Divya, page 26
His Excellency Ravi Sharma, the Viceroy of Mathurapuri, tenderly roused her with a touch of his hand and escorted her to her chariot. Ratnaprabha returned to her palace with her face hidden behind the folds of her stole.
Divya
DEVI MALLIKA RETURNED TO SAGAL SUCCESSFUL IN HER MISSION, her pilgrimage having yielded the desired result. Her homecoming was an occasion for rejoicing for both the gentry and the common people of Sagal.
People were eager to see that jewel of an artiste who had proved equal to the demands of Mallika. Connoisseurs and lovers of art came from far and near to have a glimpse of her. Crowds of people gathered at the evening concerts in Mallika’s palace. There was a great deal of elbowing and pushing for seats, but no one was able to see the fabled dancer. The heir to Devi Mallika’s throne remained confined to the interior of the palace.
Finally, a day was fixed for the ceremonial investiture. Devi Mallika announced that a month hence, on the auspicious date of the full moon in the month of Phalgun, the ceremony would be held, and people would have the opportunity of seeing her successor. For the men and women of Sagal the waiting period of thirty days was full of eager curiosity and anticipation.
Arrangements were made for a grand sacrificial yajna for the propitiation of the gods. At the ceremony, one hundred priests and scholars recited benedictory hymns, and the seat of the head priest was occupied, at Mallika’s request, by the Chairman of the Council, the noblest of Acharyas, Mahapandit Rudradhir.
The site chosen for the investiture of Devi Mallika’s successor was on the bank of the silvery Pushkarni lake. In front of the dais, on a raised platform, sat the Master of Exceptional Virtues, the Great Noble, the President of the Republic, Sri Dev Sarvarth, and next to him, the Chairman of the Council, Acharya Rudradhir. On both sides of the platform, rows of seats were arranged in the form of a wide crescent, for the nobility, the heads of Brahmin families, the feudatory chiefs, members of the Council, and high-caste ladies. Behind them sat the monied families of Sagal, the merchants, the business magnates, and their friends and relatives. And behind them all, the soldiers and the vast concourse of people as far as the eye could see. Unable to suppress their curiosity, in spite of the professed indifference to worldly affairs, many Buddhist bhikshus were present, in their russet robes.
A contingent of Brahmins chanted auspicious mantras. A troupe of prominent dancers of the town and the pupils of Mallika performed the inaugural, propitiatory dance and welcomed the guests. The state astrologer prophesied eternal renown for Devi Mallika’s successor.
At the auspicious moment, the new Laureate of Art was brought to the dais in a palanquin decked with white flowers. Mallika, with loving attention, helped her alight from the palanquin and escorted her to the seat of honour reserved for the Court Dancer. For this occasion, Mallika had dressed and decorated her successor with her own hands. The face of the successor was hidden behind a veil of strings of pearls. The people, with intense curiosity, were waiting for the ceremony to end, so that they might have a glimpse of the new Laureate of Art.
A Brahmin priest, reciting couplets from the Vedas, placed before Mallika a platter with portions of raw rice, sandalwood, a few blades of grass, and ceremonial rouge made from saffron and herbs. Devi Mallika, with the third finger of her right hand, anointed the forehead of her successor, whose face was still hidden behind the veil of pearls.
The sound of conch shells, kettledrums, trumpets and flutes reached a crescendo. Members of the gentry rose from their seats and, one by one, placed gift offerings on the dais for their first glimpse of the new Chief Courtesan.
After anointing her forehead, Devi Mallika knelt down and in homage touched her own head to the feet of her successor. The impatient crowd began to clamour for a glimpse of the new Laureate of Art.
At a sign from Mallika, the herald blew his conch shell. A hush fell on all sides. Mallika parted the veil of pearl strings and thus revealed to the audience the face of her successor. Facing the congregation, Mallika went down again on her knees and bowed her head in obeisance. Holding their breaths, people looked on at the new light of the town.
The silence had lasted for a few seconds, when a low murmur began to be heard from the side where the nobility was sitting.
‘Divya! The great-granddaughter of the Chief Justice! Divya! A Brahmin girl! The granddaughter of Vishnu Sharma! Divya! A high-born girl! A Brahmin girl!’
