IX
WHEN I see men assume the seat of judges instead of leaving all judgment to the Supreme, I am filled with shame. Read the writings of the critics and you will find a good deal to laugh over. One would think that their acquaintance with the characters of a book was more intimate than that of the author himself. 'There is no consistency,' they declare in accents which compel conviction, 'in the delineation of this man's character; and as for the other man, he never could have acted thus.' And the readers say, 'How fine! This is criticism: this is analysis of character. How dare any one write rubbish and balderdash when the lash of such a critic hangs over him? See now how he has pulled that book to pieces!' I dare say the book has its faults: what earthly thing has not? But when I contemplate my own life, such assurance about others' lives fills me with infinite pity and humility. 'Alas for the human heart!' I say to myself. 'Is it a mere phrase that the soul of man is infinite? How can we ever forget that millions of births, and countless millions of experiences in each birth, may lie submerged under the surface of this limitless mind, and that the emergence of any one of them into our life may set at naught all our experience, all education, and all this unerring skill in the analysis of character? And how can we forget too that the heart of man is the seat of his eternal soul?'
Take the case of Annada Didi. I can never forget her sweet face, angelic in its calm. After she had left us few nights went by when I did not sob myself to sleep. How often I cried, 'Didi, I have no more fear for myself: I am saved. By the alchemy of your touch all that was base in me has been turned to gold. Now nothing in me can rust by exposure to the changing weather of circumstances: the gold will remain bright and glittering to the end. But you are gone, my Didi, and no one can share in this good fortune of mine, for no one else has seen you as I have done. If others had known you, my Didi, as well as I have done, their nature, I have little doubt, would have been transmuted into an exceeding goodness.' My imagination busied itself at that tender age with conceiving a thousand ways in which I could have saved the world by sharing my Didi with it. Sometimes I would think that if I could get seven big pots of gold I would place her, like Devi Choadhurani,[1] on an enormous throne: I would clear forests and make an open space, and call people together, and they would be her subjects. Sometimes I would think of the great possibilities of putting her into a big house-boat which would be taken from one country to another, a big, magnificent band playing to announce her greatness. Thus in a day I would build a thousand castles in the air, castles that seem fantastic enough at this distance, the memories of which in these sober days bring smiles, and tears as well.
I had a conviction in those days as solid and massive as the Himalayas, that there certainly never existed in this world, and could hardly exist in any other world, the woman who could win my heart. 'If I ever meet any one,' so ran my dreams, 'who speaks with her soft voice, whose lips possess the cool sweetness of her smile, whose brow like hers is radiant with angelic light, whose eyes have her tender appeal, I shall know that she is the one destined to share my life. May she be as loving and as devoted as my Didi! May all her actions, like my Didi's, shine with the sublime splendour of a wonderful soul! May she accept and prize me above and beyond all happiness and misery, all good and evil, and all right and wrong, in this life!'
Was this the same person whose first waking thought now was of someone else's words, whose fancy dwelt on a face as different from Didi's as night is from day? Only six days before if my Genius had come and warned me of such a contingency, I should have laughed in his face and said, 'Great All-knower, thanks for thy good wishes! You need not trouble yourself about my happiness. My heart knows what true gold is, and I will never be taken in by brass, however glittering.'
And yet brass did come in all its glory. There in the innermost chamber of my heart where my Annada Didi's blessings had been a shower of purest gold, some unforeseen influence made me clutch at this brass.
I plainly see that those of my critics who cannot brook any weakness are getting impatient: they will say, 'What is it that you wish to say in such tortuous language, after all? Why not out with it at once? It is this,—that on waking that morning you found your mind irresistibly calling up the image of Piari's face. that you found a longing for the very person whom at first you had contemptuously sought to brush aside, isn't that so? Well, if that is all, don't bring Annada Didi's name into the matter. Because, however well you may know the art of dressing up your stories, we understand human nature. We can emphatically assert that the image of her ideal character could never have been present in your mind; for if it had been, this base counterfeit would not have obtained a foothold there.'
I dare say. But no more arguments. I have learned that man never completely understands himself. I know under the influence of what ideal I have been 'preaching' my thoughts about womanhood. So when, on reading this history, people declare that Srikanta is a humbug and a hypocrite, I must perforce hold my tongue. I have never consciously practised hypocrisy. My only fault has been that I was unaware of the weakness that lay hidden in my character.
'Babu Saheb!' The prince’s servant was calling me. I sat up in bed, and he respectfully informed me that the prince and his retinue were eagerly waiting to hear of my adventures of the previous night. I asked him how they had learned of my adventure. 'The door-keeper to His Highness's tent,' he answered, 'told them, sir, that you came back just before dawn.'
As soon as I entered the prince's tent a great commotion arose. A thousand eager questions were levelled at me. The elderly gentleman of the previous night was among those present, and Piari with her attendants was sitting in silence at one side. We did not exchange glances this morning as before: she appeared to be oblivious of my presence.
'All honour to your courage, Srikanta,' said the prince, when the hubbub had subsided. 'When did you reach the cremation-grounds last night?'
'Between midnight and one o'clock, Your Highness.'
