by Anita Desai
‘And what did he say?’ I asked her because I had to know.
She replied, ‘He said it was a very good plan.’
I will not see him again. He is preparing for the journey to the South. The whole house is filled with the business of packing and departing. I can hear them and sometimes they come to my room and take out boxes and trunks. I sit crosslegged on the bed and stare in front of me and concentrate my mind not on the world outside but on the vision I have of a temple by a river in the Himalayan mountains to the north.
It is over, the Journey. The Journey I was intended to make.
When I was on the train with Vijaya’s family, sitting in the little space allotted me on a crowded bunk and looking through the grey and grimy window at the passing landscape of India, I knew this to be the final stretch of my journey.
Certainly I could not have undertaken another. My strength was seeping out of me, my body was wasting rapidly, my eyes becoming blurred so that I saw everything before me indistinctly: the barren earth littered with the bones of animals expired from thirst and starvation, mean dwelling places like earthen burrows, lonely telegraph poles, dusty isolated palm trees, cattle-drawn ploughs tilling the soil just as they do in my own distant, long-forgotten land, peasants bowed under the weight of the great brassy sky . . . I wanted to weep for it all, weep. It seemed to me that this earth was forsaken by the Great Spirit. The Great Spirit had departed from it in despair and left it as it was – caught in the nightmare of death and desolation. In the grip of that nightmare, I do not know how I passed the night, whether asleep or awake. I am only aware that I felt the great iron wheels of the railway hurtling through my very bones, and whether I opened or shut my eyes, I still saw that same sad land to which I had come in search of beauty, truth and wisdom only to find them fled. How those prophetic words came back to me: ‘India is a form of death!’
What was it I had thought to find? Groves of flowering trees in which fabulous birds sang and fruit glowed? Maidens inrobes of gauze and princesses wearing jewelled crowns? Processions of magnificent beasts bearing the great and the good of the land? Was I so simple, so naive? I will not put a name to my expectations except to say that what I wanted of India was the outward manifestation of what already existed inside me, what had been growing inside me like a flower grown from a seed I had discovered in a Paris bookshop of my past. And it was the death and burial of this flower of hope that crushed me through that long and dreadful night. It had been a foolish and perilous thing to pursue that secret dream to the very ends of the earth, and I was paying for my error, oh horribly!
Yet morning came, as morning must, and the train stopped at a small station along the way. I was stiff from the cramped corner of the carriage that I was crowded into by Vijaya’s family and the other passengers, all giving off the sour odours of poverty and squalor, and so I stepped out to exercise my aching limbs a little. The sun had only just risen but already the sky was on fire and I felt its heat strike me like the sun in the land of my birth, an eastern sun, white-hot and purifying like a holy furnace – not kind, no, but drastic. Men were selling fruit in baskets that they carried on their heads. I bought oranges, and bananas. Others were carrying kettles of tea and glasses and pouring out for the passengers who called to them from the carriage windows. Small children were begging and I gave them the fruit I had bought. Then a monkey leapt from a tree and scampered up to me to beg for some and I laughed to see the funny little fellow reach out its lined pink hands to receive it from me. As it swung itself up into a tree to eat there in peace, I saw that it was a great spreading tree of the kind I had read of – the holy banyan, with its massive branches, hoary with age, letting down fine air roots to the earth that had taken root and sprouted into yet other trees – a tree eternally dying and eternally giving birth, the Tree of Eternity.
In its shade sat a holy man. I was certain he was a holy man, although no different from a beggar in appearance: he wore no more than a rag round his waist, his body and legs and feet bare, his hair dusty and matted. He sat on the beaten earth with a begging bowl beside him, but he did not beg. He sat crosslegged, his hands resting upon his knees, and his gaze fixed upon the soul within him. It was clear he saw neither the station nor the train nor the passengers; he cared not for the commerce and the hubbub of the world; he dwelt in another realm, and for him time and space had a meaning other than we could comprehend who travelled bodily but without escape from ourselves.
I stood and gazed upon the holy man’s serene visage, and there stirred in my sick, starved body the great desire I had always had ever since I was a child, to be free of this world and escape into another, a better and brighter. I believe I cried out to him, in appeal for his help, and before my eyes the great banyan tree burst into light, and I saw light travelling, pouring through the veins in its leaves, its twigs and branches and the very trunk itself so that it was transformed into an earthly sun and fire revolved through it as blood revolved – once more! – through my body. I was on fire, the tree was on fire, light blazed and the whole sky was illuminated. I cried out and covered my face with my hands.
My fellow passengers were hard put to recall me by shouting my name and even so one had to come out and drag me by my arm and push me back into the railway carriage before the train drew out and continued its journey. I sat by the window with my knees hunched and my sorrow at leaving behind me the vision I had had of Eternal Light was so great that I wept openly. My fellow passengers showed kind concern for me and I was sufficiently aware and moved by it to make answer at last and they continued to treat me with care.
