He alone existed on the earth for me and I considered him the best and most faultless man in the world; so that I could not live for anything else in the world other than for him.
Slowly and gradually, the boredom of married life enters her soul. He, on the other hand, is content with the still and orderly routine of the estate. She is lonely—her life seems to be unvarying and repetitive—and she is irritated by his calm manner.
I wanted movement, not a calm course of existence. I wanted excitement and danger and the chance to sacrifice myself for my love. I felt in myself a superabundance of energy which found no outlet in our quiet life.
She grows impatient. Finally, he takes her to St Petersburg ‘to bring her out in society’, where she is an instant success. She throws herself into a season of balls and grand parties. He is bored, however, and wearied by this life and warns her about the dangers and ugliness of the social world. She ignores him and is slowly pulled deeper into the social whirl, staying longer and longer in St Petersburg and Moscow, as well as taking trips to Europe. Their trust is damaged as he watches her helplessly become dazzled by the false, empty world in which she moves. They drift apart.
One day, an Italian adventurer tries to seduce her, unsuccessfully, in Baden. This is a turning point of the story and she decides to return home to the lost happiness of her early married life with her husband. In a final climactic scene, she begs for his forgiveness, which he grants confusingly, and they reach a new understanding of their life and of love. She realizes that love changes in every decade of one’s life. One always feels regret for the love that is gone. But wisdom lies in recognizing and valuing the love that has taken its place. There is much intelligence and beauty in this tale about how love changes in the long years of a marriage.
Indeed, ‘each time of life has its own kind of love’. This is one of the lessons I have learnt—about the inevitable death of romance within a marriage and the bloom of long-term love. I remind myself that my marriage to Avanti had also begun with romance and flowers and butterflies in the stomach. But romance never lasts and when it’s gone, something else, possibly better, is left behind if one is lucky. It is a love that has weathered the test of time. After living a lifetime with Avanti, I have concluded that passion in marriage is contained not by morals but by an evolving sense of love.
Tolstoy, it appears, has captured the story of my life with Avanti. The details and character may be different. Sergey is older, self-contained and imperturbable; I was young, ardent and entranced. But the power of the tale lies in the eventual reconciliation of the couple. It has something universal for all of us. We are all, at some stage in our lives, prey to hopes and restless, vague yearnings: ‘all the nonsense of life’, as Sergey calls it. But he is wrong to call it ‘nonsense’. This impossible yearning is the first arrow of Kama and it is necessary at the beginning of love. It was a time when Avanti was utterly wonderful and life blissful. It only became ‘nonsense’ because, like Masha, I was not prepared for Kama’s other arrows. The romance with Avanti was destined to burn itself out. The old love between us had to die in order to make way for something else. Tolstoy says:
All of us must have personal experience of all the nonsense of life in order to get back to life itself; the evidence of other people is no good.
Like Masha, I too finally grew up when I realized that the romance of our marriage had to end one day and the old feelings had to become treasured, irretrievable memories. In their place, a new kind of love laid the base for a new life and a different happiness.
Epilogue
The riddle of kama
Each time of life has its own kind of love . . . I weep for that past love which can never return . . . Love remains, but not the old love.
—Leo Tolstoy, Family Happiness
‘Look at her!’ Kamini Masi said. ‘Arushi is growing into a fine girl.’
‘I worry, though,’ Avanti replied. ‘She is bright, good-looking, but lonely. I feel I have, somehow, let her down.’
Avanti and Kamini Masi were chatting on the sidelines of a badminton game in progress on the lawns of our home in Sunder Nagar. They were watching the girls play a game of mixed doubles.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She gets nightmares—she still hasn’t got over the trauma of those years when Amar and I were separated.’
‘Is this why she clings to Amar?’
‘She needs friends of her own age,’ Avanti said. ‘The house is always full of Akhila’s friends, and of course, they have no time for Arushi.’
‘There’s always so much bustle here. I wish Ramu and I could have had children.’ And a look of longing crossed Kamini Masi’s face.
