Divya, page 20
Taken a little aback by the uncharacteristic boldness, Marish looked into her eyes, ‘Lady, women are the vessels of procreation. Being the primeval force of creation, a woman is the obvious centre of the family and of the human community. Man revolves around her as the ox revolves around the oil press.’
Marish’s words brought back to her mind her resounding success at the Festival of Spring in Sagal, and the compliment Marish had paid to her on that occasion. She felt a thrill running through her body. Trying to remain calm, she replied. ‘All that certainly brings fulfilment to a woman’s life. It is perhaps a woman’s natural purpose, but for that fulfilment she pays with her very existence, by becoming an object of enjoyment for man. How can one have fulfilment when one is merely an object of another’s pleasure?’
Her heart began to beat violently, and drops of perspiration broke out on her forehead. Her voice too became bitter. In the dusk deepened by the moist air and the overcast sky her face could not be seen, but in the bitterness of her words Marish sensed her mental anguish and knew that his words had hit home.
He remained lost in thought for some time, then he said, ‘What you say is partly true and partly untrue.’ The seriousness of what he said kept him subdued. ‘Lady, life is a mixture of many contrary elements. With one and the same aim, a man can act in many different ways. Out of love for a woman, and because of her desire for protection, a man wants her to be subservient. He treats her as an object of enjoyment, not by any law of nature, but because of the conventions that regard males as superior. In nature as well as in society, men and women are mutually dependent. By receiving a man’s protection a woman does become dependent, but for the fulfilment of a woman’s life a man’s protection is necessary and so is the support provided by a woman to a man.’
‘So where does a woman’s fulfilment exist in this state of dependence?’ Anshu asked vehemently. ‘In man’s enjoyment and use of her? Just as a bowl is useful to drink from when a man is thirsty? Arya, a woman is independent only as long as she can do without a man’s protection. A prostitute is the only independent woman for that very reason.’ Her breathing quickened and she turned her eyes towards Marish who was still looking at the clouds.
‘How does the freedom of a courtesan–dancer give her fulfilment?’ Marish asked in a calm, serious voice. ‘What does she obtain through her freedom? What has Devi Ratnaprabha gained? If a respectable housewife is an object of some man’s enjoyment, then a prostitute, a courtesan–dancer, is an instrument for the satisfaction of the entire community. She feeds the desires in the community and in return receives only money, which is nothing but a means of acquiring material satisfaction. What else, besides this? A prostitute is only a medium for rousing desire, but her own desire in consequence remains unfulfilled. Her art is useful insofar as it serves as a means of satisfying the desire of others, but what does she gain herself? She is the fuel in the sacrificial fire of desire. She herself is deprived of the benefits of self-fulfilment. Her independence is enjoyed by the community, but not by herself. All that she receives is deprivation.’
With bowed head, Anshu listened to his dispassionate but forceful words. Her resolve not to yield or be swayed was crumbling under the impact of his persuasive and apparently logical arguments, just as the sandy bank of a river crumbles under the force of a powerful current. She felt as though she was about to fall into the outstretched arms of Marish, ones that seemed to offer protection. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she made no attempt to wipe them for fear of revealing her feelings. And since her head was bowed, she did not know whether Marish was looking at her or at the clouds.
Suddenly, a light appeared in the veranda. Lamp in hand, Dagdha, the maidservant was coming towards them. ‘The mistress is waiting for the Arya and the Devi to come to dinner,’ she said. Anshu, who was losing her foothold in the powerful current, found something to hold onto.
Marish had, on numerous occasions, enjoyed the hospitality of Ratnaprabha’s palace, but had never stayed on for so long. Time would hang heavy on him if he had to remain silent and inactive, and he was not the type who could contemplate the shimmering leaves of the trees for any length of time. He now took to sculpting an image out of a piece of rock in the palace garden, under the bakul tree by the side of the ornamental pond. In the hot sun of the month of Bhadrapad, with perspiration streaming down his face, or in pouring rain, soaked to the skin, he was seen with mallet and chisel at the rock, trying to liberate from the mass of stone the image he had conceived in his mind.
Ratnaprabha would come every day in the morning or in the evening to watch the progress of the form that was gradually emerging. When she asked him what it was, his reply was evasive, ‘Something that has been on my mind, just a whim.’
