Divya, page 17
The Brahmin standing on the riverbank bowed, joined his palms and said imploringly, ‘Your Excellency, I, Chakradhar, priest and performer of yajnas, son of Varundhar, swear by Lord Indra, and most humbly submit that his slave girl from Kashmir, Dara by name, at present in the boat of Devi Ratnaprabha, is my lawful slave, bought by me with the offerings earned from the sacrificial fires. The slave-girl ignored her duties and ran away from my house. I pray Your Excellency to order the slave to be restored to me.’
Devi Ratnaprabha stood up in the boat and with bowed head, said, ‘Your Excellency, I, Ratnaprabha of Shursen, Laureate of Art, pray that I may be permitted to pay the price of this oppressed slave to the Brahmin and buy her from him.’
‘Nobody’s property can be acquired forcibly just by paying its price,’ said the Viceroy, turning towards Ratnaprabha. ‘In the court of law, the rich and poor are alike.’
‘Long live His Excellency, the Incarnation of Justice!’ shouted the priest, raising his arms and blessing the Viceroy. ‘This slave-woman is wet nurse to my child. My wife is ill. Protector of Brahmins, order the slave to be returned to me so that the child of your humble servant may live. This slave woman is the chief support of a Brahmin child.’
Devi Ratnaprabha again joined her hands and said, ‘Your Excellency, I am prepared to pay the necessary amount of money for the purchase of another wet nurse for the Brahmin child.’
‘Justice does not obey the wishes of any individual,’ the Viceroy said, raising his hand. ‘Its aim is to uphold right conduct. The slave-girl committed a crime by running away from her master’s house. She has acted like a thief by turning away from that service. The slave-girl is the property of the Brahmin. By attempting to commit suicide, she has tried to deprive the Brahmin, her master, of his property.’
‘Long Live His Excellency! How right his judgment is! The Protector of the Faith, the Incarnation of Justice. Long Live His Excellency!’ shouted the Brahmin again, raising his arms in benediction.
The Viceroy turned towards Dara, who sat kneeling on the planks of Ratnaprabha’s barge with hands joined, ‘Slave-girl, you are guilty of theft having tried to deprive the Brahmin of his lawful property.’
Dara bowed so low as to touch the deck with her forehead, and said, ‘Incarnation of Justice, for this crime, may the slave and her son be punished with death. The slave will be beholden to Your Excellency for this act of justice.’
The Viceroy shook his head disapprovingly and said, ‘Punishment cannot be meted out in accordance with the wishes of the criminals. The slave and the slave’s child are both the property of the Brahmin. It does not rest with slaves to decide the manner of their disposal.’
‘How right is His Excellency!’ shouted the priest again, ‘the Incarnation of Justice! The Image of Truth! The Image of Justice! Long Live His Excellency!’
The Viceroy turned again to the slave-girl, ‘Why did you try to commit the sin of suicide?’
‘It was the misery of being a slave, Your Excellency, the hunger, and my child’s hunger!’ Dara said with palms joined together, tears streaming down her cheeks.
At this Ratnaprabha pleaded, her voice touched with pity, ‘Protector of the Faith, I am prepared to pay in gold any fine that is imposed on this slave-girl as a punishment for the crime that she may have committed.’
The Viceroy raised his hand asking the Court Dancer to wait and addressing himself to the priest, said, ‘Listen, Brahmin, you are well versed in the scriptures and in jurisprudence. The fact that this slave-girl has tried to kill herself along with her child is clear proof of her being oppressed. In the eyes of the law you are guilty of having been cruel to a slave.’
The priest’s face turned pale and his voice shook, ‘Not cruel, Incarnation of Justice. This slave is an unwilling worker and is hostile to her master.’
‘Brahmin,’ said the Viceroy, ‘a master is entitled to service from a slave, but not to the slave’s life.’ The Viceroy’s voice grew stern, ‘It is the gods that grant life to living beings and they alone can take it back. On earth, the king is the representative of the gods, and only the king has the right to take back life. The slave too, like the Brahmin, is the subject of the king.’ Then, turning towards others he said, ‘Where is the child of this slave?’
