Divya, page 16
The Buddhist monks who came to the door of the house for alms would deliver pious utterances, ‘Our actions and our life are a chain of sorrow. Happiness is only a transient feeling.’
The words of the monks would have a ring of truth for Dara. When had she experienced happiness in her life? It had always been as fleeting as the shadow of a passing cloud … The day she was elected Daughter of Saraswati … The ecstatic moment in the arms of Prithusen … Memories of things before and after that fateful encounter! In misery she thought, ‘The world is for the strong. For those who suffer, happiness lies only in renunciation. It is futile to have any attachment for life.’ But Shakul’s existence was not just a creation of her own imagination.
The yellow-robed monks who went from house to house begging for alms used to call upon unhappy worldlings to seek sanctuary in the Buddhist faith, ‘O suffering men and women, come into the fold of the Buddha! Come into the fold of the Faith! Come into the fold of the Monastic Order! He who is Mercy Incarnate will relieve you of all your troubles!’
In the early hours of the morning, before daybreak, little Shakul, lying on the ground by his mother’s side in the courtyard, began to cry. Dara took him to her breast. Shakul took his fill of milk and went off to sleep. A little later, the mistress and her child woke up and Dara was summoned to feed the other baby. Not finding any milk in the nurse’s breast during the very first feed of the day, the priest’s wife lost her temper. She screamed and berated and then set Dara to the back-breaking job of pounding rice to separate the grain from the chaff.
At midday, Dara was sitting in the veranda eating food from an earthen bowl, with Shakul on her lap, when Loma, the old maidservant of the house, came over to her. ‘You haven’t acted wisely, child, in annoying your mistress,’ Loma said pityingly. ‘The master and the mistress have decided to give Shakul away. Go to your mistress, you unfortunate girl, and beg for pardon.’
Dara could not eat anymore. Only one thought possessed her mind: What now?
In the afternoon, the priest and his wife were taking their siesta. Old Loma too had retired to a shadowed corner of the house to lie down. The baking hot afternoon of the month of Jyeshtha was as still as a winter night. The eye-searing rays of the sun left one as sightless as in the pitch darkness of the night. To escape from the scorching dust-filled wind hitting one like the waves slapping the side of a boat, the townspeople had withdrawn into their houses. And birds and animals had sought whatever shade there was to be found. Dara sat motionless, her hand on her forehead, fearing that her son might be snatched away from her at any moment.
The voice of a Buddhist mendicant, returning late from his round, was heard in the street, ‘O suffering men and women of the world, for peace and relief, come into the fold of the Buddha, into the fold of the Faith, into the fold of the Monastic Community!’
Dara, eager for shelter above all else, saw the mendicant’s offer of safety as a ray of hope.
In that blistering heat, dust rose on the roads of the town like grey flames. Even the hot air seemed to be rushing towards the forest for relief. In that dreadful time of the day, clasping little Shakul to her breast, Dara left the house of the priest and stepped into the cobbled street, which was burning like plates of metal. To protect the tender skin of the child from the scorching rays of the sun, she wrapped round him a dirty, threadbare piece of her stole.
On Dara’s body, there was just a rag of a bodice, which she tied at the back, and a thin well-worn piece of sari, wrapped round her waist. In the haste to get away from the Brahmin’s house, her tangled hair had come loose and was being blown across her face by the wind. She tripped again and again on the dangling end of her sari, tearing it further. The rays of the sun stabbed into her head and every pore of her sweat-covered body. Hot cobblestones burned her feet.
But Dara was oblivious to all this. In her ears rang the compassionate words of the mendicant’s invitation: ‘O suffering men and women of the world, for peace, come into the fold of the Buddha.’ Her eyes were fixed on the tall spire of the Mahabodhi Monastery, rising into the hot, dusty sky, above a cluster of pipal trees.
For more than a hundred years the spire of the monastery had stood as a symbol of the merciful sanctuary of the holy faith to suffering humanity. With her eyes on it, and holding her baby tightly to her breast, Dara headed straight to the monastery, in the howling wind that seemed to echo the mendicant’s message.
