Ponchu. You don’t say so! How could it fall out of the tree?
Udho. That’s the beauty of it! By the Tree-Sage’s grace!
Ponchu. Come on, brother Udho, come on, let’s go look for him! But how are we to recognize him?
Udho. That’s the problem. No one’s ever seen him. Even that idiot Bheku had his eyelids stuck down with treacle.
Ponchu. What’s to do?
Udho. Wherever I go, I say to everyone I see, ‘Do tell me if you’re the wondrous Tree-Sage!’ Hearing this, they charge at me in fury. One fellow even poured the swill from his hookah over my head.
Gobra. Let him. We shan’t give up. We’ve got to find the Tree-Sage—never mind what it takes.
Ponchu. Bheku says the Tree-Sage can only be seen on a tree. Down on the ground, there’s no way of knowing him.
Udho. You can’t test people by making them climb trees, brother. I had a brainwave. My hog-plum tree was laden with fruit, and I said to everyone I saw, ‘Come, climb the tree and help yourself to all the fruit you want.’ The tree’s been stripped bare, the branches are wrecked, but I’ve yet to spot this elusive tree-climber.
Ponchu. There’s no time to waste—let’s get going. With luck, we’re bound to get a glimpse of the sage. Why not call upon him, ‘Tree-Sage, O Tree-Sage, kind and compassionate Tree-Sage, if you’re lurking somewhere in these parul woods, do appear before us unhappy mortals.’
Gobra. That’s enough! The Tree-Sage has had mercy upon us!
Ponchu. Where, where?
Gobra. Why, on that chalta tree over there!
Ponchu. What? I don’t see anything!
Gobra. Why, can’t you see it swinging?
Ponchu. Swinging? But that’s a tail!
Udho. Have you lost your wits, Gobra? That’s not the Tree-Sage; it’s a monkey! Don’t you see it pulling faces at us?
Gobra. It’s a dark age, you see. The Tree-Sage has disguised himself as a monkey to trick us.
Ponchu. We’re not deceived, your black face can’t deceive us! Make as many faces as you like, we’re not budging from this spot—we have sought the refuge of your holy tail.
Gobra. Look! The sage is leaping away! He’s trying to give us the slip!
Ponchu. That’s impossible! Can he ever outrun our devotion?
Gobra. There he is, sitting on top of that bael tree!
Udho. Go on, Ponchu, climb the tree!
Ponchu. Why don’t you climb it?
Udho. No, you climb it.
Ponchu. We can’t ascend to your height, Baba. Have mercy on us and come down.
Udho. Bless us, holy Tree-Sage. In our last hours, may we close our eyes with your holy tail round our necks.
‘Well then, nitwit, could you make her laugh?’
‘No. It’s not easy to make a person laugh who believes unquestioningly in everything. In fact, I’m feeling rather apprehensive: what if Pupu-didi sends me in search of the Tree-Sage?’
The look on Pupu-didi’s face caused me a twinge of misgiving as well. The idea of the Tree-Sage obviously appealed to her. Well, tomorrow I’ll conduct a little experiment, and find out if it’s possible to have a bit of fun over something without believing in it.
After a while, Pupu-didi came to me and asked, ‘Dadamashai, what would you have asked the Tree-Sage for?’
I answered, ‘I’d ask him for a magic pen that would make all Pupu-didi’s sums come out right.’
Pupu-didi clapped her hands and cried, ‘What fun that would be!’
This time, in her arithmetic exam, Pupu-didi has scored thirteen and a half out of a hundred.
* * *
17karamcha: a kind of fruit.
18kaviraj: ayurvedic doctor.
19siddhi: an intoxicating drink made from Indian hemp.
4
I DON’T KNOW IF I’M AWAKE OR DREAMING. I DON’T KNOW HOW LATE IT is. The room is dark; the lantern stands outside in the veranda. A small bat is wheeling about the room, greedy for insect prey, like an unappeased spirit.
He arrived and yelled out, ‘Dada, are you asleep?’ Without waiting for an answer, he burst into the room. He was shrouded from head to toe in a black rug.
‘What’s this you’re wearing?’ I demanded.