‘Incarnation of Justice, the child of the unfortunate slave is dead,’ Ratnaprabha replied, with bowed head.
Dara fainted and fell back on the wooden planks of the barge. Only the quick reaction of Ratnaprabha and her attendant saved her from rolling into the water. The episode sent a shiver through the crowd. Only the Viceroy continued to sit unperturbed and silent. Turning to the priest again, he asked, ‘Brahmin, what price did you pay for this slave?’
‘Incarnation of Justice, I paid fifty gold pieces for her.’
‘Brahmin, for the crime of causing the death of this slave’s child, you will have to pay a fine of two hundred gold coins to the state treasury. The slave-girl will remain in state custody till the time that she is sold again by the state.’
Chakradhar was aghast. ‘Have mercy on a poor Brahmin, Incarnation of Justice,’ he implored. ‘It is impossible for a poor priest who ekes out a living from the performance of religious sacrifices to pay such a heavy fine in his whole life.’
‘You are guilty of murder,’ the Viceroy’s voice grew harsh. ‘According to the scriptures, a Brahmin cannot be punished with death and imprisonment. But you will pay the fine, even if you have to beg in the streets in sackcloth and ashes. However, if it is found necessary, money will be given from the state treasury for the maintenance of your family.’
And turning his eyes towards the unconscious slave-girl, he said, ‘As for this slave, for the crime of having run away from the house of her master, she shall be punished with four lashes on the back.’ The people were horrified at the severity of the sentence.
Devi Ratnaprabha’s eyes filled up with tears.
‘Keeping in mind the fact that the slave is weak and ill,’ the Viceroy said in a solemn voice, ‘she shall receive the strokes not with the whip but with a feather fan.’
Anshumala
RATNAPRABHA HAD THOUGHT THAT BY RESCUING DARA, SHE HAD picked a piece of shining glass out of the mud, but Dara turned out to be a jewel.
One evening her star pupil, Muktavali, was dancing the Peacock Dance before a gathering of visitors. Dara, with a platter of tambool in her hand, was attending to her mistress.
Without taking her eyes off Muktavali, Ratnaprabha stretched her hand towards Dara for a tambool. When none was given to her, she turned her head to see that the slave-girl was watching the dancer, her eyes following every movement and gesture in a frown of rapt attention. Amused by the slave-girl’s reaction, Ratnaprabha kept her eyes on Dara.
‘Oh, no! She missed a beat,’ Dara exclaimed suddenly, and the platter dropped from her hand.
Muktavali stopped short. The clang of the fallen platter woke Dara from her reverie. Embarrassed and frightened, she humbly apologized, both to Ratnaprabha and the dancer.
Waving aside the apologies, Ratnaprabha asked Dara to continue the Peacock Dance in the correct form. Dara, with the utmost humility, expressed her lack of ability and her ignorance of the dance, and once again begged forgiveness for her unseemly behaviour.
‘No, Dara, you seem to be quite well versed in the art of dancing. There is no doubt about that.’ Ratnaprabha suddenly recalled Dara’s words on the day of their fateful first meeting. ‘Didn’t you say that day on the river, that you knew dancing, that you would like to become a dancer?’
Upon Ratnaprabha’s insistence, Dara had to push aside her embarrassment. She shyly made her way to the dance floor. As the veena and the mridang started playing, her reluctance slowly disappeared and she began to move to the rhythm. From her very first steps, Rohit, the aged instrumentalist, sensed her abilities. He varied the tempo; now brisk, now slow. Dara followed his lead with smooth and graceful footwork, as she gave herself up to the music. Feeling the rhythm flow through her body, she performed the most intricate footwork flawlessly and with such spirit that old Rohit found it difficult to keep up with her. His forehead was covered with drops of perspiration. The spectators watched the performance spellbound.
Devi Ratnaprabha, with her finger on her chin, sat transfixed.
Dara finished the dance, then came and stood before her mistress and bowed to her. Ratnaprabha rose from her seat, and taking the jewelled necklace from her own neck, put it around Dara’s and then swept her into her arms. ‘Nowhere else, except in Sagal, Magadh and in Taxila, is such artistic perfection to be seen,’ she said. ‘My friend, such a level of art is not attained without the dedicated counsel of a teacher and the blessings of the Goddess Saraswati. You have something of the style of Devi Mallika, my own teacher, in you. Tell me, truly, where and how did you get this priceless training?’
