Kama

by Gurcharan Das

  I felt enormous compassion for Anna, as I did for Isha, even though she had broken my heart. Isha was also defeated by a cruel society, and I asked myself, should I applaud the two women for their passion or should I condemn them as their societies did? Reading Tolstoy’s novel has taught me to rise above the questions of admiration and condemnation and face the stoic truth: this is how the world is. Isha, like Anna, discovered that love is both a curse and a blessing. In some stories, the heroine experiences love mostly as a godsend miracle. Elizabeth Bennet, for example, in Pride and Prejudice. But in Anna Karenina’s life, it came as a wild, elemental force over which she had little control. Indeed, there were grand moments of fleeting happiness but more often, love was terribly cruel and dangerous. Hers was a noble affair with Vronsky even though it ended with her killing herself. At the end, I wondered, would Anna have been better off had she not fallen in love with Vronsky? And would Isha have been better off without Anand?

  This hypothetical question is not easy to answer and it may not even be legitimate. It certainly goes against the religion of love that has taken such a mesmerizing hold on the human imagination, persisting for thousands of years ever since Nala’s love for Damayanti in the Mahabharata or the lyrical poems of Sappho (to cite only two examples from antiquity). Romantic love was only discovered in the medieval period both in the West and the East, and it quickly became full-blown. In the religious mythology of star-crossed lovers, Anna’s death was a noble sacrifice to love. She surrendered everything—her son, her home, her family, her enviable place in society—for the sake of love. Nothing good seemed to come from her romance with Vronsky. Everyone, I suppose, would have been better off if it had not happened: her son, Seryozha, and her husband, Karenin, certainly. Was it worth it?

  It doesn’t help to pose counterfactuals—what if the law was not biased against women? Or if religious prohibitions against divorce were absent? Or courtship conventions did not force girls to marry young? The point is that this was how it was and it turned out badly for Anna Karenina. The tragic consequences of illicit love expose an old conflict between dharma and kama. If dharma is a duty to others, especially to the social order, kama is a duty to oneself. In the epics, the Mahabharata and the Ramayana, marriage is mostly idealized as a social and religious duty. The obligation of chastity is a far greater obligation for a woman than a man in a patriarchal society. In its didactic stories, dharma usually trumps kama because the female protagonist intuitively recognizes her duty to dharma and the error of hurting others in the pursuit of her pleasure.

  Stories on this theme abound in all cultures. Most of us are aware of dharma, our duty to others. But we do not recognize that we might also have a duty to ourselves. It is odd to think of kama as duty when one normally thinks of pleasure and desire as temptations. Anna Karenina speaks to us because she forces us to think of kama as a duty. Who has not been tempted by the alluring prospect of love when a handsome and charming stranger comes along, especially at a time when conjugal love has waned and the fear of mortality has set in? One might think that this is one’s last chance for a certain kind of happiness before one dies. Might this have been the subconscious reason that drove Anna Karenina to Vronsky?

  Anna and Vronsky were kama optimists and took great risks with their lives. But society is neither optimistic nor pessimistic, it is realistic. It is not kind to illicit love and their lives ended badly. Anand and Isha were kama optimists as well. They defied Bombay’s establishment, transgressing the boundaries of social acceptability. When they did not redeem themselves through marriage, society came down harshly, especially on Isha—a woman is always more vulnerable in an unequal, patriarchal society. Even in the relatively liberated upper-middle–class circle that Isha moved in, she stood out. When we last met at the Gym, she had juxtaposed ‘love’ and ‘respect’. That seemed odd to me. Most of us value respect and do not consider it the opposite of love or a substitute for it. Respect is a public virtue, while love is a private one. Once people began to realize that Anand was not going to marry her, Isha quickly became an outcast and lost social respectability. What she feared most was the loss of Anand’s love. Respectability was her husband’s great concern, preferring a rotten marriage to an honest divorce.

  Anna Karenina is a cautionary tale about the perilous nature of love. But even more, it is about the importance of balance between sexual freedom and sexual convention. So, one answer to the question, ‘what do lovers want?’, lies in the desire for a balance between liberty and greed. It is a delicate poise. Although this sort of repression has mostly disappeared in the West since the time of Anna Karenina and sexual freedom pervades young lives, the balance still matters. Even in these liberated times in the West, Anna’s conflicts are relevant. A woman may still live with a man she doesn’t love; she may still feel shame and guilt for having a secret affair without telling her partner; she may still hate her man for forgiving her; she may still find that her friends side with her partner; and she may still find that the man for whom she left her husband doesn’t understand her at all.

  ~

  Avanti and I had remained in close touch since she came to Bombay, going out to the movies, exhibitions and concerts. She spent more time dressing up, especially in the evenings, and I liked to be seen with a good-looking woman. She was forever reading books and was happy to talk about them. So, we always had interesting things to say to each other. A few days after Isha’s humiliation at the theatre, Avanti called, sounding nervous and worried. She had received a telegram from her parents. They were arriving the following day. She was apprehensive that they were bringing another marriage proposal and she wanted me to be around for moral support. ‘Will you come home for dinner?’ she pleaded.