Hearing the noise, Mallika raised her head and noticed the agitated confusion that had set in among the members of the nobility and the high-caste families. In a moment, a shout was heard:
‘A Brahmin girl cannot be allowed, in Madra, to become a courtesan, a mere object of pleasure and entertainment for the people. She cannot be allowed to disgrace the caste religion!’
It was the voice of Acharya Bhrigu Sharma, who stood with his arm upraised, trembling with rage.
Like a thunderclap in a valley surrounded by high mountains, his loud protest began to echo and re-echo on all sides. In the ranks of the nobility, several swords had been drawn and were being flourished above the heads of the audience. Soon after, many more swords flashed in the sunlight.
Devi Mallika stood speechless, as though petrified by the rising tumult that surrounded her.
Divya sat silent, her head bowed.
Then Divya got up from her seat and walking calmly with measured steps, went to one side of the dais and stood before the audience. She raised her hand, indicating to the people to be silent. The tumult subsided abruptly.
‘Please hear me, citizens, men and women of the caste families and others. I would request Acharya Rudradhir, the highest legal authority on matters relating to religion and social conduct, to give his ruling on this subject.’
Everyone turned towards Acharya Rudradhir, the Chairman of the Council.
The Acharya remained silent.
Waiting for his words, the vast concourse of people also held a breathless silence. The swords, drawn from their scabbards, hung motionless in the air.
With his head bowed in deep thought, the Acharya said in a faint voice, ‘The laws of the caste religion are binding for all time; past, present and future.’
For a few moments, Divya stared at the Acharya, trying to grasp the meaning of his statement. Then, in a gesture of silent submission, she bowed her head and said, ‘So be it!’
She stepped down from the dais and began to walk out. People drew aside to make way for her, just as water parts before the prow of a boat. With her head erect, without looking to either side, she passed through the audience.
Homeless once again, Divya walked along the highways of Sagal in her costume of a celestial handmaiden. A large crowd, unable to restrain their curiosity, followed her at some distance. She did not turn round to see who was in the crowd. She walked on, like the swan queen leading a bevy of swans.
She went out of the city gate. The sun had set. The full moon of the month of Phalgun had risen above the horizon; its early, faint light mingled with the last vestiges of dusk. Divya looked at the road leading towards the eastern horizon. Heaving a tired sigh, she turned her eyes towards the inn, which stood outside the city gate. For a few moments, she stood undecided; then with firm steps, walked towards the inn.
Travellers arriving at the city gate after it had closed for the night usually spent the night at the inn. Likewise, those who desired to begin their journey before dawn would also come to the inn in the evening and spend the night there.
Divya went in. She crossed the courtyard, and stepping across the veranda, sat down in a dark, unlit room. The curious multitude followed her. Gradually, the courtyard began to fill, and to hum like a beehive. When they found no room in the courtyard, the crowd gathered in the doorway and along the boundary wall. Drawn by curiosity, outrage or sympathy, and eager for excitement, they were debating among themselves the future of the dethroned court dancer.
The guard in charge of the inn, vexed and fuming, kept shouting to the people to clear the path and the courtyard for the travellers, but no one paid any attention to him. It was no longer possible even to shut the inn gates.
A bhikshu drew near the crowd and called in a loud voice, ‘Citizens, permit me to go to the unhappy woman oppressed by society. Let me go to the dethroned court dancer. Pray, let me go to her. I have come to bestow on her some peace in her suffering.’ The bhikshu’s words were lost in the tumult.
In the shimmering glow between sunset and moonlight, a traveller came walking along the eastern road. Seeing a huge crowd surrounding the inn, and hearing the loud clamour, he slowed down and then stopped. The dust covering his hair, face, clothes and thick on his legs up to the knees bore testimony to the fact that he had been walking the whole day long. In that deceptive light, he strained to see and hear the reason for such a large and noisy crowd. All he could hear clearly were the words of the bhikshu.
Leaving the road, he went towards the crowd that surrounded the inn. ‘Tell me, kind citizens of Sagal,’ he said addressing them, ‘has the investiture ceremony of Anshumala, the dancing girl of Mathurapuri, been performed? I have come a long way to see the ceremony. For a whole month I have been travelling as fast as I could. Kind folk, tell me, has there been any hindrance to her inauguration? I hope no harm has come to Anshumala.’
