Kama

by Gurcharan Das

  ‘If that is true,’ I said half-jokingly, ‘then the body of a man and a woman is also sacred. And the love that unites the two bodies is also sacred.’

  I was surprised that she agreed with me and I was amused at the idea of my ascetic Avanti thinking of sexual love in sacred terms. ‘Everyone—high or low caste, animals and gods—they are all sacred, and so is their desire to unite with each other. It is the same desire to unite with god.’

  I looked at her sceptically.

  ‘It is because god is lovable.’

  ‘Do you think that human beings made god lovable by investing him with their love?’ I asked.

  ‘No, silly boy, it is the other way around. Because god is lovable, human beings can develop into creatures capable of loving him.’

  Even though Avanti was now more and more preoccupied with her guru, she continued to read voraciously. She was a relentless seeker and would surprise me with a new idea that she had encountered. I told her once to loosen up and enjoy the small pleasures of life. She gave me a funny look.

  ‘Reading and meditating are pleasures too!’

  Avanti’s rebuke reminded me that kama means all kinds of pleasures, not only sexual pleasure. Plato and Aristotle would, of course, have agreed enthusiastically with Avanti. The Epicurean poet Lucretius believed that intellectual pleasure was, in fact, the highest. Avanti’s inner world, it seemed to me, was a quiet refuge from an outer world of anxiety and turmoil. Some form of contemplation has always been the path to enlightenment, and it is a recurrent theme from the Buddha to Boethius, from Socrates to Schopenhauer.

  A few weeks after this extraordinary conversation, Avanti informed me that she was going away. Her office had transferred her to Bangalore—the newspaper wanted to strengthen its local reporting team in the newly growing city. The night before she left, we went to see an exquisite film—Satyajit Ray’s Charulata—and did not realize then that it would have a profound effect on our lives. As we left the cinema mesmerized, I casually mentioned to Avanti that I thought she resembled the heroine, played by the actress Madhabi Mukherjee.

  ‘Really!’ she said with a smile.

  The film had spoken to both of us. It held a significance for our lives that we were either too shy or too scared to confront. With tears in her eyes, she came close to me and gave me a hug as we bid farewell.

  ~

  Charulata opens with delightful audacity in a long, almost wordless sequence with the graceful heroine looking out of the window, trying to amuse herself, studying passers-by with engaged curiosity. She turns around and picks up a book lying on the bed; then discards it. She selects another one from the shelf. Before she can open it, she hears sounds in the street, and runs to pick up her opera glasses. She darts like a bird from one window to another, watching a street musician with his monkey. Then she trains her glasses on a chanting group of porters trotting with a palanquin. A portly, self-important Brahmin with a black umbrella goes past. Her husband now enters the room engrossed in the galley proofs of the next day’s paper; he scarcely notices her. She focuses her glasses on him as though he too is a species from the wondrous but unattainable world beyond her nest.

  A romantic drama, Charulata is based on a semi-autobiographical novella by Rabindranath Tagore. Set in an upper-middle–class home during the late nineteenth century, it presents a portrait of India’s cultivated classes in Calcutta at a time of intellectual ferment, a historical transition, when educated Indians became aware of the possibility of freedom from the British Raj. Charulata is the cultured but neglected wife of a liberal, enthusiastic newspaper owner and editor, who is kindly but distracted, thinking only of his next editorial. The winds of change are stirring inside her as well. Not content to be a passive Hindu wife, trapped in the brocaded cage of their home, she wants attention and yearns for freedom.

  Into the boredom of Charulata’s life arrives charming young Amal, a cousin of her husband. Full of life and enthusiasm, he is an aspiring writer, and is immediately drawn to her. True to their cultured upbringing, they reveal their feelings only through subtle hints—a sidelong gesture, a fleeting glance—as they drift unwittingly towards love. In a dazzling scene set in the leafy garden of their house, Amal lies on his back on a mat, watching his sister-in-law as she sways on a swing, back and forth, rising high above him, both delighting in their new-found erotic feelings. There is calm without but fire within.

