I asked, ‘What’s this, Panchu? Why this?’
Panchu was a subject of my neighbouring landlord, Harish Kundu; I knew him through my teacher. Firstly, I wasn’t his landlord and then he was extremely poor—I had no right to accept any gifts from him. I thought, the poor fellow must be desperate and has thought of this novel manner to gain a few rupees’ tip to take him through the day.
I dipped into the moneybag in my pocket, took out two rupees and was about to give it to him when he folded his hands and said, ‘No sire, I can’t take that.’
‘Why, Panchu?’
‘No sire, let me come clean. At a time when I was very hard up, I’d stolen some coconuts from your private gardens. I don’t know when I’ll die, and so I’ve come to repay the debt.’
Today, Amiel’ s Journal wouldn’t have served me in any way, but these words from Panchu cleared up my mind in a trice. This world extended far beyond the sorrows and pleasures of unity and separation with one woman. Human life was substantial; I should take stock of my own mirth and tears only as I stand amidst that immensity.
Panchu was a devotee of my teacher. I know how his home runs itself. Every morning he wakes at dawn and takes a basket filled with paan, tobacco, coloured strings, mirrors, combs etc. which appeal to the farmer women, wades through the knee-deep pond and goes to the area where the lower castes live. Over there, he trades his wares for paddy, which fetches him a little more than a purely monetary exchange. On the days he can return early, he finishes his meal quickly and goes to make sweetmeats at the sweet shop. When he returns from there, it’s late at night. Even after working so very hard, he and his family get two square meals a day only a few months of the year. His manner of eating is thus: at the very outset he ll fill his stomach with a jug of water and a large portion of his meal consists of the cheap variety of banana. At least four months in a year, he only gets to have one meal a day.
There was a time when I wanted to give him some financial aid. My teacher said, ‘You may spoil people with your charity, but you can’t end their misery. In Bengal, Panchu is not alone. The breasts of the entire land are dry. You will never be able to pour in money from the outside and make up for the milk which isn’t there.’
It was food for thought. I’d decided to sacrifice my life to this kind of thinking. The other day I’d gone to Bimala and said, ‘Bimal, let’s devote our lives to banishing misery from our land.’
Bimal laughed and said, ‘You seem to be my prince Siddhartha. See that you don’t walk away one day and leave me stranded.’
I said, ‘Siddhartha’s penance didn’t include his wife. I need my wife’s presence.’
Thus the conversation ended in jokes and banter. Actually, by nature Bimal is what they mean by a ‘gentlewoman’. Although she comes from a poor family, she’s a princess. She believes that the standard of measuring the joys and sorrows in the lives of the people from the lower classes is also lower. They will obviously be needy but it is of no consequence. They are protected by the confines of their inferiority just as the waters in a tiny pond are contained within its shores. If one were to dig and extend those bounds, the water would run out and the muck below would rise up. Bimal had more than her fair share of that pride in her class, which is present in small sections circling independent seats of pride, within which resides, in spite of one’s inferiority, a sense of pedigree and class befitting one’s individual status. She is indeed a descendant of Manu. I suppose the blood of Guhak and Eklavya flows stronger in my veins. I’m not able to push away those who are below me as someone who is beneath me. My India doesn’t belong to gentlemen alone. I’m fully aware that the further the lower classes slide down, it’s India that is deteriorating and the more they die, it’s India that is dying.
Bimal hasn’t joined me in my struggle. In my life, I have given her such a large place that my cause has become smaller in comparison. I have pushed aside the goals of my life in order to make room for Bimal. The consequence of that is that I have only decked her up and adorned her day and night; my life is revolving only around her. I failed to keep in mind just how vast is man and how noble is life.
Yet, amidst all this, my teacher has protected me; as far as possible, he is the one who has guided me towards all that is great. Without him, I’d be sunk in the depths of despair on this day. He is an amazing human being. I call him amazing because there is a great difference between him and the age and times in which we live. He has been able to perceive God within him, and so nothing can distract him anymore. Today when I sit down to balance the books of my life, I can see a gross error, a great loss on one side; but I should always be able to add that there is also a reward that outweighs all losses.
