The Fifth Man (15 page)

Seema was in a trance. Getting out of one’s familiar environment often creates a sense of release. Especially since Seema was here with people whom she had not had the opportunity to be close to or travel with. Bikram’s circle was limited to businessmen and brokers. He did not even belong to the world of music anymore. Wandering around with Esha and Mahanam, she had experienced the taste of freedom. As though their company had protected her from her horrible fate for a few days without interfering with her nature or shielding her in any way. Seema was discovering herself at every moment, and she was putting her discoveries to use. She had not realized that she still remembered the songs of ‘Chandalika’, which Bikram had taught her when she was young. When she saw the famous painting of Buddha, Yashodhara and Rahul in the seventeenth cave, her heart wanted to sing, ‘Water, give me water.’ She wanted to sing full-throated, ‘I am parched with the heat, give me water.’ As a matter of fact, Bikram had sung this very song, playing Ananda, in a performance he had directed himself at Rabindra Bhavan near Seema’s childhood home. As Nature, Seema had sung with all her heart, ‘My well is now the shoreless sea.’ Now the same song wanted to rise like a fountain from her throat. She had even hummed a few lines. But it wasn’t the yellowish figure of Buddha to whom her plea was directed. The object of her song was Bikram, Bikram and Bikram alone. For this man she was willing to be Mayabini, Dakini, Yogini, Bhogini, Rogini and even Sanyasini—she was ready to play sorceress, Tantric goddesses, woman of earthly pleasures, patient and even monk. Placing Bikram where Buddhadeva was, she was overcome by a secret, flowing emotion. Not once did she feel that superimposing Bikram on Buddha or Buddha on Bikram could be a gross error. Not a single pillar of logic stood on her terrain of passion. The rules of common sense did not apply. Casting herself as the spurned heroine and Bikram as the indifferent hero in one painting after another, she soaked in the pleasure of suffering, singing under her breath, ‘I shan’t fear you because you have come in the garb of sorrow.’ As she walked along the wall, something else was happening. She seemed to have borrowed some of Esha’s magic and Neelam’s beauty to become a more complete woman. And she wanted to test her acceptance by Mahanam and Aritra. Only if she was a complete woman would she able to go up to Bikram in all her glory, her neck arched proudly upwards, and say, ‘Look at me and tell me if you know who I am.’

To Esha, the entire experience of Ajanta was a miracle as well as agony. The work of any great artist is invariably multidimensional. This quality is achieved outside their knowledge and, sometimes, their devotion too. The Buddhist artists who had reverently depicted the story of Tathagata Sakyamuni’s brotherhood with people could not have imagined even in their dreams that the magnificence of the superman would supplant the noble sorrow of his self-denial to an audience two thousand years from today.

Siddhartha’s mother Maya stood leaning against a pillar. People said that she was rapt in thought after being informed that she was to give birth to a superman. But Esha saw the young woman weighed down by her unborn child, burdened by the imperative responsibility for a future yet to arrive. The superman was coming, but only by tearing her apart. She would have to leave her wonderful life marked by the gentleness of her husband Suddhodana and enriched by royal wealth, she would have to leave even the joy of imminent motherhood. Who knew with what intense pain.

Returning to Kapilavastu, Siddhartha has forced his half-brother, Gautami’s son Nanda, to renounce the world too. Nanda’s fianceé Janapadakalyani is slumped on her deathbed at the news. The messenger of defeat stands nearby, holding the discarded crown, while a tragic death seems to mock at the princess’s countenance. Her eyes hold the blue darkness of a hundred centuries, her breasts are like distressed seashells—moist with milk—one of an ancient line of sensual women. In one cave after another, with faces as pale as those shells, cold hands the colour of miserable birds, women with saddened eyes seemed to follow Esha, reaching out to the sky to say—I want you. I want you. The echoes rang in Esha’s empty womb, in the bare chamber in her breast. Sibali, Mahajanaka’s wife, and Yashodhara of the heartbreaking eyes with Rahul in her arms. The dark-skinned princess with lowered eyes. Even the nymph Krishna flying in the sky was a heartrending melody. Sita’s weeping, Rati’s mourning, Radha’s grief. Someone had come with unending promises, but not kept his word, leaving the earth empty as he left.