'It must have been totally dark then,' said the elderly gentleman. 'The amavasya[2] began after half-past eleven.'
Sounds of startled surprise arose. When they had abated, the prince asked, 'And then? What did you see?'
'Countless bones and skulls.'
'What astounding courage is yours, Srikanta! Did you enter the cremation-grounds or did you stand outside?'
'I entered it and sat on a mound of sand,' I answered.
'WeIl, well, what next? What next? What did you see after you sat down?'
'Vast stretches of sand.'
'Anything else?'
'Clumps of kashar shrubs and sinml trees.'
'Anything else?'
'And the river.'
'Yes, yes, we know all that!' cried the prince, bursting with impatience. 'Well, those things—'
I burst out laughing, and said, 'I saw two bats fly over my head.'
The elderly gentleman then advanced towards me and asked in Hindustani, 'Did you see nothing else, sir?'
'Nothing.'
For a moment the whole tent-ful of people seemed disappointed. Then the elderly gentleman cried out angrily, 'It's impossible, sir! You can't have gone at all!' I merely smiled at his anger, for it was only natural. The prince pressed my hand with his and besought me in a voice of entreaty.
'On your honour, Srikanta, tell us what you really saw.'
'On my honour, I say, I saw nothing else.'
'How long were you there?'
'About three hours.'
'Well, if you didn't see anything, did you hear anything?'
'Yes, I heard something.'
In an instant every face brightened, and the crowd closed in around me to hear every word. I told them how a night-bird had passed overhead crying, 'Bap! Bap!', how the young vultures on the simul trees had kept up a plaintive crying like so many sick children, how a sudden gust of wind had risen and I had heard the sighings of the skulls, how at length some mysterious being had breathed icy-cold on my ear. After I had finished no one spoke for some time: there was silence throughout the tent. At length the elderly gentleman heaved a deep sigh, and placing a hand on my shoulder, said with impressive slowness, 'Babu-ji, you have been able to return with your life; that is because you are a true Brahmin; nobody else could have done it. But take an old man's warning, sir; pray do not take such risks again! I touch the feet of your forefathers a thousand million times; it is their spiritual merit that saved you last night.' And in his emotion he put his hand on my feet.
I said previously that this man was an expert story-teller. He now began to give an exhibition of his art. With eyes that now blazed, now darkened, with a gaze that seemed at times one glowing fire, and at other times awed us with its impression of horror and mystery, he began such a detailed explanation of my story—the mystery of everything that had happened overnight, from the weeping of the young vultures to the icy-cold breath on my ear—that my hair stood on end even then in broad daylight among so many people. I had not noticed that Piari had approached me silently as on the previous morning. The sound of a quick sigh made me turn my head, and I saw her sitting close behind me, staring at the speaker. Down her cheeks which were bright with animation two tears had coursed unnoticed, leaving a path that had become dry. She was all unconscious of my swift glance and of the picture that she made, with her vivid, tear-stained face eagerly lifted to the speaker, but the picture was stamped on my heart for ever in lines of fire. When the narrative was ended, she stood up and, asking with a bow the prince's permission to go, left the tent slowly and in silence.
I had intended to go in the morning, but as I was not feeling quite well, and had been requested by the prince to stay, I decided to go in the afternoon. I returned to my tent, pondering over the change in Piari's attitude towards me. Hitherto she had mocked and laughed at me, she had even made me feel the suggestion of a quarrel gathering in the look of her eyes; but such indifference—it was altogether new. And yet I was pleased rather than pained. Though it had never been my business to worry about the inner workings of a young woman's mind, and I had never done so, yet perhaps the varied and unbroken chain of experience extending throughout my countless births and re-births even unto this life, lying concealed in the recesses of my mind, enabled me to see the inward meaning of her conduct that day. Whatever the cause of my intuition, I did not need to be told that her attitude was not really one of indifference but rather the silent remonstrance of secret love. Perhaps it was a suspicion of this that had made me omit from my story, as I told it to the prince, the fact of her having sent men to the cremation-grounds to look for me. She had left the tent in the silence at the end of my story. It was a silent accusation. I had not told her, when I returned at dawn, anything of what had happened. What she had had the exclusive right to hear first, she had heard from her remote seat, behind all the others, as it were by accident. This silent accusation of love tasted so sweet, so exquisite a thing, to my unaccustomed experience, that I retired into solitude like a child who has found an entrancing piece of confection, to suck the very marrow of its sweetness.
I should have gone to sleep in the afternoon, I even began to feel drowsy, but the hope that Ratan would come continually broke in upon thoughts of slumber and dispelled them. The day lengthened, but Ratan did not come. I had been so confident of his coming, that when at last I rose and saw that the afternoon was far advanced, I could not resist the conclusion that he had come and gone back, thinking nte asleep. Silly ass! if he had come, would he not have called me? The feeling that the silent hours of the afternoon had gone for naught worried me, but I felt little doubt that he would come again after dusk, perhaps with a request, or a note, or something which he would slip into my hand. But how was I to pass the time until then? Looking ahead I saw at a distance a glistening expanse of water. It was a tank or artificial lake, the work of a forgotten zamindar, about a mile in length. One side of it, to the north, had become filled up and was overgrown with a dense jungle. The womenfolk of the village did not dare to come to this tank to fetch water on account of its distance from the village. There was an old ghat, a flight of steps leading down to the water; I went and sat down listlessly on a corner of it. Rumour had it that once upon a time there had been a flourishing village round the lake, and that, devastated by cholera and the plague, it had shifted to its present site. On all sides I could see signs of past habitations. The slanting rays of the setting sun lingered on the dark surface of the water and made it liquid gold, while I sat gazing in silence.
