I also discovered later that much of Christianity’s ambivalent attitudes towards sex and love could be traced to Augustine of Hippo’s early Christian teachings, especially in his book, The City of God. As to whether there was sex in the Garden of Eden, he was ambivalent. He would have preferred if children had been begotten by purely spiritual love, ‘uncorrupted by lust’ and without the sexual act. ‘Copulation would have been just like shaking hands.’
I continued to live with the mistaken idea of equating the West with Christianity, believing it to be body-hating and uptight (compared to the freewheeling, sexually liberal ethos of ancient India) until I reached university. There I discovered Kamadeva’s cousin, Eros, who had fascinated Plato. Eros was one of the first gods to be born in Greek mythology, as the archaic poet, Hesiod, tells us in a poem called ‘Theogony’. In the beginning, he says, there was chaos and out of it was born Eros, the ‘fairest among deathless gods’:
First of all chaos came into existence, thereafter . . .
All of the deathless gods who inhabit the heights of Olympus,
. . . also Eros, most beautiful god among all the immortals,
Loosening limbs, dominating the hearts and the minds and the well-laid
Plans both of all the immortals and all of susceptible mankind.
Eros was followed by Darkness and Night, and they united in love to produce Light and Day. As Hesiod says, eros achieved its goal of creating desire by ‘loosening limbs and weakening the mind’. Like kama, eros was initially an abstract principle of desire, but it went on to become the son of the goddess Aphrodite (Venus). He too was youthful and had a bow and shot arrows to make people fall in love. Eros is what drove Paris to fall in love with Helen, the wife of Agamemnon, and brought about the Trojan War. Eros is also playful—he shakes his victims and causes confusion, according to Sappho (not unlike Kamadeva who shook up Shiva in meditation). The main difference is that Kamadeva was independently powerful whereas Eros was mostly an assistant to his mother Aphrodite, the goddess of love. Yet, in spirit, they were identical as I learnt from reading Daphnis and Chloe:
Love, my children, is a god, young and beautiful and winged. That’s why he delights in youth and pursues beauty and gives wings to the soul. And he can do greater things than Zeus himself. He has power over the elements, he has power over the stars, he has power over his fellow gods . . . The flowers are all Love’s handiwork. The trees are his creations. He is the reason why the rivers run and winds blow.
Did Indians borrow Kamadeva from the Greeks or was it the other way around? As a cosmic principle of desire in the creation myths, Kamadeva appears earlier—the Rig Veda is dated around the fifteenth century BCE while Hesiod is in the seventh century BCE. But as a god of love, Eros seems to have come first. Handsome Kamadeva is not visible in any written text until the second century BCE whereas the youthful Eros is found in Euripides’s Iphigenia at Aulis (406 BCE) and in the writings of the Alexandrian poets of the fourth century BCE. Of course, it is impossible to say with certainty because both gods evolved in oral storytelling. The similarity between the cousins suggests communication between the two peoples. Certainly, after Alexander the Great’s campaign to India in the fourth century BCE, there were continuing relations between the Greeks and Indians under Chandragupta Maurya.
~
As soon as I returned from school the following Monday, I changed into fresh clothes and put on a new sweater. My mother was disappointed that there was no gold-embossed invitation from 23 Prithviraj Road on this occasion. But she was happy that I was going. Aditi Malik was famous for her informal get-togethers where my mother had heard that the most interesting people gathered. She thought I might meet a powerful politician or a crafty official or even an industrialist—and all of them might further my advance in the world. A conversation with a writer or an artist might open my eyes to the latest trends in the world of art and literature. She thought me exceptionally fortunate to have the chances that had been denied to her. As I was leaving, she thrust a box of sweets in my hands to give to Isha’s mother.
I arrived early at Isha’s house and waited nervously for the others to arrive. Some of the staff moved about arranging things in the brightly lit drawing room. I knew many of them by now. Everyone surrounding Isha had acquired a special significance. I smiled at a pretty maidservant in glasses. She must have been in her thirties and was always warm and considerate to me. She seemed to sense my vulnerability. She offered me hot cocoa. I blushed as I declined her offer. She was still treating me like a boy. I was embarrassed because I felt very grown up this evening.
Soon more guests arrived. I looked around trying to spot Isha. I walked a few steps to the window on the right, and I knew at once she was there by the terror that seized me. She waved from afar and smiled, and my world brightened. I was still a bit giddy from her kiss the previous evening. I remembered the delicious sensation of her lips tugging on mine, her tongue moving in my mouth. She must have been thinking of the same thing because she came over and said, ‘Did we kiss yesterday?’ After a pause, she added, ‘It was just a kiss; it really didn’t mean anything.’ Then she flitted over to her mother, who was welcoming two dignitaries. General Thapar, the chief of staff, and a high-ranking official from the ministry of culture had come together and had arrived early.
‘I think people are plain stupid who want to stay at home rather than go to a party,’ I overheard the bald-headed Justice Seth say. ‘If you are not seen everywhere, you are soon forgotten.’
‘Come, come, you are too cynical, Judge,’ said his companion, whom I recognized from the Diwali party, with a laugh. ‘Hardly something to teach this bright young lad,’ he said and looked directly at me. I smiled uneasily. ‘If you are inclined to think the worst of your fellowmen . . .’