It was ten years ago that Avanti had hopped on to the ‘wrong’ train at Victoria Terminus and come to live with me in Delhi. We normally went for lunch on Sundays to my parents’ house but today was a ‘special’ Sunday—it was our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary and we were gathered at our home for a celebratory lunch. Ramu Mama and Kamini Masi had flown from Bombay for the occasion. My mother had just arrived and was walking erectly with a determined step, followed by her maid, carrying a shawl and a chair. Just then the younger girl slammed a winner and everyone cheered.
‘You must lose weight, Avanti!’ announced my mother imperiously. She was now seventy-five, quite grey, but as formidable as ever. She still loved going out and had a far more active social life, although she had become a bit eccentric. She had grown closer to Avanti, however, and even admired her. Initially, they had fought bitterly over Avanti’s insistence that I renounce my inheritance of Isha’s estate and the grand house on Prithviraj Road. But she soon changed her mind. As the news spread in Delhi’s society of my act of renouncement, there was public acclaim for my gesture and she got a chance to bask in the praise and the applause.
Avanti always had a tendency to put on weight but my mother was exaggerating. It didn’t in the least detract from the beauty of her face or her body. She was as attractive as ever. Perhaps, it was the effect of meditation. She still meditated daily and occasionally spent an hour or so with my father, discussing spiritual matters. We lived only a few blocks away from my parents.
Coming to Avanti’s rescue, Kamini Masi asserted defiantly, ‘What do you mean—she is beautiful!’
‘No, I’m not—I look frumpy!’ Avanti protested bitterly.
‘And you never go out socially, my dear. You must be seen.’ My mother believed that if you are not seen in society, you are quickly forgotten.
‘Where is the time? I am so tired after a day at the office. All I want is to put my feet up and spend some time with the kids and Amar.’
‘We are all so proud of you, Avanti—you are holding one of the most coveted jobs in your profession,’ said Kamini Masi. Avanti had continued her career as a journalist with the same newspaper in their Delhi office. She was good at her work and had risen to become editor of the op-ed page. I knew that my mother secretly envied Avanti for her success in a man’s world.
Turning to my mother, Kamini Masi said, ‘Besides, what’s wrong with spending time with your husband and children?’
‘Nothing. I know my son dotes on her but a wife standing beside a husband in a social gathering is an asset.’ The easy, friendly, chattering relationship that I enjoyed with Avanti was another source of envy—my mother had always wished that she could have had the same rapport with my father.
As for me, I had found real purpose in life as executor of Isha’s family estate. I had managed to turn the businesses around—all of them were now thriving under professional managers, reporting to independent boards. I had also created a philanthropic trust into which all the profits and dividends of the companies flowed. The trust too was managed professionally by a CEO, who reported to a group board—a truly distinguished one. Vikram Suri was its chairman and he had played a major role in guiding the trust, creating an impressive portfolio of philanthropic projects in education and health. The house on Prithviraj R
oad had been restored. It was now a vibrant museum, having acquired possibly the finest private collection of contemporary Indian art over the years under the disciplined advice of a council of artists and art historians. It became a magnet for the city’s intelligentsia—a cultural centre that hosted seminars, talks and exhibitions. It had a café that was always full of lively, young people. For overseeing the affairs of the companies and the trust, I gave myself a reasonable salary which was more than enough to meet our family’s needs.
As soon as the badminton game came to an end, my father quietly joined the group. I lifted Arushi, sat her on my shoulders and raced with her around our lawn. We giggled and yelled, and it infected everyone with a sense of carefree happiness. As the other guests arrived, we moved towards the wicker chairs placed under a green-and-white umbrella, where drinks were being served in tall glasses. Soon Avanti’s parents also arrived, followed by Vikram Suri. Anand was the last to enter, looking as handsome as ever. My mother still loved him and he went directly to her and gave her a warm hug.