Slowly the sun went down, and the dark water took on a deeper shade. From the adjoining jungle a thirsty jackal came out to the edge of the water, quenched its thirst, and then stole timidly back. It was time for me to get up. The time I had meant to idle away here had passed by, yet for some mysterious reason I felt I could not leave the place: I sat rooted to that flight of steps as if bound by a spell.
How many persons, I thought, had passed and re-passed, stepped and re-stepped over the spot on which I was sitting! How often they had come down this flight of steps to bathe, to wash their clothes, to take water. To what invisible lake did they now resort for these daily wants of theirs? They would come about this time of the evening, and sit on these steps; and many a song and story would soothe and enliven their weariness after the labour of the day. And then, when all on a sudden death came in the guise of the great plague and snatched away the whole village from life, many dying souls, perhaps, had come with hurrying feet, impelled by thirst, to breathe their last on these steps. Perhaps their thirsty spirits were still hovering about me. For who could say with assurance that things we do not see do not exist? 'Babuji,' the old man had said that very morning, 'never believe that nothing is left of us after death, or that dead souls do not wander about helplessly in space, goaded on by desires and appetites, pleasure and pain, like ourselves.' He had told us stories of King Vikramaditya,[3] of how one can command powerful spirits like Tal-Veatl, and of the magical powers of the Sadhus and Sannyasis[4] who practise Tantric[5] rites. 'Never think, Babuji,' he had concluded, 'that they do not make themselves seen and heard when suitable occasion arises. I solemnly advise you never to go again to those cremation-grounds. And never disbelieve, I pray you, that those who take pains to acquire powers in the unseen world have their reward and recompense some day.'
Those words, which in daylight had been but a matter for jest and laughter, came back to me in the gathering darkness with another aspect. If there was anything real in the world, I thought, it was certainly death. The manifold forms of good and evil, pleasure and pain, in our life, were they not like the different materials out of which fireworks are made? They were collected and disposed carefully and skilfully with the sole object of being burnt to ashes some day. If then one could learn what lay on the other side of death, what, indeed, could be more profitable? It mattered little who gave us the news and in what form it came.
Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps. I turned my head, but saw nothing except the darkness. There was nobody within sight. Shaking off my lethargy, I stood up and started, as I thought, in the direction of our encampment. I laughed as I remembered the incidents of the previous night and said to myself, 'No, no more sitting in the dark. Last night I felt a breath on my right ear; and now if the owner of the breath comes with designs on my left,—well, I shall hardly be in a condition to relish the joke!'
I had no idea how long I had been sitting by the lake, or what hour of the night it was: perhaps it was midnight. But what was this? I walked and walked, and yet the narrow footpath led on interminably. I could not see even a single light from our tents. For some time I had noticed a clump of bamboos in front of me, obstructing my view. 'Why,' I thought suddenly, 'I did not notice that when I came down. Have I lost my way?' Advancing a little further, I saw that it was not a clump of bamboos after all, but a few tamarind trees whose widespread branches, closely intertwined, deepened the gloom through which my path pursued its zigzag course. Under those trees it was so dark that I could not see my own hand. My heart began to beat fast. 'Where am I going?' I asked myself. Summoning up my courage, I passed under the giant tamarind tree. Imagine my surprise when I saw nothing but the dark expanse of the heavens confronting me. But what was that high ridge up there? Could it be the embankment which the government had constructed along the river? Ah yes, that was it! My feet were weighted down with an overpowering weariness but I dragged myself somehow to the top of the embankment. Just what I had thought! Below me were the vast cremation-grounds. Again I heard footsteps. This time they passed before me and lost themselves in the grey desolation below. Half-bereft of my senses, reeling and stumbling, I dropped down on the sand and gravel of the embankment. I had no longer the least doubt in my mind that someone was trying to show me the way through these cremation-grounds to others beyond them, and that my invisible guide, the sound of whose footsteps had made me move from the lake, had just left me, for I seemed to hear the echo of his footfall still vibrating in the air.
- ↑ Devi Choadhurani: the heroine in Bankimchandra Chatterji's novel of the same name.
- ↑ Dark phase of the moon.
- ↑ Vikramaditya stories: these stories are full of supernatural incidents, spirits, demons, celestial nymphs, the power of magic and austerities, and the like. Vikramaditya is a semi-legendary king.
- ↑ Sadhus and Sannyasis are persons who have renounced the world.
- ↑ Tantric rites are rites prescribed by the tantras or books that deal with the development of occult powers. They represent the darkest side of the worship of Kali as Shakti or 'strength'.