. Later, when Chandi kicked her to the ground, Manasa turned her into a statue with a single intense look from her one eye. Shiva begged her to revive Chandi but soon after, he abandoned her again under the shade of a bael tree, ordering her never to set foot in her father’s home. When the tears of anger and hatred that filled his eyes fell to the ground, Netra was born. He offloaded the job of caring for Manasa to Netra and vanished. From then, Manasa, who had been gentle and loving, became a fury, always quarrelsome and vengeful.
‘You didn’t show the least interest in our wedding plans. Why this sudden burst of love?’ He moved away some more.
‘This is not love or any such thing.’
‘Then?’
‘The pain I felt when you mangled my body—it is still there. How can any woman love a man who has not offered her a loving touch?’ I touched my left breast as I asked him.
He drew back as if bitten by a snake with slow-spreading venom. Then, rubbing his eyes, he got up, as if looking for his glasses, paced around the room and returned to me.
‘Chetna, you have only misconceptions about me.’
‘From the day I met you, I have lost track of what is right and what is wrong. One day you pass the death sentence, the next day you order that the person who carried it out be killed . . .’
‘Kill, kill, kill! Is that all you can think of? You are mentally ill!’
‘The most dangerous of contagions: mental illness,’ I laughed quite merrily.
‘Why do you laugh like this infernally?’
It was too much for him to bear.
To get rid of Manasa, Shiva fixed her marriage to a venerable sage, Jagatkaru. The envious Chandi promised her wedding clothes and jewels, but did not keep her word. As the appointed hour drew close, poor Manasa worried about how she would cover her shame. The snakes consoled her. They became her ornaments. Thinking of Manasa in the sage’s mud hut in the middle of the forest, adorned from head to toe, gleaming in the light of a stone lamp, made my heart ardent and tender. Snakes in hues of black, white, blue, red and gold in place of jewels. Instead of flower garlands, black cobras with brilliant gems on their hoods. But Chandi’s envy knew no bounds. The moment Jagatkaru stepped into the bridal chamber, she sneaked in some frogs. Manasa’s snakes got distracted; they slipped off her body and went for the frogs. Seeing snakes emerge from his bride’s body as if from a snake pit, Jagatkaru took fright and ran away. Poor naked Manasa broke down crying in the little hut. Shiva had to threaten and persuade Jagatkaru to return. The venerable sage approached his bride, trembling, his eyes closed. He was loath to touch her. To be absolved of his duty, he created an infant, a son, Astika, using the powers he had acquired through his penance, dropped him in Manasa’s lap, and fled. Once again she was left alone. The wrathful Manasa sat on a blooming lotus beneath the hoods of seven black cobras, the snakes swirling and sliding on her body. Manasa could never forgive those who did not respect her precisely because she had weathered insult, betrayal and insecurity. I could see that.
‘Come, come, sit near me,’ I called. ‘Do you remember, the day before the hanging was postponed, the two of us were here . . .’ I smiled confidently at him.
His kiss, the way his moustache brushed on my neck and cheek, like the fine strands at the end of a moist rope . . . I lay back on the bed and looked at the statue at its head. Poor Durga’s tongue hung out. Her lovely wide eyes were fixed on me.
‘Don’t you want to fuck me at least once?’ I asked, trying to hide my laugh.
‘Your voice brims with hatred, Chetna.’
‘Aren’t you men sick and tired yet of women who give in meekly?’
‘I’d really wanted to marry you . . . ’
‘I have no such desire, but I do want to know how you are going to fuck me at least one time. My soul needs to know. I want to know what the man I loved, whose love I wanted, is really like. What if I die before I know that?’ I laughed. ‘Just think of it, me, going round and round in this room of yours, with a long tail clear as crystal, soft as molten wax . . .’
He raised his eyes, not able to make sense of what I was saying.
‘Everything is wrong at the office,’ he murmured. ‘In truth, the only thing blocking our marriage . . .’
His face was so handsome. How I wished to turn into a serpent, slowly slide towards his feet, slither up his body, h
igher and higher, raise the jewel-clad hood and thrust my forked tongue at his face! His green eyes would roll in fear. The red of my nagamani would be reflected in them. After that, there would be no need to get married; nor would it be pertinent. But the thought of a bridegroom who feared me, who threw me a child shutting his eyes in fear, was disgusting indeed. Manasa needed worshippers and so she tried to turn everyone into a devotee. Even the Muslim ruler Hasan became one, but not the Shaivite Chand Sadagar.
‘How did your ancestor reach Kolkata?’ I asked.
‘Who knows?’ he replied, puzzled by the sudden change in the topic of conversation.