‘It’s my wedding suit,’ he answered.
‘Your wedding suit! Explain!’
‘I’m going to see my bride.’
I don’t know why, but my sleep-befuddled senses found nothing inappropriate in his attire. I exclaimed enthusiastically, ‘You’re admirably garbed. I’m pleased to note your originality. Your costume is nothing short of classical.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When Shiva married his ascetic bride,20 he was draped in elephant hide. You’re in bearskin. Close enough. The sage Narada21 would have approved.’
‘Dada, you’re a sensible man. That’s why I came to you, even at this hour of the night.’
‘How late is it?’
‘No later than one-thirty, I think.’
‘Must you visit your bride right now?’
‘Right now.’
Hearing this, I cried, ‘Splendid!’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t imagine why the idea didn’t occur to me sooner. You view your office boss in the glare of day, and your wife in the darkness of night.’
‘Dada, your words are like nectar. Give us an example from the scriptures.’
‘Just think of Mahadeva22 staring at Mahakali23 in wonder, in the inky darkness of a moonless night.’
‘Oh, Dada, your words make my spine tingle. Sublime, as they say. In that case, we mustn’t waste time on words. Let’s be off.’
‘Who is the bride, and where is she?’
‘She’s the younger sister of my sister-in-law. She’s at my sisterin-law’s house.’
‘Does she resemble your sister-in-law in appearance?’
‘I’d say. It’s obvious they’re sisters.’
‘In that case, there is need of a dark night.’
‘My sister-in-law’s told me herself, “You mustn’t bring your electric torch.” ’
‘Where does your sister-in-law live?’
‘Twenty-seven miles from here—in the Unkundo quarter of Chouchakla village.’
‘Will there be a feast?’
‘Certainly.’
I was seized by I don’t know what giddy delight. My liver has caused me untold suffering for twelve years—the very mention of food makes me bilious.
I asked him, ‘What will the food be like?’
He answered excitedly, ‘Delicious, delicious, delicious! My sister-in-law makes a wonderful stew of mango jelly and boiled bitter-gourd, and a chutney of kul seeds ground in a paddy-press, mixed with tobacco-leaf juice—’
So saying, he began to dance in English fashion—ti-ti-tomtom, ti-ti-tom-tom, ti-ti-tom-tom!
I have never danced in my life, but I was suddenly possessed by a wild desire to join him. The two of us linked arms and began prancing—ti-ti-tom-tom…
I felt extraordinarily light-footed; if Jamuna-didi had seen me, she would have been impressed.
Finally, out of breath, I sat down heavily. ‘That sumptuous menu you recited, why, it’s nothing but vitamins. Nectar for the liver. You’re going to see your bride, but she must be tested first.’
‘There’s been a round of testing already.’
‘How was that?’
‘Well, I thought, before we’re eternally matched, let’s find out if we match at all. Tell me if that wasn’t wise.’
‘Wise it was. But what method did you employ?’
‘I thought we should see if we could match verses. I sent the assistant editor of the Rangmashal24 to represent me. He began: “Beauty, you’re as dark as night.”
‘“Give me a rhyme that matches this,” he challenged. “A perfect match, mind.”
‘The bride reeled off in a single breath:
You’re almost blind, so dim your sight.
‘The assistant editor fo
und this intolerable. He retaliated:
Long-armed Brahma25 in the night
Made you at the cease of light.
‘What made him say “long-armed”?’
‘I’ve heard the girl is tall. She must be a good two inches taller than you. That’s the main reason for my ardour.’
‘You can’t be serious!’
‘Marry one wife, and get half an extra one thrown in.’
‘I admit I hadn’t looked at it that way.’
‘Anyway, having submitted to defeat at the hands of the assistant editor, she has pledged submission.’
‘A bond?’
‘Yes, she’s strung fish-scales on a thread to make a necklace, and put it round his neck, saying: “The scent of fame will follow you to the ends of the earth.”’
I leapt to my feet, exclaiming, ‘I am indeed fortunate! I see this will be a marriage of one exceptional person to another. Such an event is rare in the extreme! In that case, why hunt for an auspicious day and hour?’