Although she hid it behind a smile while talking to Marish, a regret often gnawed at her mind. It had taken her a lifetime of effort to build the shrine of her reputation as a court dancer, but the altar for a god before whom she could make her offerings in that shrine had up till now remained vacant. That bare altar made all her affluence and her success seem pointless. Could Marish not fill that place and give meaning and fullness to her life?
‘But what have I to offer him?’ Ratnaprabha would ask herself. ‘My barren old age? To that self-willed youth, I can only offer my affection. And Anshumala? Like a tortoise, she shrinks within herself, and hides under the shell of her indifference and defeats all his advances. But Marish, like a canny hunter, has now discovered her main weakness and has succeeded in unsettling her inner calm. To save herself, she has retreated further and plunged into the depths where nobody can reach her.’
‘Silly girl,’ Ratnaprabha would sometimes find herself addressing Anshu in her mind, ‘how long will you hide away, ignoring life and suppressing your instincts? The path of life lies open before you and all your urges are pressing you in that direction. How long will you go on fighting yourself? Heaven knows what the future has in store for you.’ Anshu was in fact fighting against herself in her resolve not to surrender to any persuasion from others. In the hushed silence of the midday, sitting alone in her room, she heard the clink of the chisel and the thud of the hammer on the rock, and felt as though the blows were being aimed at her heart. But even so, it was pleasant to hear them, and she wanted them to continue. Those blows did not rouse any anger or feeling of revenge in her. She was angry only with herself. ‘Why have I begun to feel so restless?’ she would ask herself.
On a day of overcast sky and cool breezes, Marish sat listless, ignoring the unfinished work and his tools. ‘Why are you not doing any sculpting today, Arya?’ Ratnaprabha asked him curiously.
‘Devi, my idea has taken its final form,’ he replied. Ratnaprabha was surprised at the answer. It was only yesterday that she had missed visiting him at his work. By what miracle, she thought, could the sculpture have been completed?
‘Won’t you show us the masterpiece that you have created?’
Marish nodded his consent, and Ratnaprabha asked Dagdha, the maidservant, to bring Anshumala and Muktavali to see the sculpture.
The three stood by the ornamental pond looking intently at the sculpture. The upper and lower parts of the rock had been left rough and untouched. Only in the centre, in the right half of the surface, a small area had been cut away, like a window. Framed in that window could be seen the full-grown breast of a young woman, with a depression below suggesting a waistline, and from the navel swelling downwards, a gracefully domed curve.
Ratnaprabha stood there with her companion for a long time, her hand on her chin, contemplating this work of art. Marish, too, stood there in silence.
‘Is this work finished, Arya?’ Ratnaprabha finally asked.
‘As far as my intention is concerned, yes, it is complete. Devi.’
‘I think it shows only part of the body of a woman and not the complete woman.’
Running his fingers through his unruly hair, Marish replied, ‘You may be right, but that very part of a woman’s body invites a man for the fulfilment of her womanhood and, then, nurses the fruit of that fulfilment.’
Ratnaprabha nodded to acknowledge Marish’s serious tone. ‘Arya, you have tried, then, to express an eternal truth about womanhood.’
Muktavali turned her face aside to hide her smile. Anshumala was looking thoughtfully at the panel cut in the rock. Marish’s words rang in her ears, ‘… which is the primeval power of creation in woman’.
That night again Anshu could not sleep, her heart thudding, as she pondered on what had become the fulfilment of her own life and the price that she had to pay for it. Every now and then she would heave a sigh and promise herself that she would remain unshaken in her resolve.
Next morning, heavy and inert from lack of sleep, Anshu went into the garden for a breath of fresh air, and sat down under the blooming kadamb1 tree. Seeing Marish coming towards her, she felt unsure of herself but greeted him politely, ‘I hope the Arya is in good health.’
Marish stopped and leaned against the tree trunk. His eyes looked heavy and red. He noticed Anshu’s tired eyes, ‘Lady, it seems that you’ve perhaps had too much on your mind to sleep soundly.’
‘You’ve guessed rightly, Arya,’ Anshumala admitted, with her head bowed, forgetting to observe the courtesy of a smile.