Esha could not decide what to name the intense feeling of pain that she was overcome by, which pierced her consciousness. But this sensation had not crushed her. Like a powerful ring of smoke rising from the soil, it bore her upwards into space, she would probably cross the ionosphere any moment, after which would come outer space and the company of innumerable stars and planets and satellites. Where an asteroid hurtling across space suddenly turned into a flaming comet, drawing a line of light on the canvas of emptiness, where the sun along with a cluster of planets circled in an eternal orbit, saying in a choked voice, let me reach, let me reach somewhere. O fate, hanging O almighty, the recurring nature of this revolution exhausts me, it exhausts me. You have created a path where one cannot even fall behind. The moving path moves itself and others according to its own rules.

These feelings had separated Esha from the rest, like the idiosyncrasy of a poet. It severed her from everyone, putting her in peril. Because unless one can travel in conjunction with the world, one’s sense of security is destroyed. Esha felt as though the anguish of her loneliness had started eons ago. It could never belong to a single lifetime.

And yet at this very moment Mahanam was overpowered by an incomparable joy. Every footstep seemed to awaken, like the hundred-petalled lotus, the possibility of something priceless coming to him.
Agoham asmi loksas
. I am the first on earth. I am the first who will get it. But he did not know with certainty what it was. He did not want to know, either. The news of the discovery alone had so overwhelmed him, so inundated him, that he had pushed the joy to the background of his heart. He wanted to walk along the path of knowledge that he was accustomed to treading. He told his companions the detailed story of the Jataka tale preserved in each of the paintings. The stories of Compia-Jataka, Vishwantar-Jataka, the tale of Ourna and Bhabila. Sometimes the guide himself and other tourists stopped to listen. With a hand on a pillar, he explained the techniques of its creation step by step. The frescos at Ajanta, Michelangelo’s The Last Supper on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, the Tun-Huang cave pictures of China. Why had prehistoric man chosen this particular cave for his sacred pursuit of art? The connection between artists lay in their choice of location. He also told of the extraordinary pleasure of viewing the paintings of Ajanta as a pictorial depiction of Kalidas’s works. For, the period in which the art of Ajanta was created and the age of Kalidas— that is to say, the age of classical literature influenced by Kalidas—were more or less contemporary. The characters of
Kumarsambhava
and especially of
Meghdoot
seemed to have come alive in the caves under the artist’s brush.

As Mahanam recited lines from
Meghdoot
, his sonorous voice spread deep into the interiors of the cave. His joy created a halo of light around him, preventing him from noticing the changes in his companions’ positions and emotions. Without being aware of Bikram’s mocking glance, Seema’s wistful restlessness, Neelam’s repentance, Aritra’s decision or Esha’s grief, he paced about the world of Ajanta like a predatory beast. In his ears rang the cantos from the Bhattikavya, or, sometimes, the sounds from the sport of lions.

When they had finished their lunch after descending from the hills, Mahanam said, ‘Let me stay another day. I was so busy with the panels that I didn’t see the work on the ceiling closely. Some pictures, the façade of the caves—I have to see those too.’

‘I don’t feel like going back ever,’ said Esha. ‘I would have lain down in one of the viharas if I could have, with my head on a pillow of rock, spending my days on a bed of stone. I would catch a glimpse of Amitava every morning and evening, rapt in his joys and sorrows and meditation.’

Bikram said, ‘Isn’t there something called the Nivritti Marga? If you walk on that path, Esha-ji, thousands of householders will want to renunciate the material world. All the caves and sangharams and viharas will be packed with people. Don’t even think of it.’

Neelam spoke intensely. ‘I am an ignorant woman. What I have seen is enough. I shall go back, Aritra.’

‘No problem, I’m definitely going back,’ said Bikram with great enthusiasm. ‘Let Neelam Bhabi come with me. No need for the bus. I’m sure Chowdhury-da is staying back too.’