I had already lost my father and come into my own by the time my master finished educating me. I said to him, ‘Please stay here with me and don’t seek work elsewhere.’
He said, ‘Look here, I have already received my wages for what I have given you. If I charge you for the extra that I gave you, it’ll be like cheating my God.’
Rain or shine, Chandranathbabu has come to teach me from his house. I’ve never been able to make him use our cars or vehicles. He said, ‘My father always walked to work from Bot tulla to Lal dighi and he never even rode a shared car. Walking to work runs in our family.’
I said, ‘Fine, then take up a job with us handling our business or something.’
He said, ‘Oh no, my boy, don’t trap me in these rich folks’ business. Let me remain free.’
His son has now completed his MA and is looking for a job. I said that there’s a possibility of working for me. His son too wants the same. At first he’d mentioned this to his father. But when he received no response there, he dropped some hints to me in his father’s absence. That’s when I mentioned it to Chandranathbabu. He said, ‘No, he will not work here.’ His son was very angry that his father deprived him of such an opportunity. In response, he left his widower father alone and took a job and left for Rangoon.
My master always said to me, ‘Look Nikhil, you are not indebted to me and I am not obligated to you—that is our relationship. If a beneficial relation is bound in terms of money, it is an insult to greater powers.’
Now he is the headmaster of the Entrance School here. Until now, he wasn’t even staying at my place. For a while now, I would go over to his house in the evenings and spend time there until late at night. Perhaps he thought that his tiny, damp room was not good for me in the heat of summer and so he has taken up residence at my home. It is amazing how he feels as compassionately for the rich as for the poor—he doesn’t ignore the troubles and sorrows of the rich man or those of the poor.
Why is it that the closer you look at reality, the more it affects you? When we see Truth as formless, we can be free. Today Bimal has made the reality of my life so glaring that the Truth seems obscure. Hence, I am not able to hide my misery in this entire world. And so I have spread my tiny bit of despair amidst the people of this earth and sat down to hum:
Monsoon floods, July and August,
My temple lies vacant!
When I can glimpse the Truth from the window of Chandranathbabu’s life, the meaning of the song is transformed into:
Vidyapati says how will you spend
Your days and nights without Hari?
All misery, all mistakes come from eluding that Truth. If I don’t fill my life with the Truth, how will my days and nights pass? I can’t take this anymore; Truth, fill my vacant temple now.
Bimala
I CAN’ T EXPLAIN WHAT HAPPENED SUDDENLY TO THE HEARTS AND MINDS of the people of Bengal in those days. It was as if the waters of the Bhagirathi came and instantly initiated the sixty thousand sons of Sagar. The ashes of many centuries lay hidden beneath; no spark would light them up, no feelings could stir them and then, on this day, they suddenly woke up and said: ‘Here I am.’
I’ve read in books that in Greece a sculptor brought his sculpture to life by the grace of some gods. There was a gradu
al evolution from beauty into life there, a quest. But in the ashes of this crematorium of a country, where was that exquisite harmony? I’d have understood it if the ashes were a hard, stone-like object—the petrified Ahalya had also turned into a human being one day. But this was all scattered, they constantly slipped through the fist of the Maker, fluttered around in the wind, sat in a pile but never became one. Yet, all of a sudden, that thing came into our yard and growled in a thunderous voice: ‘Ayamaham Bhoh!’
On that day we felt all this was magical. The present moment fell into our palms like a solitaire from the crown of an inebriated god; there was no logical connection between our past and this present. This day was like being on medication which we didn’t seek out, didn’t buy, didn’t receive from a doctor but instead brought on through a dream.
That is why we felt all our sorrows and problems would dissolve by themselves in this mantra. The boundaries of the possible and impossible vanished. We kept feeling that at any moment now, it’s about to happen.