  After this inspired moment of unconscious emotion in the garden, the mood of the film begins to darken imperceptibly. Amal becomes aware of his romantic feelings for her, and he flees promptly into a marriage and exile in England. She is devastated by her loss and breaks down on hearing of her beloved’s marriage. The husband suddenly comes face-to-face with the profound depth of their feelings for each other. From here the narrative moves silently towards the desolation of a trust betrayed.

  What gives the film nobility is the innocence and delicate pathos of the three lives. Their lack of consciousness and guile about what is happening within them gives them dignity. When there is an awakening to the reality about what is going on, there is genuine tragedy. Amal is the first to realize it; the heroine grows imperceptibly from unconscious to conscious striving; the husband is left to face the sudden, stark and unbelievable revelation.

  ~

  I began to miss Avanti as soon as she left. I was surprised that her absence affected me as it did. I began to lose the desire to go out and do all the things that we used to do together. I stopped going to concerts and movies and began to spend more and more time alone. I thought of Avanti constantly; she seemed to become an impossible obsession. Like Amal in Charulata, I realized I had been unaware of my feelings for Avanti. I suspect the film affected her too although I couldn’t be sure exactly how. We had been afraid to speak about it the night before she left.

  For the first time, the idea presented itself to me that I was in love with Avanti. I went to bed but couldn’t sleep. The film’s heroine kept invading my thoughts. I turned on the light and sat up. After a few minutes, I put out the light and lay down again. But my mind was agitated and I went out of the stuffy bedroom to the terrace. I grew calmer as I smelled the air of the sea. Avanti’s image kept intruding—her unmistakable oval face, soft, dark hair and big, wondering eyes that smiled nervously as she called me ‘silly boy’; all the memories of her were covered in mysterious enchantment.

  Soon a doubt crossed my mind. What if Avanti did not share my feelings? Was I being overconfident and deluding myself? Would her ‘spiritual’ project prevent her from accepting my love? I began to see my life in a new light and didn’t get any sleep that night. I hadn’t eaten much the previous day but I didn’t feel hungry. I went downstairs in the morning, half-dressed, feeling fresher and better. While walking on the street, my body was remarkably light, as though it was independent of me. I moved without any effort of the muscles; it felt as though at any moment I might fly. I saw things on the street for the first time: children were rushing to school: silver-grey pigeons flew from the roof of a building down to the pavement; an old man sprinkled the pavement with the previous night’s leftover roti for the birds; two boys on their way to school ran after the pigeons; one of the pigeons fluttered its wings and flew off, flashing in the sun. From an open window came the smell of freshly made idlis. It was all happening at the same time and none of the things I was seeing—the boys, the old man, the pigeons—seemed of this earth. After making a long round past Afghan Church, I returned home.

  I felt I had to act. I was about to call my office to book a ticket to Bangalore when the phone rang. It was Avanti! She was calling from the railway station in Bangalore to say that she was coming to Bombay to attend a meeting. It was a last-minute decision. I wanted to say something but I was tongue-tied. I told her I would meet her on the platform and she must stay with me. She muttered something about a company guest house and then the line got cut. It was all happening too quickly and I had to speak to someone. I went to see Ramu Mama and
Kamini Masi.

  Ramu Mama’s eyes sparkled when he heard the news. Kamini Masi had tears as she asked why it had taken me so long. ‘Here I have been trying to make a match of the two of you for years!’

  ‘What should I do?’ I implored her.

  ‘You love her, don’t you?’ she said, wiping her moist eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered.

  ‘I am so happy, Amar.’

  ‘Lucky boy!’ said Ramu Mama.

  I told them that Avanti was arriving by the next train.

  ‘Well, then you must tell her as soon as she arrives.’

  As I was leaving, Ramu Mama said, ‘We should have a party for the two of you.’

  ‘Let’s find out first how she feels.’

  ‘I bet she will be delighted,’ Kamini Masi said.

  ‘We shall soon find out,’ said Ramu Mama.

