Kama

by Gurcharan Das

  Kama optimism flowered in the first half of the common era, reaching a zenith in the courts of the Gupta empire, 320 CE– 550 CE, and of King Harsha subsequently, and it left an impressive legacy in the erotic culture of the Kamasutra and other arts, especially love poetry, most of which is about ‘illicit love’. It also manifested itself in the erotic sculptures in the temples of Khajuraho in the ninth century, which have long puzzled people. I believe they were an expression of the power of the Chandela Rajput kings—just as rajdharma was a manifestation of the king’s duty, so was rajkama a demonstration of the king’s pleasure. It seems to me that a civilization whose origins lie in kama would tend to be more understanding of the fallibility of human beings. If a civilization did not have a jealous god at the beginning, nor the Ten Commandments, it would allow dharma to be negotiable. Such a culture, it seems to me, would be more accepting and indulgent towards human desire, and possibly more humane.

  The ganja pandit brought a corrective to the Victorian attitudes that I acquired at my Christian missionary school. Thanks to him, I was more relaxed when it came to physical desire, unlike most of my schoolmates. I sometimes wonder if they went on to make a trade-off in later life, sublimating the natural desire for another human being into a desire for ‘things’ and ‘objects’. Is it possible to argue that the ubiquitous desire for ‘shopping’, which originated during the industrial revolution in the West and which has now swept the world, might originally have been a subliminal response to the ignominy associated with sexuality in the Judaeo-Christian tradition? Certainly, the middle class that came up under British influence in India and has continued to flourish in post-Independence India, had internalized these prudish Victorian attitudes. Of course, after the sexual liberation in the twentieth century, these attitudes have changed dramatically in the West and are going through a similar process in the rest of the world.

  Thinking about the past tends to bring me back to my lonesome childhood. Remembering one’s childhood is the next best thing to probing eternity, says Nabokov. The yearning to jump into my mother’s bed I think may have had more to do with my feelings of incompleteness rather than with erotic pleasure. The drama of my days as a child was related to a constant feeling of need and lack, accompanied by an almost intolerable seeking of solace from the most marvellous creature on the earth. At some point in my adult life I realized that sexuality does not aim merely at bodily pleasure and release but seeks to fill the same void. If kama had been only about bodily pleasure, then masturbation could have substituted for intercourse, and we could all have gone about our lives in peace and tranquillity without all the hullabaloo of love.

  Because I was a lonely child, I became aware early on of another ‘self’ inside me that was always watching me, sometimes making me feel guilty or ashamed. This other self is not Plato’s lonely self that is searching for its other half, yearning for love. It is our reflexive consciousness. The Mundaka Upanishad famously captured the idea of the ‘acting self’ and the ‘witnessing self’, and it did it thousands of years ago in a charming verse about two plumed birds who sit on a peepul tree: one eats the fruit, while the other, eating nothing, looks on intently:

  Two birds, twin images

  in plumage,

  friends, ever inseparable,

  cling to a tree.

  One eats the fruit,

  eats of the sweet and eats

  of the bitter,

  while the other watches,

  watches without eating.

  There is still some of that child in me that gets excited at the thought of the two birds sitting on the tree. The difficulty, though, in becoming too conscious of my other self—the witnessing self—is that it makes me grow detached from the world. It is one thing to be aware of the witness’s involuntary presence; it is quite another to become obsessed with oneself. When that happens, I find that you run the risk of becoming morbidly self-conscious and the witness has become a competitor to your friends and those you love.

  But let me not dwell any more on the melancholic aspects of self-consciousness. My mind is drawn to the poor sixteen-year-old who came under Isha’s spell. I smile at this adolescent who was willing to make a break with habit and risk his life for a vision of beauty and happiness. One of the benefits of age is to be able to escape some of the torment that is the lot of the young who are hopelessly in love. I laugh lightly and ironically today, and I’m not entirely sure why. I am thankful though that I am no longer that vulnerable adolescent. Yet, I am not so old that I cannot envy the luck of the person who will eventually possess Isha. The impulse of lust stings me at this unseemly thought and makes me blush.

  2

  GROWING PAINS

  Kama pessimists strike back mightily

  If you want to understand, really understand the way things are in this world, you’ve got to die at least once. And as that is the law, it is better to die while you are young, when you’ve still got time to pull yourself up and start again.

  —Giorgio Bassani, The Garden of the Finzi-Continis

  Soon after the Maliks’ Diwali party began my education in badminton and love, a phase at once more pleasurable and painful than anything before it. Through the excuse of lending myself as a fourth in badminton, I became a familiar visitor at 23 Prithviraj Road. I would arrive punctually at quarter past five, peep in hesitantly, and if I saw Isha in the garden, I would open the gate. Cho Yo would sometimes come running up to me. I would go past the unused tennis court, set my schoolbag on the lawn, and join the badminton game in progress. An hour later, Isha would leave for the club and I would bicycle home to my gloomy schoolbooks. I seemed to fit in neatly into that idle hour of her busy social life.