Aritra sensed trouble when Neelam said she would go back. He hadn’t exactly come for Ajanta, he had come for Esha. He was not done with her. How could he go back, leaving her in Mahanam’s care? Yet he could see that Neelam’s decision to return would prove a challenge to him.

Bikram’s question made it easier for him. ‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘You can’t be done with Ajanta in a day. Amateurs like us need two days at least. Especially when Mahanamda’s the guide, it would be silly to let the opportunity go. Why can’t you stay another night, Neelam?’

‘I’ve seen what I had to, understood what I had to, Ari,’ said Neelam indifferently. ‘Why don’t you stay? I’m not stopping you. Let me go.’

‘I’ll drive very carefully,’ said Bikram. ‘Neelam Bhabi will have the entire back seat to herself, to sit or to lie down, as she pleases. Nothing to worry about. Besides, Seema will be there. So smart, so resourceful.’

Narrowing his eyes, Bikram patted Aritra on the back. Straightening, Aritra said, ‘Is that what you’d prefer, Neelam?’

Neelam said, ‘It’s much better to go with Seema and Bikram than to travel such a long way alone on buses. I’m going, Mahanam-da. Enjoy the caves, Esha, I got a chance to visit Ajanta thanks to you. I haven’t been here before though we live nearby.’

Neelam opened the car door and got in the back silently. Leaning back, she closed her eyes. Aritra bent over, his arms on the window.

‘Aren’t you feeling well, Neelam?’

‘No, I’m very tired.’

‘You’ve been working too hard, Neelam. Ever since my accident. Your maid merely pays a cursory visit. You must get the bai to do all the work, I insist. And we’ll be back tomorrow.’

In her head Neelam said, you’ll never come back, Aritra. I know. And there’s no need to, either.

Aritra said, ‘Phone Pupu as soon as you get back. Tell her to come home at once. Tell her we missed her a lot.’

Silently Neelam said, you won’t have Pupu anymore, Ari. You have to pay a price too. I’ll get a lot of time with her. Pupu’s exams end tomorrow. Then Pupu and I will fill the empty house with a lot of things to tell each other.

The car left. But the last thing that Aritra had said kept ringing in Neelam’s ears. Pupu, Pupe, who knew how her exams had gone? She’d been away from home only two days. But it felt much longer. Decades. Pupu was standing at a distance she could not bridge. A river flowed between them. What river? What was this river that could not be crossed? Was it the river of forgetting?

The sun didn’t set till seven. There was still a little light. Esha had gone to the shop with the hope of buying souvenirs. She returned disappointed. ‘You’re making a mistake, Esha,’ said Mahanam. ‘The successors to the artists at the temples of Konark or Jagannath still live nearby, the memories of the originals are alive in their hands. You might get a replica of the Yakshi of Konark there. But here, there’s been an interval of thirteen hundred years. It’s all a mystery—who they were, where they went, why they went.’

With a sigh Esha said, ‘Maybe they got their liberation, and now their art is getting its too. The great, ultimate liberation. Is the excess of renunciation in our country the reason for our decline? Buddhadeva not only withdrew from the material world himself, he also made every man with potential in contemporary India do the same. What harm would it have done if his brother Nanda had married Janapadakalyani and ruled the kingdom as Shuddhona’s heir? He made Rahul become a monk too when he was just a boy, on the grounds that he was his father’s property. Couldn’t he have waited? I’ve heard that Ananda was his cousin. I can never consider this penchant among Kshatriyas for becoming a monk as beneficial to people. Chaitanya repeated the same history. What a powerful, cerebral, enlightened, heroic man he was, what an extraordinary blend of valour and knowledge. Could he not have fulfilled his duty to the country, to the nation, to people, with something other than his devotional songs and his trances? In modern times there was Vivekananda, he devoted himself to serving the poor, felt the need for courage. But again there was this gigantic festival across the country of creating monks and seers. So who were the people who remained in every age to create the next generation? The cunning enemies of Buddha, the corrupt Jagai and Madhai, and the decadent babus. And so we keep regressing every single day. Why be surprised that such an India gives birth to weaklings, cowards, traitors, opportunists and malicious people? Bhishma will never return, nor Rama or Lakshman or Bharat or the Pandavas, all of whom gave every drop of their blood for their country and people and society. Think about it, Rama and the Pandavas ruled their kingdoms even after the horror of leaving Sita or the Kurukshetra war—was it not for the sake of their subjects?’