The great doors of the main entrance to the monastery were shut. Behind those closed doors was the abode of mercy and shelter. Dara raised her hand and struck the clapper of the large bell hanging at the main entrance. The hushed silence of the summer afternoon was broken by a deep resonant sound. To Dara, the reverberating notes seemed to be shedding drops of mercy.
A small panel slid aside in the door. Through it a young monk looked at Dara curiously, his eyes heavy with sleep. Dara implored, ‘Reverend sir, I have come to beg for shelter. I seek the protection of the Buddha, of the Faith, of the Monastic Community.’
The eyes of the young monk disappeared behind the door, and the peephole was closed. Dara, trembling all over in eager expectation, rested her head against the door. A short time later, a part of one of the door opened and a kind-looking, elderly monk emerged.
‘Shelter, kind sir, grant me succour, holy father!’ Dara said, her voice and her limbs quivering.
Raising his hand in benediction, his face radiant with peace, the monk said reassuringly, ‘Calm yourself, my daughter.’
The young monk appeared with a small mat of kausheya grass, which he spread on a stone platform in the shade of a pipal tree opposite the door of the monastery. The elderly monk sat on the mat, and making a sign to Dara to sit in front of him, enquired, ‘Tell me what is on your mind, my daughter.’
‘O Fountain of Pity, reverend sir, grant shelter to this unfortunate child and its mother!’ Dara said beseechingly, her eyes filled with tears.
‘Lady,’ the elderly monk spoke after some thought, ‘the solutions that you desire are not ones that can be found on the path leading to the shelter of the Buddha, of the Holy Faith, of the Monastic Order.’
‘No, Father, your humble servant desires nothing,’ Dara cried out. ‘She only begs for shelter from tyranny. O Ocean of Compassion, grant that at the feet of the Buddha your humble servant may be able to keep her child with her.’
A smile of pity illuminated the calm countenance of the monk. ‘Lady,’ he said, ‘all worldly relations are nothing but infatuation, a source of pain. A soul disturbed by infatuation cannot achieve peace.’
Dara was left staring at the face of the monk. Despair stifled her eagerness. Picking up courage, she said again, ‘Holy Father, your humble servant begs to be admitted into the fold of the all-pitying Buddha, in this monastery. Under its threefold shelter, your humble servant shall conduct herself with propriety and humility and shall thereby be redeemed from attachment.’
The calm countenance of the elderly monk remained unruffled. She laid down her son near the monk’s feet and bending her forehead so as to touch the stone platform, implored once again, ‘It is for the sake of this helpless creature that your humble servant seeks refuge in the Holy Faith. She will act upon the commands of the Faith and freeing herself from attachment, shall enter the sacred fold.’
Feeling the hard stone beneath him the child opened his mouth wide and began to cry.
‘Lady, take the child in your lap,’ the elderly monk said, turning his eyes away from the pathetic sight. ‘Who are you that is so desirous of adopting the Buddhist Faith?’ he asked.
‘Holy Father, I am the mother of the helpless child,’ Dara replied.
‘Do you have the permission of your husband to adopt the Buddhist Faith?’
‘I have no husband, Father.’
‘If you have no husband, do you have the permission of your father to join the Buddhist Faith?’
‘I have no father, either,’ Dara said, shaking her head.
‘If the husband and the father are not there, do you have the permission of your son to adopt the Buddhist Faith?’
‘Holy Father, your humble servant’s son is in no position to grant permission,’ Dara again replied, shaking her head.
The monk remained unmoved, as before. ‘If you are a slave, do you have the consent of your master to embrace the Faith?’
‘No, Holy Father,’ Dara replied timidly. ‘It is on her own account that your humble servant is begging for asylum.’
The monk raised his eyes. ‘Lady,’ he said looking at Dara, ‘according to the laws of the Faith, the Monastic Order cannot grant shelter to a woman without the approval of her guardian.’
Dumbfounded, Dara stared at him again. Seeing him about to rise from the mat, she folded her hands and said in a tearful voice, ‘But Father, Lord Buddha once granted shelter to Ambapali, the prostitute!’
‘Lady, a prostitute is a free woman,’ the monk replied and rose from the mat.