  When I woke up each morning I would ask myself: will she be there today? If it was raining, my hopes would be dashed. There would be no badminton and Isha would probably go directly from her school to visit a friend. The weather was an important ally and I prayed for each day to be clear. Sometimes, even on a perfectly sunny day, she would callously decide to go off with her mother to shop or visit someone. On these days, I would circle around her house and ensure that she was, in fact, absent, and return home defeated.

  On the following day I would ask her where she had been. She would answer baldly that she had gone to so-and-so’s birthday party. Or to a tea dance at the Ambassador Hotel. I would be curious to learn more and she did not mind telling me who was there and who was not, what they said and what they wore, and who fitted into the social hierarchy and who did not. And so I felt that I had, in fact, attended the party. In this way I got to know her friends, and more importantly, I began to share her confidences. I knew whom she liked and disliked and I felt a thrill to be part of her world even in this vicarious way.

  She usually returned from the club in time for dinner. But occasionally, she would return home early to dress up to go to an evening party. These were grand affairs, to which I was naturally not invited. She often went with her mother. The clothes and the jewellery determined the brilliance of the party, as the people present were always the same. Since she had begun wearing a sari she was even more conscious of clothes. On these evenings, I would be at home, filled with longing, and thinking of her laughing and flirting.

  One evening Isha did not go to the club. She asked me to stay back after badminton and got busy with getting ready for a party in honour of the new British high commissioner. After she had dressed, she asked me how she looked.

  ‘Come, Amar, you may ride with me to the embassy,’ she said.

  I looked puzzled. ‘I am not inviting you to the party, you fool. I am inviting you to ride with me. After the car drops me, it will bring you back here, and you can pick up your bicycle and go home.’

  The prospect of sitting close to Isha even for a little while, enclosed snugly in a car, was unexpected happiness. As I got in with my schoolbag, she warned me to be careful and not crush her new dress. She leaned back as though seated in a comfortable armchair at home. I sat up nervo
us and stiff with my bag between my legs, trying not to touch her clothes. I smelled the padded leather seats, the armrests and the luxury inside the saloon car. As the driver picked up speed I felt exhilarated as we flew along the wide boulevards of Lutyens’ Delhi. Soon a heavy mist came along, and then drops of rain fell on the windowpanes. Inside, it felt perilously intimate. The car stopped suddenly and I was thrown back against her. Her long plaits softly brushed my cheek, and I felt a thrill. The rain grew stronger. We started to move again. My arm touched hers by accident but she did not remove it. I looked at her and there was a suggestive smile on her face.

  She took my hand just before we reached our destination and pressed it gently. She alighted quickly and was soon lost in the confusion of the fashionable clothes and the glittering guests who were all arriving at the same time. The car turned around. I looked back and thought I spotted her in the crowd. She seemed to smile at a familiar-looking man, who was tall and lightly built with straight, black hair. He put his arm around her in a familiar way, and I knew it was Anand.

  On the way back I was filled with jealous thoughts. I told myself that it might not have been Anand; it might not even have been Isha. I began to believe that I had been mistaken and so my jealousy gradually subsided. But I was tormented by another thought: she was enjoying herself in a place of enchantment that I could never hope to approach. The picture of Anand placing his arm around her kept intruding, however; perhaps it was only an innocent gesture, and there was nothing to it. Moreover, had she not pressed my hand before leaving? When I remembered her touch, I felt reassured.

  I woke up the next morning determined to find out what had happened the previous evening. Was Anand there or not? I rushed to her house after school. She had left early to visit a friend, but her maid told me that she would be at the club subsequently. I jumped on to my bicycle and rode till I reached the imposing wrought iron gate of the club. I waited there for her. At last, after almost an hour, I saw her arrive in her saloon and eagerly went up to her as the driver slowed for the gate to open. She was not pleased but she asked me to hop in.

  ‘I was told that you were going to be at the club, and I thought I would catch you.’

  As we got off at the reception area, she said, ‘I haven’t much time. Neena will be here soon. I told her I’d meet her here at six.’

  ‘Do you mind if we talk for a bit?’ I implored.

  ‘If you want to,’ she said indifferently.

  She walked in brusquely, signed me in as a guest, and quickly led me to a waiting room. I tried to think of something to say but I couldn’t. She didn’t bother either. After an uncomfortable silence, she got up. She wanted to get rid of me.

  ‘I must go,’ she said, and left without saying goodbye.

  I walked back to the gate to get my bicycle. I was feeling miserable and should have gone home, but I couldn’t. I walked with my bicycle to the exit gate. The gatekeeper looked suspiciously at me but chose to ignore me. While I was waiting, a car similar to Isha’s came by towards the gate. My heart leapt and I hurried to have a look. I was about to say something when I realized it was a stranger. After more than an hour Isha’s car finally appeared. When she saw me, she turned her face the other away. I begged her to open her window.

  She was annoyed. ‘Why did you wait for me?’

  ‘Because I had to.’

  ‘Don’t you have anything else to do?’ She turned around to see if anyone was looking. ‘Did anyone see you waiting for me?’ she asked.