Bowing her head in humility, Dara replied in a voice tremulous with gratitude, ‘I am also beholden to that very lady, the favoured devotee of Saraswati.’
Ratnaprabha had already been kindly disposed towards Dara. Now, discovering her great talent and her secret, she became deeply attached to her. She even gave Dara a new name: Anshumala.
With the change in her name, Divya’s world changed once more. Once again she began to glide, like a young swan, free-spirited on the current of gaiety and luxury, in a stream of music and dance. But no droplet from this torrent could penetrate the wall of sorrow that surrounded her.
The smiles and charm she radiated around her were in the nature of an obligation towards her art. As soon as she was away from the public, she would withdraw within herself and become indifferent to everything around her; just as a young swan shakes its wings to shed every drop of the water over which it has moved. The wall of agonizing memories that enclosed her mind was impenetrable. The loss of little Shakul overwhelmed her.
The connoisseurs of art waxed ecstatic over Anshumala’s charm, her amazing skill and grace as a dancer. After a performance, precious gifts would pile up before Ratnaprabha’s seat. Anshumala had no eyes for these tributes. Her conscience would eat into her thinking about the hungry innocent eyes of her baby son, Shakul. Her pain would translate itself into exquisite rendering of songs of sorrow, and the audience, not knowing the truth, experienced it as true and brilliant artistry. Such feelings as she could express in her dance performances had never been seen before.
Ratnaprabha’s mansion had been a place of pilgrimage for the lovers of art, not only in Mathurapuri, but also in the entire territory of Shursen. But now its fame spread to Magadh, Kuru, Katha and Madra. In the evenings, connoisseurs would vie with one another for a seat in the concert hall. Whenever Anshumala gave a performance, it became necessary for the state officials to post guards on the roads to maintain order. With such popularity, Ratnaprabha’s wealth doubled and tripled in a short time. Earlier, at the performances of Muktavali and Ratnaprabha, garlands and silver coins were the usual gifts, whereas now gold coins, precious gems and jewelled necklaces were showered on her. The glory went to Ratnaprabha, but Anshumala was the reason for it.
Anshumala’s magnetism yielded yet another result. Young merchants, nobles and state officials began to flock to the palace carrying bouquets and garlands. They made handsome gifts of money to Ratnaprabha and offered to escort Anshumala on excursions along the river or in the forests. Those who used to plead for Ratnaprabha’s favours, now came to the palace with their hearts aflutter for Anshumala. The riches poured at the feet of Ratnaprabha ceased to have any attraction for her. Conscious of her own waning attraction, she began to find everything around her dull and insipid.
Instead of being the focus of attention for visitors, Ratnaprabha had become the protectress, the mistress and the guardian of the new public idol. The money and the gifts that were offered in appreciation of Anshumala’s art belonged to Ratnaprabha. She would look at the mounting riches and often ask herself, ‘What has been the purpose of being attractive? Money I have plenty. But there is something which is lacking now.’ This sense of loss would depress her, ‘What is the use of money? Is it meant to be used for enjoyment? But then how should I enjoy it? By wearing beautiful clothes and ornaments, by living in a palatial house? Yet, what lasting comfort do they give me? Such worldly possessions are not the aim in themselves, but only the means. Even if the cage is made of gold, it is the mynah that attracts attention, not the cage.’
Eighteen years before, when she had finished her training under Mallika and had come to Mathurapuri, the people had welcomed her performances with delirious enthusiasm. Kaumudi, the reigning public favourite, had been so jealous. Such is the irony of a courtesan’s life. The courtesan gives up her private existence for the sake of success, affluence and self-dependence. But a wife, in giving up her independence in marriage, gets a man in return. The life of a courtesan is like a meteor, which gives a brilliant display of light for a little while, and then plunges into darkness. The life of a housewife, on the other hand, is like a lamp that burns dimly but for a long time. There are sheltering hands to protect it when the strong winds of adversity blow. Before her extinction, she is able to light other lamps from her being, and is able to see her own light in them. Even when she is extinguished, her light glows on. Ratnaprabha would often remember Marish’s words; he used to say, ‘In such continuity lies man’s immortality.’
