Divya, page 19
The smile of humility that Anshumala gave in return for the thunderous ovation became unbearable for him. He waited impatiently for the spectators to disperse.
The performance was over. Tired, Anshumala withdrew into her room and with the help of Vrinda, her maidservant, began removing her make-up. The doorkeeper slave-girl swung a fan of peacock feathers to cool her perspiring body. Vrinda untied her bodice, and putting Anshu’s arm on her shoulder, was removing the armlet when suddenly Marish appeared at the door to the room. Not finding the doorkeeper, Marish had walked in, without giving any notice. Anshu shrank back as the maidservant hastily covered her shoulders with a stole. Anshu’s eyes were half-shut with shyness and her cheeks flushed deep red with embarrassment.
Marish turned back, with his head bowed. As he stepped into the veranda, he heard someone saying behind him, ‘Arya, the mistress conveys her greetings to you.’ Somewhat nonplussed, he went back into the room.
Anshu’s clothes were in place. Some of the ornaments had been taken off; others she still wore. Though her face was still flushed and her eyes shone with the embarrassment of having been seen partly dressed, a smile of welcome played on her lips. ‘Pray, come in, Arya.’ She received him with her hands together and head bowed.
Strings of pearls were still woven in her hair. She had the crescent mark on her forehead, and her lips were painted red. Her curving neck, luminous as a seashell, looked all the more lustrous, set off by strings of pearls. The tight cloth of her red bodice restrained her full breasts like the bridles on a pair of horses. Below her waist, her smooth light-green sari clung to her firm round hips and her long, shapely thighs still quivered faintly from the strain of her performance. Between the bodice and the sari, the skin of her bare midriff had a natural glow that outshone the lustre of the red silk above and the light-green below.
Marish’s mind was still troubled and he could not acknowledge Anshu’s greetings with due formality. His lack of courtesy, however, did not annoy Anshu. What did irritate her a little was the attempt he made to maintain his usual air of nonchalance.
‘Pray be seated, Arya,’ she said, pointing to a seat.
Marish sat down, without replying to the greeting. Anshu, unmindful of the maid who was removing her ornaments, came closer to Marish and said, ‘Arya, I hope you are feeling well, both in body and mind?’
‘Yes, I am quite well, lady. Did my sudden entrance into your room cause your embarrassment?’ He was trying to control his feeling, but signs of discomfiture appeared on his face. Anshu understood the reason for Marish’s discomfiture, but trying to keep a smile on her face, assured him, ‘There was no inconvenience, Arya. Your humble servant is at your disposal.’
Marish was silent for a moment, and then said in a grave voice, ‘I came because I could no longer bear to keep my thoughts from you.’
The words reverberated like drumbeats in Anshu’s mind. Clasping and entwining her fingers in an effort to control her agitation, she suddenly realized that it had been improper for her to permit a man into her chamber without the permission of her mistress. ‘It is stuffy inside the room, Arya. If it is not too much trouble, let us go into the garden and talk in the open air,’ she said.
The slave-girl whose duty it was to fan her mistress was so taken aback by the entrance of a man into the chamber that she had neglected her task. At a sign from her mistress, however, she had resumed it. ‘That will do,’ Anshu said, ‘we don’t need the fan. Take the Arya to the garden seat under the bakul1 tree.’ Then turning to Marish, said, ‘Arya, I shall follow you there in a moment.’
‘What should I tell her and how should I put it?’ Marish was thinking as he sat down under the bakul tree, on a seat carved from stone. In a moment of agitation, he had gone into her room. The recollection of that mistake, however, induced him to reason things out with himself rather than feel disturbed. He saw Divya coming towards him. She had changed out of her dance costume and was once again dressed in white clothes, without any jewellery. The smile too had disappeared from her lips. She sat down beside him. ‘I am listening, Arya,’ she said, after a little while.
‘Is this the life for you? Is this what you wanted from your life?’