So for the rest of the way – and it was a troubled way – I had the vision to sustain me, and it helped me through the dreadful city where we dismounted from the train into a scene from Hell. Had I not had the vision, it would have destroyed me. It seemed that all the dirt, the disease and hideousness of the earth had collected there to assault my vision.
Yet somehow we found our way to a cart hired for us that was to make its way slowly and painfully out of the city and along stretches of dusty road through parched fields and sand and miserable towns populated by emaciated folk and whipped and beaten beasts till at last it was travelling through rock and scrub into low hills and the mountains appeared upon the horizon and since then I have had the Mountain before my eyes. Higher and higher we climbed and sweeter and fresher became the air, so that my heart lifted and soared and when I raised my eyes, there in the north stood the Himalayan peaks, white and pure and shining as in my dreams.
The town we have come to is only another heap of hovels clinging to the hillside. It is true that there is a river racing through the gorge below, and if it were in the wilderness it would be beautiful but, as it is, the whole town gathers there to bathe, wash clothes, to fetch water, as well as dispose of garbage so that it is almost a public sewer. The temples that line its banks seem only to add to its horrors.
The ashram to which Vijaya’s family has brought me is fortunately above the main bazaar. It is ugly enough – in the way that the town is ugly. The rooms open onto long verandas and I share one with an aged aunt and a young niece who is a cripple and has to be carried about on the backs of her relatives. It consists only of a bare floor on which we unroll our mats to sleep. I do not mind the austerity of it. But I look over the rooftops all of corrugated iron which has rusted and on which people have piled old crates and baskets and other unwanted rubbish, to the narrow streets of the bazaar from which rises the confused noise of traffic and commerce interrupted by the loud clanging of bells in the temples along the river. The view would be no different from what I had in the city if it were not for a strip of the river below, dashing against the rocks and swirling around them in white foam and green pools. Then, on the other bank, the hills drop away to the plains in folds and one sees only a village here and there, with smoke rising from their hearths by day and lamps glowing at night.
Night. Night is when I have a glimpse once more of the eternal. Then th
e sky spreads its blue velvet cloak over us and the stars are gems that shine upon it. I walk up and down the long veranda, looking out at the stars, and they call to me. They seem to say, ‘Higher, climb higher.’ I am too weak to go climbing. The night air is cold. My shawl is thin and provides little warmth. This gives me a feeling of frailty. I need strength and courage, and then I will set out, and I will climb, and I will go up the mountain into the heights. For this, I came to India.
I have climbed the mountain and I have reached the peak.
A little path led me, winding through low bushes and under the branches of conifer trees. No one passed me but an old woman carrying a load of wood on her back. She greeted me without lifting her face. I thought: Now I will leave behind me all such faceless ones, now I will go where I shall see the Face I came to see. I climbed on till I reached a grassy slope and saw there was nothing left to climb but great rocks that rose sheer into the sky now tinted rose by the setting sun. I had reached the mountain peak at that magic hour between day and night – entre chien et loup, they would say in France – and I asked myself: What will I meet here? Will Day come to meet my Night?
I wished so passionately for this meeting, for this union, that I knelt in the grass and prayed, even wept, and all the while my heart beat so I knew it was the hour of my fate.
The wind blew about me, and there was music in it as it played upon the harps and lyres of the trees around me. Other than that, there was silence. Out of that silence, a cry. A long, piercing cry that went through my breast like a sword. A great eagle soared forth out of an invisible crevice in the rocks, spreading its wings and floating out into space, launching itself into the unknown to search. With it, my soul too set out in quest.
At that moment the evening star appeared in the heavens and shone out from the deep blue of infinity. Was that not a promise? An augury? I knew it was, and rising to my feet, I began to dance in ecstasy, the ecstasy of knowing my time had come.
My body danced,
In prayer, in Joy
And ardent expectation.
I danced my love, my ardour,
My yearning and my pain.
I danced the dance of the milkmaid
Pining for the Shepherd,
And my swelling heart called:
I wait! O come!
Behold, He came!
By the light of the evening star,
At the sight of the rising moon,
My Master appeared,
On the dark hilltop
Beneath a stately tree
He stood, watching me.
Upon his golden face
The sweet calm
Of One who has waited
Many years, many aeons,
For me to come to Him.
And when my dance was done
And I stood with my hands
Pressed to my heart
My Master’s voice rang out:
Who art Thou,
O beauteous dancing maid?
Standing still as a statue
I beheld Him and replied:
l am Lila, thy Devotee.
Thou art Shakti, he pronounced,
Supreme Power.
Thou art Durga,
Mother of us all.
Thou art Kali,
The Divine Force,
And Parvati,
Sweet Goddess of the Mountain.
And all at once
The Heavens burst into light and music
Of joyous celebration.
The stars sang their jubilee
The Moon its blessing gave.
Fresh Himalayan winds blew
From the Abode of Snow.
The Master stepped forth and
placing on my shoulders
A shawl of ochre silk,
Maiden, said He,
Come follow me,
And henceforth my home
Thy Haven shall be.