That day we felt history has no conduit, it arrives on its own heavenly chariot. At least its mahout didn’t have to be paid, there were no costs for its upkeep; its champagne glass needed to be topped up from time to time and then, it was straight to heaven with this mortal body.
It wasn’t as if my husband was indifferent. But it seemed like an anguish burned within him through all the excitement, as if he could see something beyond all that lay before him. I remember, one day while arguing with Sandip he’d said, ‘Good fortune arrives suddenly and yells out before our door only to show us that we don’t have the strength to welcome him and we haven’t made any arrangements to invite him in.’
Sandip said, ‘Look Nikhil, you don’t believe in God and so you speak like an atheist. We can clearly see that the goddess has come to grant us a boon and you are doubting it?’
My husband said, ‘I believe in God and that’s why I know deep in my heart that we haven’t been able to arrange for His puja. God has the power to grant us a boon, but we must have the strength to receive it.’
Such words from my husband always made me angry. I said to him, ‘You think this fervour in the land is only an intoxication. But isn’t there a power in inebriety?’
He said, ‘There’s power, but no weapons.’
I said, ‘God grants power and that is hard to come by. Weapons—even an ordinary blacksmith can provide those.’
My husband laughed and said, ‘The blacksmith won’t give it for free, he’ll charge you.
Sandip proudly thrust out his chest and said, ‘We’ll pay, my dear, we’ll pay him.’
My husband said, ‘When you do, I’ll call in the musicians for the festivity.’
Sandip said, ‘We’re not waiting for you to call them. There’s no need to buy our priceless festivity for a price.’ He started singing in his hoarse, intense voice:
‘My penniless admirer wanders in the garden
And plays the penniless flute most melodiously.’
He looked at me, laughed and said, ‘Queen Bee, this was just to prove that when a tune throbs in your throat, you sing even if you are totally out of tune. If you sing heartily, it doesn’t matter if the song is perfect or not. Now a tune has taken our country by storm. Let Nikhil sit and practise the notes. Meanwhile, we will sing ourselves hoarse and set everything on fire.
My home says where will you go,
You’ll lose everything when you venture out.
My heart says, let all that you have,
Burn and perish quite merrily.
‘What is the worst that can happen to us—we’ll be destroyed, right? Fine, I’m ready for it.
If it has to go, do let it go,
I’ll lose everything with a smile,
I’m on my way to drink
From the fountain of death.
‘The truth, Nikhil, is that we are energized. We can no longer stay within the bounds of all that is right and smooth. We have to set off on the path that is difficult and impossible.
The dear ones who draw us close
Know naught of this nectar.
The friend of the wild path
Has called out to me.
Now let the straight bend to the wild
And fall apart in pieces.’
I felt that my husband had something to say. But instead he just walked away.
This tumultuous emotion that was crashing on the shores of the country, came into my life on a different note. The juggernaut of my Fate was approaching and the distant sound of its wheels was making my heart beat louder and faster. Every second I felt a strange and sublime phenomenon was almost upon me, and I wasn’t at all responsible for it. Sin?The path that moved away from the spaces of sin and chastity, fair and legitimate, pity and sympathy had already opened up on its own. I had never desired this, never waited expectantly for this; if you look at my entire life, I was in no way answerable for this. All my life I had devoutly prayed and when it was time to grant the boon, a different God had come and stood in front of me! Just as the nation suddenly woke up, looked ahead and said ‘Vande Mataram’, my heart and soul and every nerve in my body today woke up to say ‘Vande’ to some unknown, exotic—something that defied explanation!