‘But the girl has laid down a condition. Whoever defeats her receives her hand in marriage.’
‘What do you have to beat her in? Looks?’
‘No, in matching words. If I can match my words with hers, she’s prepared to resign herself to me.’
‘Are you sure you’ll be able to do that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Let’s hear your plan.’
‘I’ll say, “Describe my character in four lines. Your ode must please me. The rhyme must be a perfect match.” ’
‘If one could take out patents on methods of bride-choosing, you’d have been a sure candidate. A hymn to the groom, just to begin with! This was how the goddess Uma won in the end!’
‘We must prompt her with the first line, otherwise she won’t have an inkling of my character. The beginning of the ode is to be: “As a man, I perceive you’re extremely queer.”
‘If we insist on a perfect match of three entire lines, the girl will hold her head in her hands in despair. She’ll just have to admit defeat. Let’s hear you give us the next line, Dada.’
I recited:
You’re possessed by a demon, such is my fear.
‘Excellent! But the poem will be incomplete without a few more lines. I’d say, forget the bride, not even her father could find lines to match these. Dada, can you think of anything, sense or nonsense?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘Then listen—
Jump off the roof with a thud,
Land on your head in the mud;
Just as the fit takes you, any-how-where.’
‘What on earth is that? Where do they speak such a language?’
‘Why, it’s Sanskrit, the language of the gods—at a stage when it had not progressed beyond strange noises.’
‘Any-how-where—what does that mean?’
‘It means, whatever you like. Just as you please. That’s in Bengali. Modern scholars call it a verbal legacy.’
My reverence for the fellow overflowed its banks. He had extraordinary potential in him. I thumped him on the back and told him he had stunned me.
‘It won’t do to stay stunned,’ he declared. ‘We must get going. The auspicious hour set for the wedding is passing. The hour of Babakaran will pass, then Taitilakaran, then Vaishkumbhajog, and after that, Harshanjog, Bishtikaran, and in the end, Asrikjog and Dhanishthanakshatra.26 The Goswamis27 maintain that when Vyatipatjog, Balakaran and Parighjog coincide with Garkaran, disaster is imminent. A housewife knows no greater danger than Garkaran. Siddhijog, Brahmajog, Indrajog, Shivajog—none of them occur this week. There’s a faint hope of Bariyanjog, if the seventh of the twenty-seven stars appears in the sky.’
‘No more delay. We must set off immediately. Shout for Puttulal, tell him to bring his motorcar. He’ll have sat down at his spinning wheel by now. He can’t sleep without spinning a while; that’s what driving has done to him.’
We climbed into the car.
We were driving through a forest. It was very dark. A jackal howled somewhere among the thick clumps of weeds guarding a pond. It must have been about half past three in the morning. The noise gave Puttulal such a shock that he drove the car straight into a pool of water. Meanwhile, a frog had got into his clothes and was hopping around wildly in the region of his back. What a shrieking he set up! I tried to soothe him by saying, ‘Puttulal, you keep complaining of backache. Let the frog jump about all it likes, you’ll never get such a fine massage for free!’
I clambered up on to the roof of the car and began calling, ‘Banamali, Banamali!’
Not a sound from the stupid fellow. It was clear he was bundled up in a rug on the platform at Bolpur28 station, snoring loudly. I felt strongly inclined to go tickle his nose with a fountain pen and make him sneeze. Perhaps that would wake him up.
Meanwhile, my hair was drenched in muddy water. I couldn’t possibly present myself at our friend’s sister-in-law’s without combing it properly. Roused by the hullabaloo, the ducks by the pond had set up a furious honking. With a single bound, I landed among them and, grabbing one, scrubbed vigorously at my head with its wing. That restored my hair to some degree of order. Puttulal suddenly remarked, ‘You were right, Dadababu. That frog hopping over my back is really making me feel quite comfortable. I’m beginning to feel rather drowsy.’
We finally reached He’s sister-in-law’s house. I was so hungry that I’d completely forgotten about meeting the bride. I asked his sister-in-law, ‘He was with me all this while, why don’t I see him now?’