Only one person paid any attention to the traveller. ‘Uh, sculptor Marish? Which Anshumala are you talking about? … The Brahmin girl? … The great-granddaughter of the late Chief Justice?’
‘The same,’ Marish nodded his head.
‘It was Divya who desired to become the court dancer of Sagal,’ the citizen corrected Marish. ‘She has been disgraced by the caste society, and has left the town and taken shelter in this very inn. Are you …’
Not hearing the rest, the traveller went towards the door of the inn.
The bhikshu and the traveller were both trying to make their way through the crowd towards the inn gate.
‘Gentle folk, kind citizens,’ the traveller was saying, ‘allow me to go into the inn. I shall give solace to that unhappy woman. Citizens, let me pass. For her sake, I have come all the way from Shursen. I have arrived this very moment.’
The bhikshu too was saying, ‘Let me pass, citizens. I have come to take this oppressed woman into the bosom of the True Faith, so that she may know peace.’
The excited crowd was deaf to the words of the bhikshu, the traveller and also of the guard of the inn. The courtyard was so packed with people that no one was able to move. Suddenly, the sound of a gong was heard from the direction of the city gate, and a state official, standing on the rampart, shouted, ‘It is time to close the city gate. Those who have to go into the city should enter now.’
The human tide began to flow from the courtyard and through the doorway of the inn towards the city gate. Being unable to resist this stream, the traveller and the bhikshu retreated.
Just then a bugle sounded and the tumult subsided. The crowd fell silent and people stood where they were. Four torch-bearers on horseback emerged through the city gate. They were followed by a bugler on horseback. ‘Attention! Attention, citizens!’ shouted the bugler, ‘The Chairman of the Council, the Protector of the Faith, the Great Feudatory Chief, Rudradhir is arriving. Give way, citizens! Step aside!’
The people greeted the Acharya with cheers and shouts. A path was cleared for him. The Acharya stepped down from the chariot. The guard of the inn went down on his knees to salute him.
‘Where is the dancing girl who came to the inn?’ the Acharya asked in a solemn voice. ‘Guard, show the way.’
The guard, escorting the Acharya, proceeded towards the veranda. The entire crowd stood motionless like wooden statues, but the bhikshu and the traveller from Mathurapuri, seeing their chance, followed the Acharya.
The four torch-bearers took their positions in the corners of the room, which was now flooded with light. Divya, dressed in her costume of a celestial handmaiden, was sitting on the floor, her back resting against the wall. She lifted her eyes and looked at the visitors, but continued to sit motionless. The crowd, peeping through the door, stood in silent awe.
In a voice devoid of any emotion, Divya asked the Acharya, ‘What further orders await this unfortunate creature?’
Sitting down on the mat spread by the guard, the Acharya said, ‘Devi, your place is not that of a dancer–courtesan. You are of high birth. Your place is that of the mistress of a noble family. I am here to offer you the place of the First Lady in the house of the Acharyas. Devi, oblige me by accepting the offer.’
Her eyes fixed steadily on the face of the Acharya, Divya replied, ‘Acharya, the place of the mistress and of the First Lady of a noble family is a rare honour. This destitute woman bows her head before the offer of such a high position. But Acharya, the mistress of a noble family is not a free woman; she is not independent like a disreputable courtesan. Learned Acharya, the honour given to the noble bride, the respect given to the noble matron, and the authority given to the First Lady are there because of the man who gives her protection. It is not an honour due to the woman; it is an honour due to the powerful man who owns her. Arya, this honour and respect can be obtained by a woman only by willingly surrendering her inner self.’
After a few moments silence, she continued, ‘Learned sir, what is left of the woman who has given up her self? The Acharya must forgive this humble servant. Even though destitute, she wishes to live independently. By losing her self she cannot remain alive.’
Realizing that his great authority would carry no weight, the Acharya sat silent looking at the inscrutable face of Divya.
Just then, the bhikshu approached the seat of the Acharya, and said, ‘Devi, I, Bhikshu Prithusen, a devotee of the Buddha, am here to receive into the bosom of the Buddha the woman oppressed by society.’