There had been a Cabinet reshuffle by Prime Minister Vajpayee that week and much as in every other party in Delhi, the conversation at our anniversary lunch began to hover around the new ministers. Sharma-ji was pleased that a politician from Ujjain had become a member of the Cabinet and he hoped for special favours to come his way. As a former additional secretary to the central government, he enjoyed the status of a ‘big shot’ in his home town. Ramu Mama asked Anand for his opinion about Sonia Gandhi’s chances. As a Congress party loyalist, he was evasive.
I was suddenly called inside to attend a call, and as I was leaving, I noticed that Anand and Avanti had moved closer to each other and begun a conversation. I returned soon and was headed in their direction when I was stopped by my younger girl. But I was still close enough to overhear the following conversation.
‘From the looks of it, you’ve made a happy life here,’ said Anand. ‘Do you still feel that you jumped on the right train ten years ago?’
‘Does one ever know what life might have been if one had taken a different train?’
‘Have you ever regretted it?’
Avanti remained silent. After a pause, she said, ‘And you’re still a bachelor?’
‘I was devastated when you abandoned me at the station.’
‘Be honest, Anand. I can’t imagine you ever eating alone or sleeping alone.’
‘The closest I came to marriage was you, Avanti. Of course, I was shattered when you chose the Punjab Mail over Howrah Mail.’
‘But admit it, you must have been relieved too. You are not the marrying kind.’
Anand suddenly looked deep into Avanti’s eyes and said, ‘You’re still a very good-looking woman!’
‘Tell that to my mother-in-law. She things I am fat.’
Ten years ago, I would have been unnerved and jealous overhearing this conversation; today, I felt loved and secure and it left me mildly amused. I now joined them and said, ‘If I know her, Anand, she must have done a QED this morning.’ Turning to Avanti, I asked, ‘So, let’s hear the pros and cons of the twenty-five years of our marriage.’
‘Stop it, you silly boy!’
Ramu Mama had also joined our group and he said that there wasn’t any need for a QED—it was written all over our faces.
~
Since the beginning of time men and women have been obsessed with the ideal way to relate to one another. When I set out to write this memoir, I thought it would help me understand this relationship, but now that it is drawing to a close, I am left with more questions than answers. One of the consolations of age is to be able to look back on your life and smile ironically at the puzzles and enigmas of kama.
In this memoir, I have narrated two stories of love: one is my own story—how kama influenced my life; the second is a general narrative in which I have tried to come to grips with the nature of kama through philosophy, literature and history. In weaving the two, I stumbled upon two strands of belief—one was optimistic and the other pessimistic. The kama optimist is generally a liberal, who blames the unhappiness of desire on unjust institutions and wishes to change them by economic, social and legal reform. And he (or she) has been rewarded by dramatic changes in the way men and women relate to each other in the past hundred years—the mass embracing of romantic love, economic opportunities for women, the pill, the self-presentation of women and the growing acceptance of same-sex marriage. The kama pessimist, however, has not been defeated. Patriarchy still persists, although it is losing its hold. Some human traits are inherited from our evolutionary history; male arousal still seems to be more closely connected with visual stimulation unlike female arousal which seems to depend more on affection; jealousy and possessiveness remain inherited, self-protective instincts; the ‘perfect soulmate’ has turned out to be an illusion and the breakdown of family in the West is worrisome.
There are a number of senses in which I have come to understand the infuriating word ‘kama’. First, it is a cosmic force that created the universe and all things in it, according to the Rig Veda. It expresses itself in human beings as a ‘life force’, something that animates life. Second, it is a drive or instinct of life, following the Greek idea of eros and of Freud—‘a will to live’—which attaches individuals to each other and ultimately unifies mankind. Third, kama is love of all kinds, but most often it is erotic love—the fusion of the sexual instinct and tenderness, directed towards a specific individual, ultimately leading to reproduction of the species. Fourth, it is a dynamic fusion of eros with man’s natural aggressive instinct or the ‘death drive’, according to Freud. Fifth, both in Plato and in bhakti, it has a spiritual significance—it is a search for divine perfection, a yearning for the highest good. Finally, kama is pleasure, and it may sound elitist but there are higher and lower pleasures, as both Plato and J.S. Mill said. The dilemma is which is superior, the pleasure or its anticipation? Putting all this together, it is not surprising that the ancients in India elevated it to one of the goals of life.