  ‘I shall do better. Let me invite you to the Taj Hotel, all three of you—you won’t have to worry about cooking and serving and we can chat at leisure.’

  ‘Oh? That would be so nice. But you know, I think they would be more comfortable at home.’

  ‘In that case, come to my place. Shall we say eight o’clock?’

  And so, two days later, I looked down with anticipation from my terrace and spotted Avanti walking towards my building accompanied by her parents. Her face was hidden by the shadows of the banyan tree. I felt my heart skip a beat, and I didn’t quite understand why I was trembling with anticipation. I was supposed to be performing a duty and why was I all in a quiver? A few minutes later I opened the door and welcomed the Sharma family. Avanti’s mother gave me a warm hug. I drank in with glad eyes the special way in which Avanti walked in behind them—the way she leaned her head in a way that was hers alone, sloping against her shoulder.

  After we sat down to dinner, Sharma-ji asked Avanti how she spent her time.

  ‘Reading.’

  ‘And what do you do on weekends?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing much, I read.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know for sure. Many, many hours. I also have Sanskrit classes at Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan on Saturdays—they have a very good teacher. Sometimes, I go to the ashram at Igatpuri.’

  ‘You are too young to go off to ashrams. And what is it going to lead to?’ he asked.

  ‘Wisdom if I am lucky; but some knowledge I hope,’ Avanti said with a playful smile.

  ‘It doesn’t sound very practical,’ said Sharma-ji. His sense of the practical was robust and well defined: a man had to work; a woman had to get married.

  ‘Did you hear from any of the families we wrote to you about? We sent you three proposals in the past year.’

  ‘Yes, some of them did call. I did answer some phone calls. I said I would call them back.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I forgot.’

  Sharma-ji explained that a ‘brilliant proposal’ had recently come from a ‘very nice Brahmin family from here, from posh Malabar Hill’.

  ‘You can’t imagine the thrill of reading the Upanishads in the original,’ interrupted Avanti. ‘It’s as tho
ugh you were walking a few inches above the ground.’ She got up from her chair, impelled by an exhilaration that had seized her. She walked around the table. ‘I wish I could make you feel the excitement of the life of the mind. It’s rich and illimitable. I feel a sense of elation—I wouldn’t exchange it for anything in the world.’

  Mrs Sharma gave her an indulgent look.

  ‘Is there something in particular you are looking for?’ I asked.

  ‘I want to make up my mind whether there is a god. What happens to us when we die? I want to know whether I have an immortal soul; will I be reborn?’

  Sharma-ji gave a gasp.

  I was impressed by the lightness of Avanti’s tone, as though she were making small talk about the weather. Although she spoke of serious things, she spoke of them with light-hearted modesty.

  ‘But, Avanti,’ pleaded her mother, ‘people have been asking these questions for thousands of years. If they could be answered, surely they’d have been answered by now.’

  I looked on with amusement at this extraordinary conversation.

  ‘Don’t laugh as if I’d said something daft,’ Avanti said sharply.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I think what you’ve said is something important. If people have been asking these questions for thousands of years, it proves that they can’t help asking them and they will go on asking them.’

  She smiled at me. It was cosy and trustful, but I also detected something rueful in it. I continued to watch her as she chatted about this and that. There was constant change in her expression, from grave to gay, from reflective to playful. But I also sensed that something was troubling her—was she a little frightened of herself?

  Suddenly, Avanti jumped up with a grin. ‘With all this excitement, I have to go to the bathroom.’

  With her daughter away, Mrs Sharma turned to me. ‘I don’t understand the possible use of learning a dead language like Sanskrit.’

  ‘And you are only supposed to go to the ashram towards the end of your life. What’s the good of knowledge if you’re not going to do anything with it,’ wailed Sharma-ji.

  ‘Do you know this is precisely what I admire in her,’ I said.

  ‘But it is so unpractical. She should be learning to cook and look after the house,’ Mrs Sharma said.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Sharma-ji with exasperation. ‘When she was young, she was like everybody else. You wouldn’t think it now but she played a good game of tennis.’

  ‘And badminton too,’ added his wife.

  ‘She used to do all the things that ordinary people do. She was like everyone else.’ Sharma-ji turned to look at me. ‘Now, you’re young like her; you’ve lived in the city and known her for many years; how do you explain it?’

  ‘But this is why I admire her—she is not your usual middle-class type. She wants something else, and even if she doesn’t get it—even if the dream doesn’t come true—its rather thrilling to have dreamt it. She wants to make something of her life.’

  ‘Oh, you’re no help,’ Mrs Sharma said with frustration.

  ‘Besides, there are worse ways to spend your life than reading and meditating.’

  ‘You’re not the father of an unmarried daughter,’ said Sharma-ji with resignation. Then he suddenly gave me a strange look. ‘What about the two of you? You do see a lot of each other, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, we are very good friends. In fact, she is my best friend.’

