by Anita Desai
I beg to be taken to a temple that I might see the face of my Lord and make my obeisance. Krishna has no time for worship but the women of the house take me. There is a temple of pink stone in a street of commerce. It is filled with men of business. Its walls are plastered with bank notes, stuck there with the prayers of merchants and brokers. The reek of money is everywhere.
Yet outside are beggars with running sores and fevered eyes, stretching out their hands and begging for alms. Pilgrims pass them by, dropping a coin here and there without seeing, without knowing, without learning.
Barefooted, I follow the women over a wet floor, bearing in my hands a basket with a green coconut, a garland, some bananas. I am taken to a silver shrine and there, draped in pink gauze and crowned with tinsel, sits the smiling doll, the Goddess of Wealth. A priest stands by with a tray of red powder and a pot of holy Ganges water with which to anoint me. But when I look upon the pink, smiling face of the goddess doll, my heart fails me. This is not where I will worship. I cannot be made to worship what I do not believe. The truth is elsewhere. My search is not over, I must continue it. O where is my Lord whose calm face shines only with the pure light of truth?
The world is as much with me here as in New York, or Venice or Paris. I thought we had left it behind when we sailed from America and that once on Indian soil we would dwell in a temple of devotion. But it is not so. Krishna runs from theatre to theatre and manager to manager and is concerned only with tours and performances. Sonali has reappeared and sits with Vijaya, stitching clothes, haggling with cloth merchants and jewellers, and no longer are they silent and withdrawn; their voices ring out, they talk without ceasing, they give orders and shout, and it is as if their true selves are released by the heat and the light of the Indian scene. When I say to them, ‘I did not come here to perform; I came to worship at the feet of the Lord,’ Krishna replies, ‘Is not dance prayer? Is not dance worship? Have I not taught you even so much?’
No, it is not what you taught me or showed me, Krishna. You have shown me devotion to worldly success, to financial gain, to fame – not to the true light for which I came.
Rehearsals all day in this dark house that looks onto tram lines and railway yards and is full of cooking smells that sicken me. I long for a silent cell where I may meditate in peace but everywhere I hear the beggars wailing in the street, Vijaya playing the harmonium and the dancers ringing their anklets. Once I was one of them and danced, believing I danced in worship of the Lord. But now my head pains and I am sick both in body and in soul. How can Radha dance when she no longer sees Krishna? She can only weep.
Is it for this that I risked the long voyage from America on that ship of horror? Is it for this that I left Venice and Paris and Cairo where beauty dwelt and flowered? Have I been banished to a desert waste to die?
I said to Krishna, ‘Take me to the mountains. There, in a temple, I may find my Lord. I came to India to find my Lord.’
He said, laughing, ‘Do you think the Lord is dancing on top of the Himalayas? Do you think the Lord reveals Himself only on a mountaintop? Not here on earth? Open your eyes and look. See, the Lord is here before you,’ and he held the peacock crown upon his head and laughed at me. That is to me a travesty and a mockery. His dancer’s paint and costume is a mask behind which is an evil joker who mocks me. I know now that if I were to rip away the mask of the Blue God, I would see Krishna the dancer – no other.
*
Today we were to perform in a theatre – I Radha, he Krishna – with a new troupe of gopis. But by the afternoon the pain was so bad, not only in my head but also deep in the pit of my belly, that I lay upon the floor and cried for help. A doctor was fetched – a man who looked filthy and evil, and I would not let him touch me. Krishna angry, Sonali and Vijay a frightened, the girls in the doorway, staring. I screamed, ‘Don’t touch me, you –’ and Sonali and Vijay a said ‘Hush, the neighbours may hear. They will think you are being killed.’ Thereupon I screamed, ‘I am being killed, help me!’ Then they changed their ways and became kind and gentle. Vijaya tried to press my feet and Sonali wanted to press my head, but I screamed at them not to come near. I wanted everyone to hear me. Then Krishna came and sat on the floor with his head beside my pillow and he cried – he pretended to cry. He said, ‘Oh, Lila, I have made you ill. It is all my fault for bringing you here. Forgive me, forgive me.’ But I did not wish to forgive him. So I turned away and looked at the wall, saying, ‘Leave me,’ and after some time he left, and then I did sleep.