Anshu was silent for a few seconds, trying to grasp the purpose of his question. ‘I have not accepted anything, Arya, of my own accord. I did not have to reason out what was proper or improper. It is all the doing of fate.’
‘Fate?’ Marish sat up. ‘Devi, to speak of fate is nothing but an admission of helplessness.’
‘Yes, Arya, it is helplessness,’ Anshu admitted.
‘Fate means lack of fortitude,’ Marish said again.
‘Yes, Arya, it is a lack of fortitude,’ Anshu admitted again.
Marish did not know what to say. ‘But that means you have no wish to change anything, you want to make no effort to have any kind of life,’ Marish said intently, after a moment’s thought.
Anshu was not put out by the remark. Her eyes, with their pupils flecked with blue, looked squarely into Marish’s, ‘No, Arya, I made all possible efforts and endeavours. I strained to my utmost capacity, and it was when I realized my inability to control things that I admitted my helplessness.’
‘Lady, effort and endeavour are natural functions of life. As long as life is in you, it is only natural to keep on trying.’ Marish’s voice was no longer agitated and provocative, but low and persuasive. ‘The disappointment in your attempts at one stage of your life cannot decide things for the rest of it. The other end of life is never visible; life is limitless. Why should we, then, put limits to our efforts and striving? To admit one’s lack of strength means to give up, to lose interest in living.’
Anshu lowered her eyes as she heard the ring of sympathy in Marish’s voice. ‘Arya, it was this very impulse that led me to venture into the unknown. I knew that my way would be difficult. Yet I went on, till at last I found that I was lacking in the necessary strength.’ She heaved a deep sigh. ‘Whatever had to happen has happened. Why should I worry now? Why have any regrets? The wise ones say that hope and desire are at the root of suffering. I found it so, too.’
Anshu’s despondency pained Marish even more. ‘Nothing much has happened. Whatever did happen, affected only a period of your life. As long as there is life, there is a possibility of change in it, and consequently, of effort too.’ To emphasize his point, he looked deep into Anshu’s eyes as he said, ‘Divya, life is limitless and so is a person’s capability.’
At the utterance of her name—Divya—Anshu’s whole body trembled. ‘Arya, the proud great-granddaughter of the Chief Justice is dead,’ she said, trying to suppress her agitation. ‘In her dead body, Anshumala is passing the rest of her days, as a dancer–courtesan who earns a living by her art. I am deeply obliged to you for your kind sympathy.’
‘I am not saying this merely out of sympathy,’ Marish said, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.
‘Then, the dancer is grateful to you for your charitable attitude.’
‘No, Devi, I am saying this out of love for you,’ Marish replied.
Anshu felt the rush of blood through her veins. The almost full moon of the month of Bhadrapad was playing hide-and-seek in the sky dotted with clouds. In the absence of any human sound, crickets and beetles filled the moist air with their incessant buzz. To Anshu’s ears, however, more piercing than these sounds were the words uttered by Marish. They rang in her ears till they deprived her of any ability to react.
In the wake of her great popularity, Anshu had been pestered by many a lover pleading his suit. She had politely warded all of them off, without paying much attention. Those confessions of love were directed towards the favourite performer of Mathurapuri, the dancer Anshumala. But it was to Divya, not Anshu, that Marish had addressed his words. It was difficult to ignore them, but to respond to them was even more difficult.
Under the moon disporting itself among the clouds, sat Anshu with her head bowed, surrounded by the murmuring plants and trees that were being gently tickled by the wind, and the chirping and buzzing of the rain-happy insects, terrified by Marish’s declaration. In her imagination, she saw Marish coming towards her with outstretched arms, advancing towards her, as once, on a night as bewitching as this, Prithusen had advanced towards her … Anshu shuddered all over as she recalled that terrible night. Its memory brought a bitter taste to her mouth. Her womanly coyness, meant to excite and invite an impetuous lover, turned into a feeling of revenge. Her mind swiftly cleared of its numbness. With it vanished the meekness in her voice.