  ‘I must know: was Anand there at the party last night?’

  ‘Were you spying on me?’

  ‘No. I thought I saw him as I was leaving.’

  ‘And what if he was?’ she asked defiantly.

  ‘Why are you so beastly today? You were so nice to me yesterday.’

  ‘I don’t like to be surprised,’ she answered coldly. ‘Listen, Amar, I am going away to Calcutta for the winter holidays with my cousins. You need not stop at our house any more.’

  ‘Will I see you again?’ I pleaded.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  She began to close the window of her car and motioned to the driver to move on.

  ‘Wait!’ I shouted.

  She turned her head and looked the other way.

  ~

  The Rig Veda thought of kama as a basic force of nature, permeating all animate life. To me, however, kama seemed only to pile one humiliation upon another in my one-sided love for Isha. Yet, this has not deterred me from trying to penetrate kama’s mysteries. After all these years, I have still not fully grasped its ambiguities, and much of kama remains a riddle. In the course of my life, I have learnt many things, however. Initially, kama was an animating principle in the Vedas; it did not have a specific object of love. How then did a force of nature metamorphose into romantic love?

  There are hints in the Upanishads; as well as in Plato, in Freud and in Proust, all of whom I encountered at the university. But no one, as far as I can tell, has offered a definitive answer. Based on my own experience, I have come to believe that, unlike animals, human beings have the power of the imagination, and this power is somehow able to transform kama’s impersonal energy into sexual love for a specific individual. The complex human mind does not stop there. In its boundless ambition it turns this life force into other kinds of love—self-love, love for parents and children, friendship and love for humanity and God. Odd as it may seem, these other forms of love are also an expression of the same instinctual energy. Thanks to our ability to fantasize, kama has thus come a long way from being a force of nature to an emotional orientation towards the world, spreading through the psychological life of all human beings. Without imagination there would be no such thing as love.

  What the ancient Indian poets referred to as kama, the Greeks called eros. Eros fascinated the great philosopher Plato, and his dialogues, Symposium and Phaedrus, are among the most influential works on love in the western tradition. In them, Plato offers a striking way to think about this emotion. He says eros is a longing to possess someone. Lovers long for sexual intercourse because they are driven to fill a lack in themselves and to possess the person they love. In the Symposium, Aristophanes refers to a mythical time when human beings were ‘whole’ and did not need each other. Even our shapes were round and symmetrical and we could roll in any direction. As a result, we were very powerful and we challenged the gods. But Zeus, the king of gods, found a way to cut us down to size. He literally chopped the spherical beings into two.

  As a result, human beings stand erect, walk on two feet, and seem to have unfinished front parts. Our incompleteness makes us long for our other half. This search is the origin of sexual desire. Each human being is seeking to unite himself with the other half to become whole again. As our genitals face outwards, the male can insert itself into the female, and in doing so restore the original round and complete nature. The profound pleasure we get from sex is a recompense for living in this unnatural, chopped state of loneliness. Hence, Plato defines love as ‘a demand for the whole . . . We love only that which we do not wholly possess.’

  I bought into this account fully because my childhood and adolescence were bathed in a constant feeling of absence and of wanting to possess what I did not have. Sigmund Freud, the founder of psychoanalysis, referred to this ‘lack’ as the human longing to return to a womblike state of oneness—the memory of a time when we were infants and did not differentiate the world from ourselves; we believed we were whole and complete; when we learnt to separate the world from ourselves, this ‘lack’ expressed itself as a yearning for our mother’s love. As we grew older, we gradually got over these infantile feelings. Many adults do not, however, and Freud felt that this brought about excessive jealousy, revengeful thoughts and wanting to possess and control our lovers—all this comes in the way of attaining a mature and healthy adult relationship of love.

  I find that in India we are quite willing to acknowledge our feelings of neediness and lack of self-sufficiency, b
ut in the West, it is considered shameful to admit to it, for it suggests a lack of control. The western male, in particular, is unwilling to disclose that he is vulnerable and suppresses his awareness of attachment to others. This difference may go back to our formative experiences as children, which have nurtured our emotional intelligence as adults; also the fact that many of us grow up in joint families in India unlike the nuclear families in the West. The infant experiences many moments of discomfort and frustration, which are useful. ‘Indeed, some frustration of the infant’s wants by the mother’s or caretaker’s separate comings and goings is essential to development—for if everything were always simply given in advance of discomfort, the child would never try out its own projects of control . . . The child’s evolving recognition that the caretaker sometimes fails to bring it what it wants gives rise to an anger that is closely linked to its emerging love.’

  However, much as Plato, Freud and the poets of the Rig Veda might disagree, they wanted to illuminate the human condition and teach us how to live. More than any thinker after the Rig Veda, Freud grasped that the living cell would fall apart without the animating principle of kama and tried to connect human love to a cosmic force in nature. He also sought a connection between the life force and the intimacy of the infant’s life. And he went on to speculate that romantic love aims to restore the lost unity of the ‘womblike state of oneness’.