‘Look at Chandi,’ interrupted the judge. ‘Ever since he abandoned society he has been forgotten.’
‘Did I hear my name?’ asked a well-endowed lady with a bounteous, exposed bosom, who was sitting nearby on a sofa and whom I remembered vividly from the Diwali party. The men immediately turned around and moved closer to her.
‘Not you, my dear, but your extraordinary husband,’ replied Justice Seth.
Whenever her husband’s name was mentioned, the princess of Chandi put on a dignified expression. It was no secret that the husband and wife were not getting along ever since her affair was exposed. I had heard about the scandal from Anand who had unexpectedly dropped in to see us a few weeks earlier. The princess was relieved when her husband decided to become a yogi and move to a forest lodge on his Himalayan estate. My father was filled with admiration for the prince but everyone in Delhi’s society felt sorry for him. The princess responded to solicitous remarks about her husband’s decision by making it appear that she was the ‘injured party’. As in all things, she managed an expression that people found attractive and gracious.
My father, who was generally quiet, suddenly became animated during Anand’s visit. He denounced the artificial nature of society and its infidelities. He likened Chandi’s situation to the world-weary king of Ujjaini in the first century, who was rewarded with the unimaginable gift of immortality. The king loved his wife intensely, he recounted, and gave her the precious gift. The queen, however, was in love with one of the courtiers and bestowed it on her paramour, who, in turn, passed it on to one of his mistresses. The mistress, it turned out, was in love with the king and she presented it back to him. Reflecting on this bizarre chain of events, the disappointed king cursed his love, renounced society and retired to the forest.
Whereas my father spoke in praise of renunciation, I took a different, more discouraging message from his story. The paradoxical situation, both of the king and the prince of Chandi, had to do with the inherently unequal nature of love. The one who loves more is always more vulnerable, and I was only too aware of this in my obsessive love for Isha.
‘I always thought His Highness was a bit peculiar,’ said the judge trying to win the p
rincess’s sympathy. Men who had never said a bad word about Chandi suddenly became critical, hoping in this way to come closer to the lovely princess. She had always been regarded as a great beauty and had turned many a head, especially in her youth. The judge had openly flirted with her but without much success. Her attraction lay in the mystery of her life, and now that the mystery had been exposed, some men in Delhi’s society took that to mean that she might be more easily available. But they were mistaken.
Our gracious hostess had now joined the group. ‘His Highness was always an independent man and I am afraid he found our parties trivial and boring,’ she said, trying to console the princess. She had, in fact, liked the old prince and had been observing over the years his growing revulsion for society. His wife, however, couldn’t do without it. There was bound to be tension when two people were so different in a marriage.
Bharat Mirla also joined the group and in a soft voice reminded Aditi Malik that she ought to devote more time to overseeing her businesses. He pulled out a newspaper clipping from his pocket and read out news about further controls in the offing over business houses.
‘I don’t trust Nehru, Aditi. Not one bit.’
‘Such a darling man, Jawaharlal! How can you say that? I think I am in love with him.’
‘So is Edwina Mountbatten, and every woman I know.’
‘But he is such a saint!’
‘No, he is a socialist. In any case, saints should not be allowed to run countries.’
Bharat Mirla was expressing a minority view. Except for the business community, everyone was in love with Nehru—from the upper-middle class down to the poorest. He sought five goals—national unity, parliamentary democracy, a slow reform of society, a socialist economy and non-alignment in international affairs—and the country was behind him on all these objectives.
Isha’s mother was distracted suddenly, and I followed her eyes, which went to the entrance where she had spotted Anand arriving. Through her eyes I saw Anand walk in. He was wearing comfortable white pants and a loose-fitting white shirt with a sweater tied around his neck. Nothing remarkable in itself, but the effect he produced was of quiet Oxbridge elegance. He seemed to grow handsomer as he moved gracefully, with an air of easy assurance and confidence. I turned to look at Isha, who blushed and became visibly aroused by Anand. Her eyes remained fixed on him as though she were under a spell. My eyes were fastened on her, and so it came as a shock when Anand came suddenly behind me and put his arm around me. Isha rushed towards us and I thought I would finally get a chance to talk to her. But she had eyes only for Anand and she ignored me. She grasped Anand’s hand and led him towards the alcove.
I watched the two with torment. She kept unashamedly staring at his face. I noticed an easy intimacy between them as she casually put her hand on his head, trying to fix the centre parting of his hair. As it came down, her hand touched his lean neck and slim arms. I was left in no doubt about Isha’s feelings. It was more difficult to decipher how Anand felt. Despite his ironic look, he must have found her attentions agreeable. I was troubled by the way he looked at her naked shoulders and arms. I had a feeling that the barrier of modesty, which is usually present between a man and a woman in public, had collapsed between them. If Anand had placed his hand on her bare arm or even her neck, it would have been the most natural thing. I could not make out what they were saying but I felt there were hidden, intimate meanings in everything they said. Suddenly I was embarrassed, becoming conscious that I had been spying on them. I felt guilty and jealous at the same time as I turned away.