His sister-in-law’s dulcet tones issued through three yards of swaddling dupatta: ‘He has gone to seek his bride.’
‘In what dump?’
‘In the bamboo thicket by the dried-up pond.’
‘How far away would that be?’
‘A nine-hour journey.’
‘Not very far, then. But I’m famished. Bring out that chutney of yours.’
Sister-in-law lamented in nasal tones, ‘Curse my ill-luck, it was only the Tuesday before last that I filled the shell of a burst football with all that was left of it and sent it off to Buju-didi. She loves it so with mustard oil, chillies and gram-flour dumplings.’
My face went pale. ‘What’ll we eat, then?’
Sister-in-law answered, ‘Shrivelled shrimps in treacle syrup. Do eat something, son, or you’ll have a stomach ache.’
I ate what I could, but there was a lot left. ‘Have some?’ I asked Puttulal.
He answered, ‘Give me the jar, I’ll take it home and eat it after evening prayers.’
We came back home. Our sandals were soaked and we were plastered in mud.
I summoned Banamali. ‘You monkey, what were you doing when we called you?’
He burst into tears and sobbed, ‘A scorpion had stung me, and it sent me straight to sleep.’
Having said this, he trotted back to bed.
Suddenly, a villainous-looking fellow burst into the room. He was very tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-necked; as dark as Banamali, with bushy hair and bristling whiskers. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was dressed in a printed smock, with a three-cornered yellow towel knotted around his striped red lungi.29 In his hand was a bamboo cudgel topped with long copper spikes. His voice was like the horn on Gadai-babu’s motorcar. His bellow of ‘Babumashai!’ would have turned the scales at no less than three and a half maunds.
I flinched, tearing a hole in my paper with a nervous thrust of my pen.
‘What’s the matter?’ I demanded. ‘Who are you?’
He answered, ‘My name is Pallaram. I’ve come from my sister’s house. Where’s that He of yours?’
I said, ‘How should I know?’
Pallaram glowered at me. ‘Don’t know, indeed!’ he shouted. ‘I can see that single sock of his—the patched, hairy, green one— dangling from your bookshelf like the chopped-off tail of a dead squirrel. How would he bring himself to leave that behind?’
I said, ‘Our He isn’t one to sustain losses. Wh
erever he’s gone, he’s sure to come back for it. But what’s the matter?’
He replied, ‘Yesterday, my sister went to the house of the commander-in-chief of the army and made a pact of friendship with his wife. She returned to discover that your He had made off with a pot, an umbrella, a deck of playing cards, a hurricane lantern and a sack of anthracite coal. She can’t even find the basket of bamboo sprouts, tender ends of bottle-gourd and cane-bush leaves that she’d brought in from the garden. She’s simply furious.’
‘Well, what am I to do about that?’ I asked.
‘That He must be hiding somewhere on your premises, bring him out!’ ordered Pallaram.
‘He isn’t here,’ I protested. ‘Go lodge a complaint at the police station.’
‘He must be here.’
‘This is a pretty kettle of fish! I tell you he isn’t here!’
‘He must be here, he must, he must!’ Pallaram pounded on my table with his brass-topped cudgel. The madman next door began howling like a jackal. All the neighbourhood dogs began yapping. Banamali had left me a glass of bael sharbat, which Pallaram now knocked over. The juice mingled with violet ink from a smashed bottle and ran gracefully down the silk sheet to puddle in my shoes. I began yelling for Banamali.
As soon as he saw Pallaram, Banamali fled, calling upon his ancestors to save him.
I suddenly remembered. ‘Our He has gone to find his bride.’
‘Where?’
‘In the bamboo thicket by the dried-up pond.’
The giant exclaimed, ‘Why, that’s where I live!’
‘That’s all right, then. Do you have a daughter?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, now you’ve found her a suitor.’
‘I can’t be quite sure yet. I’ll stand over your He with my cudgel till they’re married. Only then will I consider myself relieved of my paternal responsibility.’
‘Well then, you’d better be off. You mightn’t see the groom around, now that he’s seen his bride.’
‘Right you are,’ he agreed.
There was an old broken bucket in the room. He seized it. ‘What will you do with that?’ I asked.