The room was dark when I woke and there was no one there. I listened but heard no sound. Whatever sounds there were, were outside – in the streets and in the nearby houses, but not near me. I found the pain in my head and my belly less. I got up and walked into the kitchen and the other rooms and there was no one. It was night and dark except for the street lamps outside. I was glad to be alone and to have silence and I knew this was meant to be.
When they returned from the theatre, I went and lay on my bed and pretended to be asleep. Only this morning I opened my eyes and allowed Krishna and Sonali and Vijaya to come near me. I took the tea they brought me but I said, ‘I am ill, I cannot dance,’ and Krishna said, ‘Please do not worry. Menaka will dance Radha from now on. She is from Madurai. She has trained from childhood. She performed very well last night. Everyone said she was perfect. l am very happy. You need have no worry.’
Now they leave me alone. I hear them rehearsing in the morning. Every day the sounds of the drums and anklets, of Vijaya singing and the crows on the balcony wake me. No one comes to ask me how I am or what I need. They dance till midday. Then Krishna comes, bathed in perspiration, only to say, ‘Please rest, please do not worry. Menaka is dancing brilliantly. I am very happy.’
He brought her to the door so I might see her. She came, her anklets ringing, and stood there with her head bent and her eyes lowered like a bride’s. She was dressed in pink and had flowers in her hair: they smelt so sweet they sickened me. She seemed to be fourteen or fifteen. I stared at her but she would not look at me. Then Krishna smiled and said, ‘Here she is, my new Radha. How do you like her?’ and then she looked up and smiled too.
There is no reason now for me to rise from this bed. I have been lying here for days, in this small room that is used as a store room, with trunks piled on top of each other, rolls of bedding lifted onto them and baskets hanging above, so that I fear they will all fall and bury me beneath them. I lie still but the webbing of the bed cuts into my body which is thin and weak and I feel it could cut right through me. They brought me another doctor and said, ‘This is a good doctor, Lila, please let him take a blood test so we may know your illness and medicines may be prescribed.’ I tried to fight them but I was too weak and they held down my arm so the doctor could take blood out of my veins, and I wanted to scream and struggle but I could not and was silent.
I am in the hospital. I have been here for some days. Today the nurse made me sit up although I did not wish to, and then she brought me the pen I requested so I could write in my diary, sol forgave her. Her name is Mary and she is a kind girl. When I asked her, ‘How long have I been here?’ she said, ‘Why do you worry? Stay here and let us make you well. Why do you want to go away so soon?’ and she laughed at me as if she were my friend. I told her, ‘No, I don’t want to go back.’ But when I added, ‘I will die here,’ she laughed again and told me, ‘Many people in Bombay get hepatitis and also amoebic dysentery, and they get well. Why will you die?’ So I pushed away my pillow and lay down and said, ‘I wish to die.’ Now she brings me small presents and says, ‘I am your sister. I will make you get well.’
Krishna and Vijaya have been here to see me. They brought me oranges. Krishna said, ‘We are rehearsing for the tour. l am choreographing a new ballet which I will premiere in Madras.’ He started to tell me about this ballet which is about an ascetic who is meditating in the forest when the courtesan Menaka appears and seduces him. He talked and talked and I listened. He did not ask me h
owl was or about the hospital or my treatment, only talked of this ballet and the courtesan Menaka. I said to him, ‘How lucky you have the dancer Menaka to dance the role of the courtesan Menaka. It will be so life-like except for your not being an ascetic sadhu. But she can seduce you anyway.’ I was surprised to hear these words from my mouth, I had not planned to say them, it was as if someone else spoke them, they were so filled with hate and anger. He looked at me with his great black eyes and said, ‘Oh Lila, I know you wanted to dance with me and be the leading dancer. Why did you fall ill instead?’ I turned away from him and closed my eyes and did not speak again. The words that I had spoken left the taste of dust in my mouth and the words that he had spoken struck my ears like stones.