Ratnaprabha frequently recalled Marish’s comments, and the memories connected with them. The first time the atheist artist—a young man with prematurely grey hair—had come to her house, had been three years ago, when he was on his way to Sagal from Dakshinapath. He had attended a concert. Ratnaprabha had seen nothing in his face or his dress to attract her attention. Even after the assembly had dispersed, he had lingered on in the hall. When Ratnaprabha was about to retire for the night, he asked for an audience with her. But she had declined to meet him. Discouraged, he had sent his reply through her maidservant, ‘Yes, the lady’s behaviour is in keeping with her vocation. I only wanted to have the pleasure of her company, but I cannot pay for that pleasure with money. But, there are other things in the world besides money.’
The remark had intrigued Ratnaprabha, and she had agreed to see him, though not very willingly. She had found that there was something in Marish’s behaviour, which commanded attention. In the end, he had stayed on as her guest for some weeks. At first his utterances would only rouse her curiosity, but later she had begun to reflect on them, and had found some truth there.
Her heart was not at peace, but she still had faith and hope. A significant portion of her earnings went for religious offerings. She believed that the deeds of her previous life had resulted in her present fame and wealth, but that she had been deprived of life’s real fulfilment. And that by performing meritorious deeds in this life she would attain life’s consummation in her next birth, and also in the other world.
‘Devi,’ Marish had said in a bantering tone, ‘would it give you greater satisfaction if you touched your nose, not directly, but circuitously by stretching your arm round the back of your neck?’
‘What a curious question! Why do you ask?’
‘Because abstinence in this world, in the hope of getting greater opportunities of enjoyment in the next one, is no abstinence at all,’ Marish replied. ‘According to your way of thinking, abstinence is the price you are paying for the pleasures of your next birth. If you wish to indulge yourself in the pleasures of life, then do so while you still have the means. There is nothing to be gained by depriving yourself. The next world is only a figment of the imagination. No one has ever seen it. The person who assures you about its existence is only repeating what others have told him, and those others too have been doing the same. No one has given evidence of its existence after seeing it with his own eyes. In everyday life, we do not accept such evidence. Is it wise, therefore, to sacrifice the tangible for a figment of our imagination?’
Ratnaprabha had simply stared at Marish. She could not say anything in reply. ‘How will you attain the next world after your death?’ Marish went on. ‘Through the medium of your soul? Devi, the individual soul, of which the sages talk, has no existence. That too is mere conjecture and a mental invention. The ability to feel and think with which man is endowed, is a subtle attribute of the physical body alone. It exists in man as fragrance exists in a flower or light in a burning lamp. Where does the light of a lamp go after the lamp is extinguished? Can light have an independent existence separate from the sun or the lamp? It is the same for the individual soul. How can there be any soul without the body?
‘Devi,’ Marish’s voice grew more excited, ‘is it reasonable and prudent to regard the experience of the palpable world, which all living beings are aware of, as illusory, and to regard the eternal spirit and the individual soul as realities, when they are only the product of some sage’s imagination? Instead of putting blind trust in another man’s word, you should rely upon your own experience and reason. This life alone is real. This world alone is real. Attain whatever you feel you have to, in the lifespan you have before you.’
Ratnaprabha looked at him with wide open eyes. ‘But, Arya,’ she said, doubtfully, ‘this body is transient, and the happiness obtained through it is also transient.’
Marish looked at her through his half-closed eyes, with an ironical smile on his lips. ‘Is the body transient? Devi, do you want immortality? Tell me, of all the things that you see around you, how many remain without change, in shape and form, taste and odour? What we call death is only change. Imagine a situation in which there is never any change in the world. Would such a world have any charm or attraction?’ He looked at her inquisitively.
‘You’re right, Arya,’ Ratnaprabha replied after some reflection. ‘A world without change would not be a happy place to live in.’