Divya’s eyes opened wide as she heard and recognized the voice of the russet-robed bhikshu standing in front of her. A shudder ran through her body. She heaved a deep sigh and sat motionless looking at the face of the bhikshu.
Bhikshu Prithusen raised his hand in benediction and said, ‘Devi, by the mercy of the Buddha, it has been possible for you to realize that attachment and infatuation are only illusions. Devi, peace does not lie in riches, not in prowess, nor in the gratification of the senses. Everlasting peace lies only in Nirvana. Devi, no sorrow of the world can mar the beatitude that lies in Nirvana. The unhappy ones of the world, oppressed by society, find peace in the shelter of the Buddha, in the protection of the True Faith, in the protection of the Monastic Order. Come into the sanctuary of the Infinite Mercy.’
For a second, Divya’s vision was clouded. In the room lit by torches, Rudradhir, the image of authority and power and the russet-robed bhikshu faded from before her eyes. She saw herself with her baby in her arms, an outcast in front of the closed doors of the Mahabodhi monastery in the town of Mathurapuri, under a tree, a destitute woman begging for shelter in the name of the Buddha, the True Faith and the Monastic Order.
Her eyes lit up again. In a voice trembling with emotion, she said, ‘Honoured sir, what is the position of woman in the religion of the bhikshu?’
In a calm voice the bhikshu replied, ‘Devi, the bhikshu’s purpose is Nirvana. Woman represents temptation. As such, she is a hindrance in the path to Nirvana, and, therefore, has to be given up.’
‘Honoured sir, then follow your religion of Nirvana,’ Divya replied in a slow but firm voice. ‘A woman’s religion is not Nirvana but creation. Let the bhikshu permit her to follow her own path.’
When his chance came to speak, the traveller from the east drew near, and addressing Divya, said, ‘I am Marish. I have come all the way from Mathurapuri to be near you, Devi.’
Once again Divya’s eyes opened wide and lit up with wonder and curiosity. The traveller, covered with dust from head to foot, said, ‘Devi, I cannot offer you the place of the First Lady in a royal palace; I cannot give you the assurance of the eternal joys of Nirvana. I live in the midst of the joys and sorrows of this world. Experience and reflection are my only assets. I can only offer to share those feelings and experiences with you. I am a traveller along the world’s rough and dusty roads. On that journey, impelled by the desire for your womanhood, I offer my manhood to you. I want an exchange of support. In this fleeting life I can only offer a feeling of fulfilment.’
He paused for breath, and added, ‘By reproducing my kind, I can try to add another link to the chain of human continuity.’
Divya sat quietly for a few moments, lost in thought. Then no longer needing the support of the wall, she stretched out both her hands towards Marish. In a tremulous voice, she said, ‘Grant me the abiding shelter of your arms, Arya.’
Translator’s Note
WHEN YASHPAL WROTE DIVYA IN 1945, HE HAD ALREADY PUBLISHED two novels, five collections of short stories, two collections of socio-economic essays, a book on the basic tenets of Marxism, and one of his best-known works Gandhivaad ki Shav-pariksha (Post-mortem on Gandhism). It was an impressive performance for a writer whose first book had been published only seven years previously, and even more creditable for one who had been released from prison in 1938 after serving seven years of a life sentence. Yashpal’s creative spirit, cramped by the constraints of his detention—for his role in the revolutionary movement to oust the British from India—was clearly ready to spread its wings. Viplava, the pioneering Hindi political monthly journal that he launched with his wife Prakashvati within months after his release, received an unprecedented welcome.
Up till the writing of Divya, all of Yashpal’s published work had dealt with contemporary social, economic and political issues. The literature of social reform and social protest in Hindi had found a worthy advocate in the author, who wielded a sledgehammer when writing about the exploited and the economically deprived. Therefore, when Yashpal began writing Divya, one of his motives may well have been to write about a different world, that of the remote past, a world away from the one he was familiar with. Although the world he had chosen to write about was perhaps not greatly different from the society in which he lived in terms of conflict, strife and oppression, in its portrayal he was free to exercise his imagination, and not simply to limit himself to the realities of contemporary society.