Today Mary brought me a piece of cloth on which she had embroidered a pink flower. She is so sweet and when I said to her, ‘When I get well where will I go?’ she replied, ‘Come and live in my house. I live with my grandmother but you can live with us.’ But of course she began to look troubled and I said to her, ‘I can’t live with you, Mary, you and your grandmother can’t have me to stay,’ and she became very sad and asked ‘Won’t you go back to your friends’ house? They came to bring you fruit. Won’t they look after you?’
Then I thought that I can never go back to them, there is no place for me beside Krishna any more, and I began to cry. Mary wiped my eyes with the little piece of cloth with a pink flower in the corner and she cried too. The Sister in charge of the ward noticed that and came and sent her away. She said to me, ‘You had better think of getting up, you are quite well and you can go home now.’ So I cried more. Where is my home? I left my home so long ago and so far behind that I cannot return to it. Yet I have not found the Lord’s dwelling that I came to India to find. I am lost. In which direction can I go now? O Lord what have I done that I am cast out without refuge or haven? Am I to perish alone in the darkness? Why this punishment, Lord? I have looked about me now that they have removed the green cloth screen from around my bed, and I have seen the people who are in the ward with me – a young woman with a baby she never looks at and that she seems to hate, a very old woman with a hump who is looked after by three women who may be her daughters but talk to each other as though she did not exist, another woman who is completely bandaged from head to foot so I cannot tell if she is young or old, a little girl who is so thin and wasted she might be a rag doll, and another who is so bloated that she cannot look out of her eyes – and I think, where do they live? Have they homes to which they can return? If they do, I know they will be homes where no beauty dwells, and no joy or hope. Are we all condemned to live in a world devoid of them?
I cannot believe that this is so, and that the dreams and hopes that propelled me on my travels and brought me to India had no Truth and no Power and were merely delusions. Somewhere there must be One who is mighty and wise, who will open up to me the Cosmic Infinity where I may dwell in peace and make my search for Eternal Knowledge and the Supreme Light. Somewhere there must be One who is tranquil and patient and comprehends all things and conquers all forces and against whom no evil can prevail. Somewhere there must be One who can show me the luminous wisdom I know exists, the vision that I crave, the answer to my questions that will assuage my hunger and thirst with love and joy.
Somewhere my Master must exist. All my life I have known of His existence and seen the signs He sent me. Yet I have been misled because of my weakness and ignorance that made me mistake what is only human for what is Supreme and Almighty.
Forgive my ignorance, Master. Remove the blindfold from my eyes and give me a vision of the Truth so I may dedicate myself to it.
If I cannot, I will sink into darkness and sink so low that I die. Till I find the Supreme Being, my own being remains unfulfilled and incomplete. I need a vision of the Supreme that I may enter into harmony with the Spirit. Then only will my body and mind come together, thought and action, the world and the spirit. In my dance I sought this harmony but because I had a false master found only disharmony. Lead me out of the world of such sorrow and delusion into the world of light and clarity. Lead me out of the world of the ugly, the coarse and the sordid, into the world of beauty and grace. Lead me out of the hell of hate into the paradise of love.
There is still, in my innermost soul, a last faint shred that is alive and pines and yearns. Answer it, O Master, answer it.
Mary came to me with my medicines on a tray and a glass of water, and when she had given them to me, she reached into the pocket of her white uniform and took out a gift for me that she pressed into my hand. When I opened my hand, I saw she had given me a crucifix. It was a small thing made of black tin and it hung on a chain of black beads. It was so ugly that I threw it on the ground, crying, ‘Do not give me that, Mary. Never give me what is so ugly and so sad. Do you think I need to have an image of sin and suffering? Take it away. I want joy and beauty and love.’ I cried so loudly that Sister Philomena appeared before Mary could pick up the crucifix from the floor and she saw it and she said, ‘What have you done, you wicked girl – thrown Christ’s cross upon the floor?’ She began to scream and cross herself, and everyone stared at the sight. But I did not repent. They say I hurt their feelings, but what did they do to mine? They assaulted them, they crucified them. They have sinned. I am no sinner. My dwelling place is not in sin and suffering but in truth and beauty.
