Srikanta (Part 1)/Chapter 10

by Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay

 

X

I HAVE passed the age at which one is anxious to account for every event. I am therefore not ashamed to admit that I do not possess sufficient knowledge to explain how, on that dark night, I could come from the ancient lake to the borders of the cremation-grounds, or whose footsteps they were that lured me thus out of my proper path. Even to-day these incidents are wrapped in mystery. But my admission must not be regarded as the admission of a belief in the existence of spirits. I remember a lunatic who lived in our village; he used to beg for his meals from house to house by day; at night he would take a small ladder and, covering it with a piece of cloth, would hold it on high and hover about in wayside gardens in the shadow of the trees. He frightened countless people out of their senses by this foolish masquerading of his. He could have no personal interest in it, and yet his intellect was never so active as in devising a hundred new means of frightening innocent people. He would tie dry faggots to a branch of a tree and set fire to them; he would smear his face over with soot and ink, and, climbing up to the roof of a temple, sit there in that state for hours; late at night he would creep close to the houses of poor peasants and call out their names in an unearthly voice. And yet he was never caught at these tricks. From his conduct during the day it was impossible for anyone to suspect him of the grim jests which he perpetrated at night, not only in our village but in a number of neighbouring villages also. He confessed his diabolical humour before his death; and all those terror-inspiring manifestations of the occult ceased with his life. Perhaps, in my own case also, some such explanation was possible.

When I sank half-unconscious on the dusty embankment, the sound of footsteps advanced into the centre of the cremation-grounds and then faded into the empty air. The echoes seemed to say, 'Oh, fie! Why are you sitting there? Was it for this that we brought you so far? Come on into the midst of us! Do not sit there like an outcaste, come and sit with us as one of ourselves.' I cannot be sure whether I really heard those words with my ears or felt them in my inner consciousness, but I knew that I was still in full control of my faculties. My eyes kept gazing ahead, with a fixed, half-wakeful stare. I was as far from the calm of unconsciousness as from the alertness of a mind that is fully awake. I had not forgotten that it was very late and that I had to return to the tent. And I would have made an effort to do so, but for the feeling that everything was so utterly futile. I had not come there of my own free will; I had never dreamt of coming there again. So he who had brought me there had some special need of me; and he would not let me return without accomplishing his object. I had heard that no one, once he was in 'their' power, could escape against 'their' will; that, however cunningly you might run away from 'them', your path turned into a maze, leading you finally, after much wandering, back to your original starting-place.

I therefore thought all restless attempts to break through 'their' power quite useless, and sat still without making any effort or movement. And then suddenly I saw something which I shall never forget.

For the first time in my life I realized that night has a form and features of its own, apart from the forms and features of trees and hills, earth and water, field and jungle. I saw night, deep, dark, colossal, seated on the widespread world, under the limitless, black sky of midnight, with eyes closed as in mystic meditation, while the whole universe, with closed lips and bated breath, preserved the inviolate calm. Suddenly my eyes saw a flash of palpitating beauty. What liar, I thought, declared that light alone had beauty, and darkness none? When had I ever seen such an inundation of beauty as the darkness that flooded the earth and the heavens, that flowed about, above, below, and within me in an all-enveloping infinitude, as far as my eye could reach, and beyond? The deeper, the more unthinkable, and the more unlimited a thing was, the darker it was. The limitless ocean was dark; and dark were the interiors of forests, impenetrable and full of ancient mysteries. The beauty of darkness belonged to the divine form^[1] that dazzled the eyes of Radha and that flooded the world with the fragrance of love. And He who was the support of the universe, the source of light and movement, the Life of all life, and the Soul of beauty, was He not an impenetrable darkness to the eyes of men? Was that because in reality He was dark, or was darkness a synonym for anything incomprehensible, unknowable, and impenetrable? Was that why death and the other world appeared to man's vision as mysterious, black, and unfathomable?

Strangely enough, my helpless loneliness in that awe-inspiring place brought me no feeling of terror but the overpowering realisation of joy in the mystic beauty of the dark universe. I felt that I had never before seen so much beauty in the formless gloom that filled all space. Perhaps, then, Death too was not horrid or ugly because of his darkness. When he came one day, perhaps I should discover him as beautiful and as profound as the night. 'And if,' I thought, 'to-night is destined to be the time of our meeting together, face to face, then, O dark immensity! O sounding footsteps leading me onward! O thou infinite beauty wiping away all my sorrow and fear and pain by thy magic touch! fill all my body and soul with primeval nescience, and when I have greeted Death with a heart purged of all fear at this gateway of his temple, so dark, austere, and solemn, let me follow him with triumphal gladness to the end.' And then I thought suddenly, 'Why did I not obey the silent call of my guide? Why am I sitting here like a wretched outcaste? Why should I not go on?'

I went down and sat in the very centre of the vast cremation-grounds. I cannot say now how long I was there, but I sat still, as in a trance, half-unconscious. When I came back to my normal self I found that the darkness had thinned out, and that a part of the sky close to where the morning star glowed and glimmered was suffused with pale light. I heard faint sounds as of low voices in conversation. Looking in their direction I saw what seemed to be a small party of people coming towards me along the embankment. They were still at some distance and were half-concealed by a large silk-cotton tree. They were carrying two or three lanterns which swung to and fro with their movements. Climbing the embankment I saw that the party consisted of two covered bullock-carts and five or six men on foot. They were evidently going towards the railway-station.