‘But, lady, a conflict never ends unless the problem is resolved. Especially if the problem involves a return to the natural assertion of the normal ways of life. The suppression and destruction of a natural instinct is no solution.’
‘For me there is no other way except to suppress my desires and to destroy my inner self.’
‘For what reason, may I ask?’
‘Arya, I am frightened. All my experiences in life have done nothing but terrify me,’ Anshu’s voice shook as she looked around nervously.
Marish stood away from the tree and faced her, ‘Lady, no experience in life is final. Life is measured in time and time is a continuous flow. All kinds of events—good and bad, pleasant and unpleasant, occur in this flow. This continuity is the only unchanging and certain thing in nature and the universe. But to step out of the current of life and to go against the natural appetite for life, simply because of a sequence of unfortunate occurrences is nothing but obstinacy to my mind.’
‘Arya, I tried, but I have failed.’
‘Lady, the circumstances in which you failed have all but disappeared. Ceaseless effort alone is the sign of life. The failure of one attempt does not mean the failure of one’s entire life.’
Anshu sensed that Marish was waiting for her answer. She looked up, ‘You are right, Arya. But I am frightened. I do not want life’s fulfilment in exchange for the favour of shelter. I may have failed in life, but I have chosen freedom as a courtesan. Arya, that is still my decision.’ She covered her eyes with a corner of her stole.
Marish took a deep breath and waited for a few seconds to steady his voice. ‘I’ve obviously troubled you, lady, but I was hoping to offer you some happiness and perhaps to receive some in return. Now that I know your decision, I shall depart from Mathurapuri today. Pray, accept my good wishes.’
A year and half had elapsed since Marish had left Mathurapuri. Ratnaprabha would often think of him and talk about him. Anshu herself would never refer to his visit. Gradually a change came over her. She came out of her habitual gloom and began to take a more lively interest in her art.
That year, on the occasion of the Festival of Swings in Vrindavan, she presented an original fantasia of dance and music, and named it ‘Saraswati Mallika’ in homage to her guru. The fame and reputation of this superb artiste from Mathurapuri travelled to the farthest corners of the land.
The citizens of Mathurapuri were elated to find that their pride, the concert hall of Ratnaprabha, would continue to be the showpiece of their city, now that the most-prized blossom in the garden of Ratnaprabha’s troupe had opened fully, and its fragrance, in the form of her fame was being spread for all to enjoy. They had only heard of Mallika, who lived in faraway Sagal, as an exquisite exponent of art. Anshumala they could see with their own eyes, and for them it was difficult to imagine artistry more captivating than hers.
Anshumala’s leisure time, which used to be spent in solitary brooding and despondency, was now given to learning and mastering the different styles of dance and music. She made no effort to rid her mind of the memory of Marish. He stayed on in her mind, as did her great-grandfather, Prabuddha Sharma, Dhata and Chhaya; only he seemed a little closer. Sometimes she hoped that he would come again and see that she, at last, had found some source of satisfaction in her life.
One night, at the beginning of winter, Anshumala stepped out of the concert hall after her performance and went towards the bower of malati vines to rest her aching feet. The vines laden with tiny white flowers looked resplendent in the light of the moon. She was still there when a maidservant came to inform her that a foreigner of noble birth was waiting inside, requesting the privilege of meeting her.
It flashed across Anshu’s mind that it might be Marish, but the maidservants knew Marish well. In the empty hall, the caller was sitting alone near an oil lamp. Greeting the caller politely from the veranda, Anshu went up to him. She stopped short and caught her breath, but still managed to utter, ‘I hope you are well, Arya. I hope everyone at home, your relatives, the ladies of the house, are all well. When did you arrive?’
Rudradhir’s demeanour remained as serious and self-important as ever.
‘Perhaps you remember,’ he said, ‘that I was banished from Madra for a period of two thousand days. It is only occasionally that I get any news of Sagal. I spent much of my time in Magadh, and it was there that I heard about the great fame of Devi Anshumala. On my way back home, I thought I would have the pleasure of seeing her. But what I see before me is beyond my wildest imagination.’
Trying to keep the smile on her lips, Anshumala said, ‘Arya, the river, when it springs from its source, does not know in which direction it will flow, or with which ocean it will merge.’