Sister Philomena has moved Mary to another ward and I am attended only by an ayah, a woman who chews betel nuts all the while and spits out the juice in a corner of the ward in a red splash, and talks loudly to the ward boys and smells of cheap cigarettes. She is filthy and low and ugly. I am being punished because I am the daughter of beauty and joy and these are hated here.
At night when everyone is asleep – not quietly but with all the groans and cries of their unhappy souls ringing out in their sleep – I look up at the blue light on the wall that keeps darkness away and prevents all these horrible sights from disappearing for a few merciful hours. I try to fix my mind upon that light and see it as a symbol of the eternal. But somebody in the ward cries out in pain, another screams for the nurse and I see that the light is not the Eternal One but only a nightlight to keep us awake and punish us by exposing all that is ugly and sorrowful on earth. Then I feel myself truly separated from the Eternal Truth, and I know it is this separation that makes me ill. O Master, come. Come and reveal yourself to me that I may rise and dance for you in joy. That dance will not be the depraved dance of the peacock and the courtesan that I was led into by my false master, but the divine dance of joyful prayer that I crave to perform for you and you alone, O Master.
Krishna came, saying, ‘I have come to take you home,’ and he brought me back to this ugly house that stands between the tram lines and the railway yard so that I feel myself caught in a vice. Home? This is a prison in which he has placed me – this airless hole where I lie amongst boxes with no single object of beauty to look upon. If I go out on the balcony to see the sun set in the orange sky that flames over this black city, crows come and settle on the rail and caw at me, and down in the street a beggar rolls by on his cart because he has no legs, and raises his tin to me, crying, ‘Maa, O Maa!’ Then I return to my room to hide.
He said to me, ‘Put on your anklets, Lila, and dance. Soon we are going on a tour of the South. The South is full of temples I want to show you and where you must dance.’ For the sake of the temples I rose and put on the heavy anklets although my head spun and I felt sick and weak when I bent to fasten them. I went into the classroom where Vijaya was singing and playing and the new dancers were rehearsing. Then he said, ‘Now you must show them how you danced Radha. I want you to teach Menaka how to dance Radha,’ and once again this girl stepped forward, her hands on her hips, to stand before me, smiling and shining with pride. She was dressed in red like a bride and glittered with gold jewellery and never thought to look down in shame or modesty.
I turned and went back to the hole in which I dwell, this black hole which is inde
ed become my home.
He is angry at me. He says, ‘But we are leaving for the South. If you are not strong enough, and you are still sick as you say, you cannot come. I will leave you behind.’
I said to him, ‘If you leave me behind, I will die. You will come back and find my dead body lying on this floor.’
I thought that if he had a heart, he would repent now and ask me to forgive him, and take me in his arms and promise me his protection. If he was my Master, that is what he would do.
Instead, he shouted, ‘You want to keep me sitting here beside you like a woman. You are trying to prevent me from dancing and taking my troupe on tour and making it known in India. You want to destroy my career. You want to destroy me.’
I said to him, ‘I did not know it was your career we came to make in India. I thought we came here to find the Eternal Truth. You told me it existed only in India and that we would together search for it and find it.’
Then he turned into a madman, stamping about the room, laughing and mocking my words, then tearing at his hair and shouting at me. I saw the others come to the door and stare. I knew everyone was listening, but I did not care because I had spoken the truth and he had lied.
Why do you punish me, Master? Why do you still hide from me and keep me in darkness? Have I done wrong to search for you through dance? Have I done wrong to come to India in search of you? Answer me, Master, show me the path to travel in order to reach you. In this darkness, I can see nothing, not even You.
This morning Vijaya took pity on me. She came and told me she knows of an ashram in the Himalayas; when she was younger, she used to go there on pilgrimage. She says some of her family will be going there on their annual pilgrimage and will take me with them. She says in the mountains I may recover my health. She says the ashram will let me have a room and food and rest. She says there is a river and forests and meadows. She says she will tell her family to buy a ticket for me on the train and then escort me into the mountains. She says she has told Krishna of this plan.