Stupefied, Dara stared open-mouthed after the monk as he walked back to the monastery and disappeared behind the door. The young monk came out, rolled up the mat and went back inside. The doors of the monastery were shut. The sweltering air kept ruffling the foliage of the pipal tree in search of shelter from the sun. Dara, her face reflecting the rejection she felt, still sat on the platform. She was unable to think or understand anything. Only the words of the monk kept ringing in her ears: ‘Lady, a prostitute is a free woman!’
Shakul’s cries shook her out of her reverie. She gave the child her breast to stop him from crying. But finding the breast empty of milk, the child cried louder than before. Dara was not permitted even the comfort of forgetting herself for a while, or of remaining oblivious to her surroundings. It was necessary for her to feed herself in order to be able to nurse her baby. She felt no appetite, but the thought that her son was hungry made her stomach twist with hunger.
She got down from the platform. Her legs shook under her from fatigue and exhaustion, and her arms felt limp under Shakul’s weight. She fought hard to regain control of herself and hold on to her child lest he should fall. Leaving the shade of the pipal tree, she went back to the scorching heat of the road, with blasts of hot air beating against her face.
Dara dragged her steps along the road which, a little while earlier, had held so much promise. Driven by panic, she had run away from the priest’s house to find some safe place for her child. Now both mother and child were destitutes. Her mind went into a daze, from pain and shock. Only one thing flashed across again and again, that a prostitute was a free woman. That as a slave, as a dependent, as a woman, there was no place for her.
‘Was there ever a time when I was free?’ she asked herself in desperation. She had accepted slavery so that she might be free to keep her child. By enslaving her body, she had hoped to preserve the freedom of her mind. But she did not succeed in getting the freedom she wanted. A woman from a high family is not free. Only a prostitute is free.
Dara decided, that for the sake of her child, she would become free.
Late in the afternoon, as the sun dipped behind the tall buildings of Mathurapuri, the lanes and alleys became shaded. Dara, bedraggled and exhausted, holding Shakul to her breasts, bereft of milk, once again wandered the streets and lanes of the city. In the shade of the tall buildings, the roads had come back to life.
‘Citizen,’ Dara stopped a passer-by and asked, ‘could you tell me the way to the prostitutes’ quarter?’
‘Why would you be interested in prostitutes, woman?’ asked another man jocularly, as he overheard her question.
‘I want to become a prostitute,’ Dara replied, trying to hold up the child in her tired arms.
At this, the man, seeing the expression on Dara’s face, fell silent. But another passer-by, hearing this, pointed to Dara’s shrunken face and unkempt hair, her sunken eyes and threadbare, dirty clothes and roared with laughter, ‘Surely, she will make a fine prostitute! What beauty! What charm! What class! If she becomes a prostitute, the lovers of beauty in Mathurapuri will forget all about Ratnaprabha, whom they just idolize.’
The one who had jeered at Dara earlier came closer to her and said, ‘Do you really want to be a prostitute? But you are a mother! You have gained a position that entitles you to honour and respect, and you want to give it up and become an enemy of society? You want to sell your body and the virtue of your motherhood for money? You’re done for. Someone has sucked you dry and thrown away the husk of your body. You have no attractions left; all that is there is your misfortune. Why cling to life? You’ve been drained of all spirit. You are unfit to go on living. The meek have no right to live. Your destiny is to drown yourself in the Yamuna river … Go!’
Dara had not recognized the speaker at first. His face was covered with dust and a growth of beard after a long journey. But she identified him from his voice. She wanted to call out his name, but the young man did not give her the chance and went on speaking in a disgusted tone, ‘If you want to sell your body just to be able to feed your child, then go you ill-fated soul, go to the banks of the Yamuna. The rich merchant, Padmanabh, who has made a fortune out of people such as you, only to leave them destitute and hungry, is handing out free food and is earning through it good deeds for his rebirth. Go and take food in charity and give him another chance to earn spiritual reward through meritorious actions.’
Dara opened her mouth to call out the man by his name, but he had already turned his head in disgust and walked away. Holding up Shakul, who had cried himself to sleep, Dara set out towards the riverbank, enquiring from those she met the way to the charity centre of the merchant Padmanabh. With every step she took, her limbs became weaker with fatigue.