She said with a derisive smile, ‘The dancer–courtesan Anshumala is ready to entertain any pleasure seeker. Arya, what can I do for you?’
Marish ignored the sarcasm. ‘I am a petitioner, lady, not for any flirtation with the dancer–courtesan, but for the meaningful love of a woman.’
‘But that woman is dead, Arya.’ Looking into Marish’s eyes, just as the moon, emerging from behind a cloud flooded the earth with its bright light, Anshumala said sharply, ‘Does the Arya remember an evening three years ago, at the close of a hot summer day, when the Arya rebuked a beggar woman, with a child in her arms, who was ready to become a prostitute? The Arya said to her then, “Your shelter lies in the cold waters of the Yamuna river.” That very evening, the woman did throw herself into the river, but it cast her out, and she emerged from the water a dancer and a courtesan. What satisfaction will it afford you, Arya, to love that same woman now, when the Arya had such contempt for the would-be prostitute then? The dancer–courtesan Anshumala is none other than Divya, the woman who died that evening.’
Marish stared hard at Anshu, his eyes wide open in amazement, as the light of the moon once again grew dim. For some time Marish sat thus, breathless and unmoving. When he stirred and heaved a sigh, Anshu said humbly, with downcast eyes, ‘It is already late in the night. It would be better if the Arya retired for rest.’
By asking him to retire, Anshu robbed him of his sleep and rest as much as she lost her own. She had ridiculed his expression of love for her. That gave her the satisfaction of having taken revenge against barbarous men, but hardly had she reached her room, when she was filled with a sense of remorse: Why should I have behaved in that way? Why did I rake up the memory of the beggar woman with her child? Was this the reward for his love and respect for me, for a person who had extended his hand of sympathy, to help and to offer shelter?
At the mere idea of a place in someone’s sheltering arms, Anshu felt a delightful lassitude. To sink into accepting arms capable of giving protection—therein lay the fulfilment of a woman’s life. And the desire for it reawakened in Anshu’s heart the desire to be free from the self-imposed torture of indifference and aversion to the joys of life. ‘Why was I so hostile to him?’ she asked herself. Unable to overcome her sense of remorse, Anshu felt like crying. There was fulfilment for her in acceptance of the sympathy and love in Marish’s heart. In his desire for her lay the possibility of her achievement as a woman. She could provide refuge as well as receive it. ‘Ah, but on a night like this …’ she remembered.
Anshu felt that her body was covered with perspiration. Before her closed eyes appeared the tender Prithusen, the solemn Rudradhir, the matal Vrik, and the scholar Marish, all advancing towards her with outstretched arms, and she thought with disgust, ‘I am a woman, and therefore an object of enjoyment for men. Therein lies my only attraction—an object of enjoyment!’ She tossed about in bed for a long time, persuading herself that she would never again be trapped into the snare, even to seek shelter.
But her thoughts did not cede. ‘Why should I have an aversion for worldly things? Like Devi Ratnaprabha and Mallika, I too should dedicate myself to the service of art and make that the aim of my life. Instead of thinking of protection and pleasing a man, I should become self-reliant. There is nothing to regret. Whatever happened to me was what had to happen.’
Anshumala did not stir out of her room for the next two days, pleading sickness. Ratnaprabha knew that the girl was upset and had been suffering in silence. She went and sat by her bedside for a while. Putting her hand on Anshu’s head, Ratnaprabha thought, ‘It may be that the grief concealed in her heart has found an outlet now. Perhaps, she will be able to breathe more freely once the load of sorrow is lifted from her mind.’
The usually loquacious Marish, too, had become quiet and moody.
Some days later, torrential rains again made the road to Ratnaprabha’s palace impassable. Profiting from this enforced leisure, Ratnaprabha sat on a mattress in the veranda, reclining against a cushion. Feeling a need for company, she sent for Anshu and Marish. They sat together for a while, drinking wine, when the conversation drifted to the Lokayata philosophy of materialism. Ratnaprabha asked Marish, ‘If death is the ultimate end of life, and if there is no hope of another birth in this or in the next world, then how can one feel enthusiastic about the present? This life, then, can only be regarded as an accidental occurrence, without cause and without effect, which may or may not occur as a real event.’