What I have learnt from my own experience is that I am unable to do without love. I suspect I am not exceptional in this regard—what makes love unusual among the emotions is the human inability to do without it. If this is so, then one can only surmise that love is a good thing in the end. If not, then we would have to conclude that it is merely an unfortunate addiction, something we cannot do without but which eventually brings only sorrow. What I have recounted in my memoir is that, for all the joy it brings, love also produces frustration, rejection and humiliation; and it is prone to dangerous emotions such as jealousy, hate and fear. Pain and pleasure are the two sides of kama.
As I said before, Freud believed that a lot of our mental energy comes from deducting it from kama. He argues that civilization is born from our ability to sublimate the aggressiveness of kama’s energy and turn it into culture. Many of our primitive sexual instincts are clearly harmful and hence, society has created laws that prohibit rape, adultery and murder. Sublimation transforms kama’s energy into socially useful achievements, including artistic, cultural and intellectual pursuits. Thus, culture is an exchange of happiness for security, and human development is a parasite of kama’s eroticism. But this has been a costly trade-off. It has left us in a state of anxiety and perpetual feelings of discontent with regard to sex. What should have been plentiful is made deliberately scarce, leaving us feeling deprived. Romantic love is one of the ways shortage is created, producing through our imaginations the belief that there is only one right person for us. The poor have historically had less inhibitions in this regard, which is why they say, ‘Sex is the recreation of the poor.’
Kama has clearly been a driving force in my life, and it has taken positive and negative turns. It has promised meaning and purpose at times, and threatened destruction at others. When I was in another’s grip, as in Isha’s case, I was in great danger; when I broke with Amaya, I destroyed her spirit—its stain will never wash away. When it came to Avanti, I
betrayed her. If only my mother had not dozed off, I sometimes think, when I was in her womb, I would have known how to exit the ‘web of desire’, or at least been able to cope better with the negative side of kama. Still, I consider it a stroke of luck that it all ended where it did, and every once in a while, I ask myself: how did I deserve this happiness after all these negative turns?
Given all the ups and downs I have faced, do I still believe in romantic love? The world at large certainly does, going by the number of movies and airport novels that are produced each year glorifying love; but it is based mostly on wish fulfilment, I suspect, enabling a person to escape the unpleasantness of ordinary, everyday life. Born in courtly life, romantic love took a turn towards merging with the divine in the bhakti and Sufi movements in India and the Middle East. The medieval knight in the West felt distinguished in fighting for the greater glory of his lady. When courtly love got converted to religious reverence, it gave women an inherent value which had not existed earlier. Abrahamic religions were based on male supremacy—God and Christ were men. But after the twelfth century, not only did Radha’s status rise in India but the adoration of the Virgin began in western medieval religion. High Romanticism reached a peak in the nineteenth-century West—in Shelley’s poetry or Wagner’s music, for example—but today, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, the West refers to itself being in a ‘post-Romantic age’ with high divorce rates and single-parent families. Despite that, the faith lives on and young people around the world believe in romance to bring about happy and enduring marriages.
I have come to the conclusion that romantic love is one of the great gifts given to human beings and we ought to cherish and enjoy it, but not insist that it underlie a happy or stable marriage. Marriage needs affection and intimacy without the illusory baggage of romantic love. More often, it needs a secure, warm and comfortable environment for rearing children. Having stated that, I still believe that the great romantic dream was a decent one, and it has allowed millions to live happy and flourishing lives; it requires, however, realistic resources in a couple to sustain it and accept change in every decade of their lives.
Kama Page 47