I felt that I ought to keep out of their sight, for, however intelligent they might be, if they saw me standing alone there, like a veritable ghost, at that hour of the night, they would at least make a terrible uproar, if nothing more.

I came back and stood in my original place. A few minutes later the little company passed by along the embankment just above me. I thought at first that I had been detected, for one of the foremost men stood looking towards me for several seconds and then spoke to someone in the first bullock-cart, but they proceeded almost immediately and were soon lost to sight behind a bushy tree. Feeling that the night was almost over, I was making up my mind to return when a loud voice came from behind the tree. 'Srikanta Babu!'

'Hallo,' I cried. 'Is that Ratan?'

'Yes, sir. Please come this way, sir.'

Quickly mounting the embankment, I asked, 'Ratan, are you going home?'

'Yes, sir,' he answered, 'we're going home: and Mother is in the first cart.'

As I approached the cart, Piari looked out through the curtains and said, 'I knew that it could not be anybody else as soon as the durwan^[2] described what he saw. Come up into the cart; I have something to tell you'.

'What is it?' I asked, going nearer.

'Get in, please, and I will tell you,' said Piari.

'No, I can't; there is no time. I must reach my tent before daybreak.'

Piari put her head out and suddenly catching hold of my right hand said in a voice of earnest entreaty, 'Don't make a scene before the servants, I beg. Won't you get in?'

Somewhat taken aback by her unusual excitement, I climbed into the cart and sat down. Telling the driver to proceed, she asked, 'Why did you come here again to-night?'

With perfect sincerity I answered, 'I do not know.' Piari was still holding my hand. 'You don't know?' she said. 'Very well. But why did you come without telling any one?'

'It is true,' I said, 'nobody knows of my coming here, but I did not conceal it intentionally from any one.'

'I don't believe it.'

'It's the truth.'

'What do you mean, then?'

'Will you believe me if I tell you what I mean? I did not conceal anything from any one, nor did I wish to come here again.'

'Then,' said Piari derisively, 'perhaps you will say that you were spirited away through the empty air and found yourself here?'

'No,' I answered, 'no one spirited me away through the air. I came here on foot. But I can't say why I came and when.' Piari was silent.

'I don't know, Rajlakshmi,' I said, 'whether you will believe me, but the real story is somewhat strange', and I related to her all that had happened to me. While she was listening I felt, more than once, a tremor run through the hand that lay in mine, but she said not a word. The curtain was raised, and, looking out, I saw that the sky had grown clear. 'I must go now,' I said.

'No' said Piari, and her voice sounded hollow as if she were lost in a trance.

'What do you mean, Piari? Do you know what my going away like this will mean?’

'I know, I know: but these people are not your guardians, that they can force you to lose your life to save your reputation.' She dropped my hand and, seizing my feet, cried out in an agonised tone, 'Kanta-da,'^[3] you won't live if you go back to that place. I don't want you to go with me, but I can't let you go back there either. I will buy you your railway ticket. Go home or anywhere else you like, but don’t think of staying there a minute longer.'

'But what about my things?' I asked.

'No matter,' said Piari. 'They will send them back to you, if they like. If they don't, they're not so very valuable, after all, are they?'

'That’s true,' I admitted; 'they're not of any great value. But the false rumours that will arise, what of them?'

Piari let go of my feet and sat silent. Just then the cart turned a corner and I could see the eastern sky that had been behind us. It bore a striking resemblance to the face of this fallen woman. In both I saw the suggestion of a mass of hidden flame struggling through the darkness.

'Why are you silent?' I asked.

Piari smiled a faint, sad smile, and said, 'Kanta-da, it is difficult to write out a deed of gift with the pen which one has used all one's life to make forgeries. So you want to go? Very well then, go. But promise me that you'll leave that place before noon to-day.'

'I promise.'

'Promise that no entreaty of anybody's will keep you there to-night.'

'No, it won't.'

Piari took off her ring and, placing it near my feet, touched the ground with her forehead; then, taking the dust of my feet, she put it on her head and dropped the ring into my pocket,^[4] 'Go then,' she said: 'your walk will be longer by about three miles.'

I got down from the cart. The day had completely dawned. 'One more thing,' Piari entreated me. 'When you return home write to me.'

I promised to write, and left her. Not once did I turn back my head to see whether they were still standing or had started forward. But for a long time I could feel her tear-dimmed eyes following me.

It was eight o'clock when I reached our encampment. As I passed Piari's vacant tent and noticed the scattered remnants of things that lay about it, a futile feeling of desolation rose in my heart. I turned my face away and entered my tent.

Purushottam, one of the servants, said, 'You went out very early, sir, for your walk.'

I did not care to reply and, flinging myself on my bed, closed my eyes.

 

1. Krishna, who is regarded as an incarnation of God, the beloved of Radha, is traditionally regarded as of a dark complexion, while Radha herself, who typifies the human soul aflame with the love of God, is fair.
2. Doorkeeper. Of course, all her servants travelled with her.
3. Kanta, for Srikanta. Da is a suffix meaning 'brother'. It will be remembered that Piari, when a mere girl, knew Srikanta in his boyhood. 'Kanta-da' is the appellation by which she used to call him then: girls in a village often call their boy comrades, senior in age, brothers in this fashion. Here the tenderness that suddenly rises up in Piari's heart is a resurrection of the old simple tenderness of childhood.
4. The ceremony of obeisance is observed when one is parting, for some long time to come, from one to whom respect is due, such as one's senior in age or relationship.