Anshumala’s coolness nettled Rudradhir and he decided to probe a little, ‘News reached me of the marriage of the slave-born Prithusen with Seero, the granddaughter of the President, and also the rumours of your untimely death. Is it that you have been reborn as Anshumala in the same body?’
Anshumala remained unruffled. ‘You have guessed correctly,’ she smiled.
Her indifference still irritated Rudradhir. ‘It must be so,’ he said, with his head lowered, then suddenly lifting it and looking straight into Anshu’s eyes, he added, ‘I also heard that the grandsire, the Chief Justice, died out of grief for the loss of his great-granddaughter.’ Then as if feeling ashamed of what he had said, he lowered his eyes and added in a faint voice, ‘My father, the Acharya, is also dead. He died of some stomach ailment.’
‘They were both fine people,’ Anshumala said, after a brief pause. ‘Everyone loved them. They were worthy of the respect of the gods, and that is why they were summoned to heaven.’ She continued with a slight change in her tone, ‘I hope your sojourn here was not too uncomfortable. Magadh is a large and prosperous kingdom known for its grandeur, but naturally, no place can compare with one’s home. I wish you a pleasant return journey.’
Rudradhir was overwhelmed on seeing Divya after such a long time, but the same could not be said of his meeting Anshu. Baffled and crestfallen, Rudradhir looked for a way out of the embarrassing situation. ‘It is getting late,’ he said. ‘May I be permitted to leave? If I stay on in Mathurapuri for a few more days, I would like to have the pleasure of seeing you again.’
‘That would indeed be very kind of you,’ Anshumala replied, joining her palms in farewell. ‘This house would always be honoured by serving so distinguished a guest. Your humble servant would only be too pleased at a further visit.’
In Mathurapuri, Rudradhir was staying as a guest in the palace of Acharya Suchit, the savant. One of the reasons for his visit was to see Anshumala, the famed pupil of the court dancer of Shursen. In Anshumala he met Divya, an old love, who had supposedly died years ago, and his feelings for her revived. But her attitude and manner disconcerted him. Beneath her polite smiles and elaborate courtesies, he saw the professional politeness of a courtesan; a demeanour, to his mind, most unbecoming for the high-born Brahmin girl his Divya had been. Rudradhir’s mind was torn between love and revulsion.
On recognizing Divya in Ratnaprabha’s concert hall, Rudradhir had sat frozen for several moments. When he recovered, his old days in Sagal came back to his mind with extreme vividness. The dances of Anshumala and Muktavali and the singing of Ratnaprabha ceased to have any interest for him. In his imagination, he began to see Divya in the palace of the Chief Justice, in the concert hall of Devi Mallika, and in numerous other places.
He was returning to that very city of Sagal. He had taken a solemn vow to re-establish the eminence of twice-born Brahmins, and end the rule of barbarians, slaves, and men of low birth. Divya herself had been cruelly deceived and cast out by the son of a slave, Prithusen. That affront was symbolic of all the insults hurled at Brahmins. By restoring Divya to her rightful place, he would show Prithusen and the people of Madra who were the victors and who the vanquished.
But Divya’s attitude and behaviour demolished the grand design that he was shaping in his imagination. With a deep sigh, he tried to rid himself of the hope that he had been nurturing secretly in his heart. ‘That soft-spoken and timid Divya, the high-born Brahmin maiden that I had once desired, does not exist any more,’ he tried to tell himself. But this attempt at self-deception could not conceal the reality before his eyes.
In the mansion of Acharya Suchit, the midnight religious service ended to the sound of bells, gongs and conch shells. Soon the household settled into stillness. In every room of the palace, the inmates slept soundly, and the sound of their even breathing filled the air and seemed to deepen the still of the night. This quiet was broken only by the calls of the night watchman, who, in an effort to ward off sleep, shouted to the others to keep awake and alert. For Rudradhir there was no rest. He tossed about in the comfortable bed provided by his kind host. All the means of inducing sleep had proven ineffective. Delicious food and fragrant wines he pushed aside with distaste. Even the services of a supple and experienced slave-girl did not bring rest to his body, tired as it was after his long journey.