Anshumala felt that the question had some bearing on her own state of mind. She looked inquiringly at Marish. ‘The mistress is right, I think,’ she said. ‘What substance can there be in something, which is so transient and of no consequence?’
Marish was slow in reacting to their question. He replied by posing a counter-question, ‘How is it that we know about death with certainty even though we have not experienced death?’
‘By seeing the deaths of others like us,’ Ratnaprabha said.
‘Does it mean, then, that we too are a part of that chain of existence, of the unending life process?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Ratnaprabha admitted.
‘And this chain of existence was present before we were born, and will continue after we’re gone, isn’t that so?’ Marish asked, gazing straight into Ratnaprabha’s face with his own tired eyes.
‘This is also true,’ Ratnaprabha had to admit.
‘It means, then, that it is only the individual who is born or dies. The chain of existence or the collective life is unending, even immortal, so far as man’s understanding can go. The cause and the consequence of an individual’s life are both to be found in this chain of being, in this continuous process of existence.’
‘That is true, but death causes fear. That too is a reality based on experience. And unless and until we are freed from that fear, there is little purpose in being attached to life, isn’t that so?’ Ratnaprabha asked, smiling.
‘Would life be happy and free from fear if men became immortal?’ Marish asked with a hint of amusement in his tone.
‘The desire for immortality is only natural. In the orthodox Vedic view, immortality is the Supreme Bliss; that alone gives freedom from fear.’
Marish sat up, discarding the cushion. ‘Devi, what is the difference between the living and the dead?’
‘The living has motion, while the dead is immobile.’
‘True,’ Marish agreed, ‘and motion means entering from one point of time and place into another point of time and place. In other words, motion is change. This change is motion, and motion is life. Immortality means changelessness or absence of change. Devi, if the sun were to become stationary, if water and air were to become motionless, if everything were to become still and unchanging, would then life be desirable and happy?’
Noticing that his listeners were somewhat puzzled, Marish continued, ‘Devi, if all change is desirable, then death too is a part of that process of change. It is nothing but the arrival of the new in place of the old.’
‘Arya has made the incomprehensible reality even more incomprehensible,’ Ratnaprabha said, with a slight laugh. ‘If you will permit me, I will go and rest. You two can continue the discussion if you are not too tired.’
When Ratnaprabha had left, Marish said, ‘Would it be too embarrassing to take up the subject we were discussing the other day?’
‘As you wish,’ Anshumala replied, demurely.
‘Have you given any thought to it?’
‘Yes, I have been thinking about it long and deeply.’
‘And what have you to say?’
‘I feel frightened, Arya. Self-fulfilment is not for me in this life. My days will be spent in the service of my mistress, for the entertainment of the fortunate well-to-do, in the pursuit of art as a vocation.’
This relapse into indifference and apathy struck at Marish’s heart. He looked away, to avoid meeting her sorrowful eyes, and said, as though to himself, ‘Art! What is art?’
And himself gave the answer, ‘Art is only a means. Art is for life, to serve towards the fulfilment of life. Indifference to life, but paying attention to the means of life; such an attitude will reduce you to being a mere instrument for the satisfaction of others without any chance of a full life for yourself. Should the life of such a person remain deprived of its own fulfilment, which—in the case of a woman—lies in creation? That would be like the life of a slave, which is spent as a tool in the service of others. What dreadful self-deception!’
Anshumala’s head was reeling. She had been thinking incessantly about her problem, and Marish’s logic confused her further. She was not afraid of the advances of dissolute admirers who hungered after her beauty, but Marish’s friendly sympathy sometimes penetrated her resolve and left her defenceless. She had decided to remain adamant and not be shaken in her resolve. Trying to hide her nervousness, she said, ‘What do you mean when you say that the ultimate fulfilment of a woman’s life lies in creation?’