This was the peculiar similarity between the song in the heart of the country and in my own heart! Many a days I crept out of my bed silently, and went and stood on the terrace. Just beyond the boundary of our house lay the half-ripe paddy fields. To the north, the glistening river could be seen through the thick cover of trees in the village. Beyond that lay the forest. It was formless like the foetus of impending creation, sleeping nestled in the womb of the immense night. I looked ahead and saw my country standing there—a girl just like me. She used to be content in her own corner of the house. But suddenly she heard the call of the wild. She didn’t have time to think. She just walked blindly into the dark. She didn’t wait to light a little lamp. I knew, on that slumberous night, just how her breast heaved and fell. I knew that the distant flute called her thus, that she felt she was there already, she had found it and now she could even walk with her eyes closed and not be afraid anymore. This wasn’t the mother who would remember that the house had to be swept, the lamps lit and the child fed. Today she was the lover. This was our nation in the days of the Vaishnava Padabalis. She had left her home and forgotten her duties. All she had was endless passion; fired by that passion she walked on, heedless of the road. I too was a traveller on the same tryst. I too had lost my home and my way. The goal and the means were both misty before me—all I knew was the passion and the journey. Oh nocturnal one, when the night would melt into the crimson dawn, you wouldn’t even see a sign of the road back home. But why should I return—I’d rather die. If the darkness that summoned me with its flute destroyed me totally and left me with nothing, all my worries would be over. Everything would be destroyed; not a trace of me would remain. All my sins would mingle in the darkness; after that—what mattered laughter or sorrow, good or bad?
In those days, the time machine was in full steam in Bengal. Hence, even the impossible was becoming a reality in the blink of an eye. It began to feel as if even in that corner of Bengal where we lived, nothing could be stopped anymore. Until then, in those parts, the speed of events was a little slower than in the rest of Bengal. The main reason for that was that my husband didn’t like to put any pressure on anyone. He used to say, ‘Those who sacrificed for the country, are the great souls. But those who troubled others in the name of the nation, are the enemies. They want to hack away at the roots of freedom and nourish its trunk and leaves.’
But when Sandipbabu came and settled here, his followers began to move around and sometimes there were speeches in the marketplace and in public. The waves began to sway these parts too. A group of local youths joined up with Sandip. Many of them were notorious in the village for deeds best untold. But the flame of enthusiasm ignited from within and without and they glowed. It became clear that when there was elation in the nat
ion’s air, people’s foibles disappeared on their own. If there was no joy in the country it was difficult for people to be healthy, straight and strong.
At this time, everyone noticed that imported salt, sugar and cloth were not yet banned from my husband’s land. So much so, that even my husband’s employees began to grow restless and mortified on this account. But , a few months ago when my husband had brought in the home-grown goods into this area, everyone here had laughed at him, either to themselves or openly. We had scoffed at them when the indigenous goods had no link with our heroism. Till date, my husband sharpened his home-grown pencil with the indigenous knife, wrote with the quill pen, drank from the brass pot and in the evening he read by lamplight. But this colourless brand of swadeshi didn’t inspire us. On the contrary, I always felt ashamed of the lacklustre furniture in his living room, especially when the magistrate or any other foreigner came to visit. He always laughed and said, ‘Why do you let such little things get to you?’
I said, ‘But, they’ll go away thinking we are uncouth and uncultured.’
He said, ‘If they think that, I am free to think that their culture extends only till the polish of the fair skin and doesn’t reach the red bloodstream of the world’s humanity.
There was a common brass pot on his desk which he used as a vase. Often, when a British visitor was expected, I hid that pot and replaced it with a colourful ceramic vase and placed flowers in it.
My husband would say, ‘Bimal, my brass pot is as un-selfconscious as these flowers. But your foreign flower vase doggedly lets you know that it is a vase. I’d rather keep artificial flowers in it than real ones.’
My second sister-in-law gave my husband a lot of encouragement on this matter. Once she came up to him in a real rush and said, ‘Thakurpo, I’ve heard that they’ve come out with an indigenous soap—of course, our days of using soap are over. But if it doesn’t have animal fat, I’d like to use it. This is one bad habit I have picked up after coming to this house—I gave it up long ago, but still a bath doesn’t feel complete without soap.’