My eye caught that of Isha’s mother, who was once again engaged by Bharat Mirla. I had an imploring look that seemed to ask: what does all this mean? But Isha’s mother was oblivious to the torment in my soul and smiled back warmly from afar with a look which seemed to say, ‘I am so glad you’re here and I hope you are happy. Do enjoy yourself.’ Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t help turning back to look at my tormenters. Isha squeezed Anand’s arm above the elbow. He seemed startled. Her brilliant eyes looked deep into his. I shivered as Anand gave her a tender smile. She took his hand and led him outside. I groaned. I too was irrevocably drawn outside and followed them towards the lawn.
It was a bright moonlit evening and I had to be careful not to be seen. I walked quickly and stood behind the closest tree. I saw them kiss. I looked at her and saw a joyous light flash in her eyes from the reflection of the moon. A smile of happiness curved her lips. Anand seemed to make an effort to control himself and his face acquired a strange look. His usual self-possessed manner and carelessly calm expression had vanished. He was bewildered, humble and even submissive.
They kissed again, and I escaped from behind the tree and from the party.
After that evening, I realized that Isha would not belong to me; my feelings would not be returned and I would never attain a certain kind of happiness. It was painful as I saw her grow more and more distant. Her manner also became distracted. With a feeling of weariness, I would begin each morning by thinking about the ways that I might please her. I wanted to bring her something that would light up her face and she might smile in the way that she had on the day after the winter break. On a rare day when she managed to be kind to me, I would imagine how nice it would be to hold her hand, to sit on the sofa, talk intimately, and even kiss her. Or lying in bed, I would try and picture that I had broken my leg. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she would be the nurse assigned to look after me? I got into the habit of oscillating between fear and hope and subjecting every bit of evidence to elaborate consideration, desperately wanting to give it a more hopeful interpretation.
Instead of my fantasies, I would be faced with the reality of seeing her irritated as soon as she saw me the following day. She knew I would come back, as tender and submissive as before, and so she began to treat me as she would a servant. I could not help myself, but despite everything, I could not bear the thought of not seeing her. If love cannot exist without the imagination, neither can the rebuff or the snub. For weeks on end, after the party, I lay awake in bed going over the scenes beginning with the day that I had first seen her. I pictured her sitting in the club lounge, drinking tea and looking with admiration at Anand. I thought of the many ways that my life might have been different and I would begin to sob. I would shift on my pillow and resolve never to see her again. But the next moment I wanted to be with her; I wanted to touch her. Her long face, her smooth skin, her dark eyes would not leave me.
~
Yes indeed, kama is a mighty pain. It is a wonder that the vulnerable boy managed to survive his miserable, jealousy-racked love. If I had been able to counsel the hopelessly-in-love sixteen-year-old, I would have given him advice somewhat different from his father’s. This is because I am hopelessly in love with life. I would have reminded him that kama is an attitude of the mind—a world without it would indeed be arid and unbearable. I would have warned the adolescent about the mighty risk in loving another human being. But I would have added that one must also be ready for the day when beauty, joy and pleasure will become bitter.
If my grandmother’s ganja-smoking pandit was a kama optimist, my father was a kama pessimist. He belonged to a long and distinguished line of kama doubters and worriers going back thousands of years to the Upanishads—yogis, gurus, ascetics and all manner of spiritual entrepreneurs who had struggled with the temptations of desire in their goal to liberate themselves from human bondage. The sannyasi, ‘renouncer’, has always stood tall and splendid—‘a theatrical figure in ochre robes’—who has loomed large in the Indian imagination throughout history. The most famous, of course, was the Buddha, but even in later Vedic writings and in the Upanishads, the ascetic had begun to offer an alternative lifestyle.
The cheerful connotations of the word ‘kama’ began to turn gloomy. Although desire had divine antecedents, it arose from a feeling of incompleteness. The Upanishads try to show that this need for completeness can be fulfilled spiritually through meditation. Th
eir central theme is that a wise person avoids desires and attachments, for they bind him to the objects of his desire, and these bonds survive death; he who desires is born again. According to the Chandogya Upanishad, our desires are only satisfied when we have found our real self, our atman. But these very desires must be given up in order to attain the state of knowledge in which we realize that our atman is identical to the cosmic brahman. In the process, the meaning of kama also changes. In a later Upanishad, the Mundaka, the seer combines both senses of desire—to want to achieve what one desires and ironically to be free from that desire.
Kama pessimists began to flourish in north India when another lifestyle became possible with economic surplus after the sixth century BCE with the introduction of wetland paddy cultivation on the plains of the Ganges River; agricultural surplus brought prosperity; merchants emerged and so did other occupations; population grew and so did towns and kingdoms; and all this transformed the social, economic and political life of the people. Suddenly, it was possible for a person to choose a life. If kama optimists chose the settled, worldly, urban life of the ‘householder’, kama pessimists renounced it in favour of the ascetic’s wandering life. The renouncer challenged the old notions of heaven and immortality, which had been the great goals of the householder’s life. He insisted that the true goal was liberation from the human condition of suffering and repeated cycles of birth and death.
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