  ‘I’m scared,’ I confessed. ‘She has refused so many . . . and then there’s her spiritual business.’

  ‘Believe me, she is all woman!’ said Kamini Masi.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Ask her to stay with us,’ she interrupted. ‘It wouldn’t be right for her to stay with you.’

  ‘She did say something about a guest house . . .’

  ~

  Kamini Masi was a ‘romantic matchmaker’, and had been working behind the scenes for years to promote the romance between Avanti and me. Alas, the tribe is not much appreciated. Even Jane Austen was ambivalent about her matchmaker in Emma who ‘believed herself in the secret of everybody’s feelings and with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange everybody’s destiny’. Young Indians snigger at the their matchmaking aunts, forgetting that theirs is a selfless act. Classical Indian stories are kinder; the matchmaker is usually a goose, the most famous being the one that brought Nala and Damayanti together in the Mahabharata. My favourite, however, is Suchimukhi, the romantic goose who makes Pradyumna fall in love with Prabhavati in a sixteenth-century Telugu story by Pingali Suranna. The goose begins thus:

  What images can I marshal

  to describe the beauty of her body, from toe to tip?

  She then starts to make a list: her ankles are like the fruit of the banyan tree; her feet are like the lotus; her toenails resemble the crescent moon; and . . . she stops suddenly to complain that these clichés are inadequate to describe Prabhavati’s beauty.

  I am trying my best to describe her, but I can’t touch

  even a billionth of her beauty. Don’t conclude from this

  that I’m any less of a poet.

  The goose goes away but the hero is by now sick with love and desperately tries to imagine what Prabhavati looks like.

  With rising desire, following the words of the goose,

  he intensified the beauty of the images she had used . . .

  He composed the girl in his mind . . . [and] finally, he got a glimpse of her in his inner eye.

  Because our hero has a pure, ‘unfettered’ mind, he is able to create through the goose’s metaphors a living reality of Prabhavati.

  ~

  I stepped out of the car and entered Victoria Terminus. Conscious of my throbbing heart, I rushed past passengers and porters towards the arrivals board, anxious to find out if the train from Bangalore had arrived. Then I ran to platform number two to wait for Avanti to emerge. I was thinking of only one thing—I would see her soon, not in my imagination like Pradyumna with his ‘unfettered’ mind, but in flesh and blood.

  Avanti finally came out. I immediately spotted her as I took in her oval face, straight nose and full mouth. She stood on the platform slanting her head in her usual way, sloping against her delicate shoulder. Another man was beside her, helping to unload her luggage. My heart sank. Soon, however, I felt reassured—there was reserve in the way she spoke to him. No, she does not love him, I decided.

  As I approached from behind, I noticed that she had become aware of my nearness. She had the same desirable, rounded body that had long been the object of my desire.

  ‘Avanti!’ I shouted.

  She turned to look around and gave me a big smile. She took my hand and introduced me to the man beside her. He was a colleague, a journalist from her newspaper.

  ‘Ah, we haven’t met before,’ he said indifferently, holding out his hand but suggesting by his body language that he wished to be left alone with Avanti. She continued to hold my hand, however. I gazed at her as we walked on the crowded platform, seeing only her clear, truthful eyes through the love that flooded my heart. She was happy to see me and I felt reassured. She was walking close to me in the crowd and our bodies kept touching each other, sending a thrill coursing through my body. As we came out of the station, she thanked her colleague for looking after her during the journey. She told him that she would find her own way to the company guest house and would see him at the office the following day.

  As we were getting into the car, she noticed a book on the back seat.

  ‘It’s for you.’ I blushed.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s ah . . . Jayadeva’s Gitagovinda,’ I said awkwardly. ‘I . . . I thought you might enjoy it.’

  She gave me an enigmatic smile.

  Avanti came home with me from the station. On the way, I peered into her eyes; they had turned dark inside the car and I found myself reflected in them. I was dying to pour my heart out but instead we made small talk about her journey and her work. When we walked into my apartment, I experienced a feeling of awkwardness. Now that I was alone with her, I felt confused, and did not know where to begin. I asked if she wanted a fresh lime soda and she readily accepted. The simple gesture calmed me.