That night, when I returned to my small and crowded room, I packed my belongings and as the sun rose I was already hurrying down the hill and through the narrow streets to the temple by the river. My heart beat with joy as I went and although the sun had not yet touched the rooftops and few people were about, it seemed to me the whole pilgrim town rejoiced for me that I had found my Master. I smiled at every old man I saw shivering upon his doorstep in the early sun; I smiled at the mangy dogs that foraged in the dust, and even the crows that morning seemed to sing, not scream. At the bottom of the valley the river ran and there were people already bathing in its icy waters, standing upon the rocks in their thin ragged clothes, lifting their brass pots above their heads so the sun caught the flash of water as it fell and blessed them. I stopped and, stepping close to the river, I let it splash my feet as I bent and filled my cupped hands, then lifted them to the sky and let the water fall upon me. It was as ice but l laughed and nearly cried out: I too bathe today in the waters of divine love! The river flows and carries my past away and leaves me pure and joyous as the new-born, fit to meet with the divine.
In such spirits I entered the temple precincts. Pilgrims were streaming in for the morning prayers, and the bells were rung again and again, their sound clear and sweet in the mountain air. At the gate I stopped and bought a basket of fruit as an offering. With it, I climbed the stairs and went through the doorway into a courtyard. There a priest stood before the sanctum, holding his tray with red powder and a pot of holy water with which to anoint our foreheads. But, seeing the idol within the sanctum, an object of stone or metal albeit decked with gold and gems, I declined to bow before it. Although the pilgrims stared to see me, and the priest called, ‘Stop! Who are you?’ I continued on my way, into the second courtyard.
There I beheld the Great Sage seated upon a carpet amidst pots of basil and garlands of marigold, preparing to give his discourse. To him I went with my little basket and at his feet I laid it. He held out his hand and blessed me and bade me be seated. I obeyed my Lord and sat before him, gazing my fill of the Divine Visage. He spoke and his voice was sweeter than the ringing of bells, sweeter than the song of birds; it had the power and the force of the river itself. He spoke of Divine Love and love filled my every limb with its nectar and I was Radha who beheld, at last, the true Krishna.
I travel the River
That had its Source
In a far country.
Long have I wandered
The face of the earth,
Struggling through desert wastes,
Knowing hunger, thirst and fear.
I have been shunned and derided,
Mocked in the market-place.
I have been shown great wealth,
Fine possessions
In the world’s courts.
Yet none could soothe my thirst,
In none ended my quest.
False priests misled me,
With promises and gifts.
Villains imprisoned me
In barbarous cells.
Devils, I cried, I am not yours,
I will be free
And seek the Divine.
Voices mocked me, saying:
Divine? Are we not that?
Faces leered at me, smiling:
Are we not fine enough for you?
From somewhere strength came to me
And I repelled them,
Knowing it better to die
Fighting Evil
Than to live without His Grace.
Arriving at last in the green valley,
My feet quickened their pace,
My Lord’s voice in my ear, beckoning.
I know now my Journey’s ended,
I see now that Mountain peak
That had been my true home
From which I was kept
And is now shown me
In a vision so radiant
I cry out in Joy:
Love, I am come.
The Sun pours upon the Abode of Snow
It dazzles my eyes –
Everywhere is Brightness.
All day I remained in that courtyard, even after He withdrew. His presence lingered as a scent upon the air. His voice continued to ring in my ears even as a lion’s roar. To all else I was oblivious. Priests and pilgrims came to rouse me, to urge me to eat or rest, or else leave. I did not stir. Only late in the evening, when the sun had withdrawn from the heavens and the purple hues of night tinged the deep valleys, did I begin to shiver and stir as though I had woken in the night to find my lover gone. Then I permitted them to help me to my feet and when they asked where I lived, I began to weep: ‘Here, only here. Let me stay, I beg you, do not send me away.’ They took pity on me and found me a room within the ashram. It was a small place, dark and without furnishings, but they brought me food and a blanket and shut the door on me, and I remained, weeping both with the joy of being within the temple of which I had dreamt and at the pain of being separated thus from him.
The heavens heard my prayers. In the night, they rumbled and thundered with the rage I felt in my own heart at this cruel separation. The very temple shook upon the hillside. Daggers of lightning stabbed at it from the sky and it was as if they plunged into my breast. The pain was so intense, I shrieked aloud. The heavens burst and the rains poured down. Poured and poured, tumbling out of the black sky, down the mountains into the valleys. Poured onto the temple, onto its roofs and courtyards, the cell of my sorrow becoming flooded thereby. I stood in the water, wailing, my clothes drenched and my wet hair streaming about my shivering body. Am I to drown in sorrow? I wailed. Have I come so far only to die?
He heard me, my Lord and my Beloved. The door was flung wide and He stood there in his saffron robes, bearing in his hand a lantern that gilded his face with gold. He stood there in the light of that lantern of love, golden as a rose, golden as a lotus. Seeing Him, I cried: O, you have come to save me!