  Avanti’s parents failed in their mission to get their daughter engaged. She met the young man on Malabar Hill but dismissed him immediately. Sharma-ji felt discouraged and irritated. To lower the domestic temperature, I suggested an evening picnic after work on Juhu beach. So, the following day, we found ourselves on the beach amidst strollers, hawkers and sundry entertainers. Unsurprisingly, the subject of marriage came up again, and a long discussion ensued. Avanti was grateful that I had come along. She was in a conciliatory mood and reassured her parents that she was not against marriage but the time was not right and neither had the right person come along.

  ‘But you’re not getting any younger,’ lamented her mother.

  ‘You’ll die old and lonely,’ warned her father.

  By the end of the evening, Avanti had put their minds at considerable ease, saying that she believed in the duty of a woman to marry, and she would do so. They looked at me, seeking some sort of reassurance, that I would see to it that she fulfilled her promise. Then Avanti said something very interesting. She believed in love, she said. ‘But in an authentic marriage, love is born after marriage.’ True love existed in the heart, she felt, and it is selflessly directed to bring happiness to the beloved. ‘It is pure and altruistic unlike self-seeking desire.’ She was willing to wait for marriage before giving in to desire. Clearly, she had given the matter some thought.

  After a couple of weeks in Bombay, Mr and Mrs Sharma returned to Ujjain feeling somewhat less bothered but still anxious about their unmarried daughter. Although she cried profusely at the railway station, Avanti was relieved to see them go. Slowly, our lives returned to normal.

  ~

  When Sharma-ji had given me that strange look and asked ‘What about the two of you?’, he was struggling to understand how two adults—male and female—could be friends. He presumed, as do so many, that such a friendship is a rare and difficult achievement. Although he was a proud Brahmin, he was also desperate to see his daughter married, and would have settled for me had we decided to marry. Meanwhile, he tried but failed to comprehend our relationship.

  Kama, of course, means both desire and pleasure; and the pleasure can be of all kinds, not just the sexual kind. One of the great sources of pleasure in human life is friendship. Aristotle certainly thought so. The visit of Avanti’s parents to Bombay got me thinking about the significance of my relationship with Avanti. Aristotle believes that there are three kinds of love—agape, eros and philia. Simply put, agape is the love of God for man—so, at least a Christian believes; eros is the romantic love between lovers; philia is the sort of love that exists between friends. The obvious difference between eros and philia is that one has sex with one’s eros lover, not with one’s philia friend. The subtler difference is that one can be in erotic love with someone who doesn’t reciprocate one’s feelings, as in my case with Isha; however, it is rare to have a non-reciprocal friendship. Friendship is by definition mutual.

  In the highest form of friendship, Aristotle believes, friends hold a mirror to each other. Since they do not judge, friends are able to let their guard down and see their real selves in their reflections. In this way, friends help each other become better persons, not only enriching their own lives but also enhancing the meaning of life. This is why friendship is an integral part of happiness and a flourishing life. I sometimes puzzle at the easy way some people refer to their remotest acquaintances as ‘friends’. They don’t hesitate to call business associates and colleagues friends, some of whom they barely know beyond the shallow roots of their professional connections; they drop names of celebrities, calling them friends; they mistake mutual admiration for friendship. By overusing the word, they render true friendship empty of meaning. It is important to use words correctly and a way to bring precision in this case is to follow the method of the Stoic philosophers when they instructed people in ethical behaviour.

  Stoics used to think of human relations in the form of concentric circles, with oneself at the centre; the family came in the innermost circle, followed by a wider circle of neighbours; then an even wider one of local community; next came the fellow citizens of a nation; and finally, humanity in the widest circle. The ethical path was to learn to gradually widen one’s circle of concern from oneself and one’s family to the whole of humanity in order to become altruistic. The same method could be used to define a true friend by creating concentric circles of intimacy. In the outermost circle are acquaintances, followed by a circle of persons with shared interests and positive regard; in the next circle are kindred spirits, with the
same values and bound by mutual sympathy; finally, in the innermost circle are friends, before whom we are willing to strip our public selves and reveal our imperfect, vulnerable selves, with the confidence that it will not diminish their admiration or affection for us.

  Going by this, I would have said that Avanti and I had a lot going for our friendship. There was truth and tenderness in our relationship, with plenty of complex conversations between human hearts. We derived much pleasure in going to concerts, exhibitions and movies. In fact, having Avanti for a friend was indispensable to my spiritual survival in Bombay. Ironically, it was Sharma-ji’s search for a husband and sexual partner for Avanti that made me aware of the significance of my friendship with her in the context of kama’s broader sense of pleasure.

  Aristotle, I think, would also have approved of Avanti’s definition of love. He called philia a desire to do ‘what is good for the other, not for one’s own sake but for theirs’. The Sanskrit word for acting for the good of someone else is anrishamsya. Aristotle refers to this virtue in the context of friendship, which he regards as the best species of love. Like Avanti, he connects love with kindness. What is remarkable about Aristotle, and Avanti’s approach is that human beings normally don’t behave in this way—they act out of self-interest, which was the usual motivation driving Anand and Isha. Aristotle suggests that in friendship and in love another person comes to be a ‘second self’, meaning that concern with what is good for them directs our actions.