  ‘Now tell me about you,’ she said.

  I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I told her everything, beginning with my realization while watching Charulata; I told her how much I had missed her and stopped doing the things we had done together; how I had spent the previous twenty-four hours sleeplessly, not eating, just walking the streets thinking of her; I told her about my plan to take the next train to Bangalore when she had phoned.

  ‘I have fallen in love with you, Avanti.’

  I looked into her eyes, and I saw all that I needed to know. She kept looking at me intently and did not waver.

  ‘You have?’ she asked in a whisper.

  There was silence.

  ‘I too passed a sleepless night on the train thinking of you. I too thought that if we didn’t act, I would end up like sad Charulata.’

  ‘Is it really true?’ I asked in a husky voice.

  She nodded.

  ‘I cannot believe it—you love me?’

  ‘Yes!’

  There was no need to say more. Pleasure had lit up her face. Both of us moved instinctively closer. I raised my arms and put them around her and pressed her to me. She yielded, shy and happy.

  ~

  What Avanti and I had discovered is called ‘romantic love’. They say it occurs in the opening moments when two persons realize that the other holds a key to their happiness and their normal reserve drops suddenly. It is a mistake to believe that romantic love was born in the West. Since the beginning, lovers have experienced it everywhere but in the twelfth-century West, it became an obsessive topic of aristocratic manners and literature. Curiously, romantic love flowered in three different parts of the world around the same time. In the West, it came from a tradition born in the twelfth-century Christian Europe culminating in Joseph Bédier’s Tristan and Iseult; in Islamic Persia, it developed in the romance of Nizami Ganjavi’s Layla and Majnun; in eastern India, it blossomed in the divine love of Radha and Krishna in Jayadeva’s Gitagovinda. It is remarkable the feelings that Avanti and I shared—once imagined to be the province only of the elite—have now become a part of the global mass culture.

  Whereas the erotic love of Sanskrit love poetry and the Kamasutra is bright and shiny, romantic love is often dark and heavy—even tragic as in Romeo and Juliet and other stories. In erotic love, the beloved enlivens the senses an
d is a source of excitement and delight; in romantic love, sexual desire becomes secondary as the lover disappears in the contours of the beloved in a quest for oneness. Romantic love is grounded in the personal and subjective, and not surprisingly, it became one of the cherished values of ‘modernity’ and has been embraced avidly in the modern world. In India, a distinct rendering of romantic love emerged in the medieval times as a sentiment of bhakti—a love of the divine—in contrast to the light-hearted erotic love of antiquity.

  Romantic love idealizes the lover as a superior being. There is constant longing, tenderness and willing surrender, though still in the service of sexual desire. A beloved’s value lies in the difficulty of obtaining her. When it first appeared in the western Middle Ages, it was directed towards a beloved with whom the lover could not possibly have sexual relations; the lovers were separated by insuperable barriers of class, caste and convention. So thoroughly had the Church succeeded in making men and women feel sex to be inherently impure that it was impossible to feel a romantic sentiment unless she or he was unattainable.

  Similarly, romantic love was expressed in India in the devotee’s impossible and unbearable love of god in the devotional religious tradition of bhakti, which originated in south India but flowered in medieval north India. Bhakti was, above all, a personal relationship between the devotee and a god or goddess in contrast to the ritual religion of the earlier Vedic texts. It became popular in post-Gupta times from the sixth to tenth centuries CE as Brahmin priests harnessed its popularity by composing the texts known as Puranas. The philosophical foundation for bhakti was laid by Ramanuja in the eleventh century. Unlike Shankara’s absolute monist unity, Ramanuja believed in the separateness of the individual soul from the brahman. Ramanuja argued that consciousness and perception imply difference. By virtue of this duality, desire is real; the human soul desires god. He thus reinforced the validity of the creation hymn in the Rig Veda where desire is the first seed in the mind, implying that the infinite needs the finite; the formless desires form.