Evening came. The bank of the Yamuna, paved with flagstones, was crowded with people. From the charity centre, the sacred smoke from the yajna fire was rising. Crowds of paupers surrounded the centre and were jostling one another to reach the door where food was being distributed. Dragging her feet, and making desperate efforts to hold up her baby, who had begun to howl again, Dara was also trying to push her way through the crowd towards the door. Suddenly, she heard someone shouting behind her, ‘Grab her! Grab that woman! She’s my runaway slave!’
Dara knew that voice. It was that of her master, the priest, shouting at the top of his voice.
Others took up his cry and began to yell, ‘Catch her! Grab her!’ The pursuers were closing in on her. Seeing a clear space towards the river, she rushed in that direction, clutching Shakul. The priest’s shouts drew nearer. Standing on the high bank of the river, and not knowing what to do, Dara considered it more desirable to die than to fall once again into the hands of the priest. Holding Shakul tightly to her breast, she jumped into the water.
The Yamuna river was a favourite resort for the nobles, state officials and wealthy merchants of Mathurapuri. The relentless Jyeshtha sun turned their houses and palaces into hot ovens, and seeking to escape the heat and yearning for relief, they went for leisurely cruises and pleasure rides on the river in the cool of the evening. Near the spot where the runaway slave-girl had jumped from the high bank, the barge of Devi Ratnaprabha, the Court Dancer and Laureate of Art in the province of Shursen, happened to be passing. She immediately ordered her servants to rescue the drowning girl and haul her into the barge. Even at that moment the baby was tightly clasped in her arms.
Devi Ratnaprabha’s heart melted with pity. She took the child from the arms of the unconscious woman to find that it was dead. Putting the child aside she took the slave-girl’s wet head, covered with weeds, on her lap, caring nothing for her expensive silken clothes. Her female attendants put smelling salts to the slave-girl’s nostrils and fanned her with a large fan, to bring her round. Many other crafts rushed towards Devi Ratnaprabha’s barge and surrounded it. There was a great clamour, from the boats and from the crowd along the riverbank.
Dara regained consciousness. Opening her eyes, she asked for her son in a weak but anxious voice. ‘Calm yourself, girl, your child is safe!’ Ratnaprabha said tenderly, putting her hand on Dara’s forehead.
At this unexpected and unfamiliar sign of affection, Dara opened her eyes wide and looked around her. Could it be that she had returned somehow to the house of her great-grandfather? Was she dreaming?
Chakradhar, the priest, was still shouting on the riverbank, ‘That girl is my slave, my property! Give her back to me. I shall bind her hand and foot and drag her to the law court. She is a thief! I bought her for fifty gold pieces from Bhoodhar, the slave dealer.’
Dara trembled from head to foot, and clutching at Ratnaprabha’s arm with both her hands, said between sobs, ‘Noble lady, save me! Save me from this butcher priest! He will kill my child. He will kill me. Lady, I shall become a prostitute and pay back the Brahmin’s debt. I know the art of dancing. I beg you, noble lady. Slavery is unbearable …’
Chakradhar was still protesting and demanding that the girl should be returned to him. Suddenly, above the tumult on the river and its bank, rose the piercing sound of the state trumpet. A hushed silence fell on all sides. ‘Attention, citizens!’ a crier proclaimed, ‘His Excellency the Viceroy, the Protector of the People, the Defender of the Faith, the Valiant Ravi Sharma is arriving!’
The boats withdrew to make way for the Viceroy’s barge. A boat with a golden canopy, manned by sixteen rowers, swept up and stopped near Devi Ratnaprabha’s boat. The people on the bank and in the boats bowed again and again to hail the Viceroy. Reclining against a milk-white cushion, under the golden canopy, Ravi Sharma smilingly acknowledged Ratnaprabha’s greetings and asked after her health and well-being.
The herald, wearing a red turban and standing in the bow of the Viceroy’s boat, announced, ‘His Excellency the Viceroy, the Protector of the People, the Defender of the Faith, has been gracious enough to come here, noticing some restlessness among the people. His Excellency commands that whosoever has been the victim of any wrong or injustice should, without fear, appeal for justice before His Excellency.’