Aritra said, ‘Oh my god! What a lecture! Is this what you tell your students—with such passion? Is the life force of a nation banked with only a handful of people? In that case no real humans should have been born in post-war Europe.’

‘Their poet himself has told us Aritra that post-war Europe was a dead land, that its people were the hollow men. Post-war history belongs not to Europe but to America. But I do not know what magic Germany used to absorb its enormous damage, to overcome the splitting of the country, to stand up again so heroically with its head held high.’

Mahanam said, ‘There can never be only one reason for the degeneration of a country, Esha. India has always accepted defeat against external enemies because of its internal wars—Kauravas versus Pandavas, Ambhi versus Puru, Jaichand versus Prithviraj, Nehru versus Jinnah, and now, in recent time, Bhindranwale, Ghising . . . it goes on and on. Another big reason is the ancient practices of our caste-based social system. The Brahmin will only perform priestly tasks and teach, he will not know how to defend himself. The Vaishya will only be involved in agriculture and trade, he will not learn how to handle weapons. As for the Shudra, the less said the better. So in the event of being attacked, there will be no one but a handful of Kshatriyas to defend the country.’

Esha said, ‘Even the Kshatriyas were taught to lay down their swords. In the Vishwantar Jataka the prince relinquished his weapons. The subjects had reason to be infuriated—they were intelligent.’

‘It wasn’t like this at the beginning, though,’ said Mahanam. ‘Dronacharya, Parasuram, Ashwathama were all merchants of war despite being Brahmins.’

Aritra said, ‘But the Mahabharata spun plenty of tales to establish that they were exceptions.’

‘They could also be the remnants of the original classless society,’ said Mahanam. ‘They acquired the caste system from the Dravidian civilization at Harappa. Before the Aryans came to India, their men, women and children could all use weapons. That was why they could destroy such a well-established Dravidian civilization despite being far less knowledgeable and far more impoverished. But this particular disease of civilized life attacked them too. The women threw down their bows and arrows to take up spoons and ladles. The boys exchanged their sticks for balls. As a result we have so much specialization now that the dentist cannot treat the ear.’

Mahanam jumped to his feet. ‘Give me a few minutes. Let me do my exercises.’ He went into his room, which he was sharing with Aritra. They were talking in Esha’s room. The bed was on one side, and there was a desk and two chairs. Aritra and Mahanam were on the chairs and Esha, on the bed, swinging her legs.

‘Let me ask for some tea or coffee, all right?’ said Aritra.

‘All right,’ said Esha.

When Aritra returned, Esha said, ‘Do you remember Ari how you collected me at Hedua and took me to Mahanamda’s house in Duff Lane as a huge surprise? There was so much trouble and notoriety because Mahanam-da had superseded many of his seniors to become a professor immediately on his return from Oxford. Meanwhile the students were lapping up his lectures. Do you remember how I used to argue with him as an equal even though I was only an immature undergraduate?’

Aritra said, ‘The best moment came when Mahanamda dismissed Rabindranath’s prose, and called Sudhin Dutta’s writing stilted. You asked for an example of good prose, and he quoted from
The Religion of Man
. On the brink of being deceived, you won, jumping to your feet and clapping, saying, “Rabindranath, Rabindranath!” I can still see it.’

‘How angry you were,’ said Esha. ‘Mahanam-da laughed and said no great writer can be rejected in entirety, I think it very artificial to create categories like so-and-so’s prose or so-and-so’s poetry. Think of it this way,
Vasundhara
is marred by too much dialogue,
Ashambhav
is a brilliant opera, the sermonizing in
Gora
is lifeless, the incomparable narrative has lifted
Noukadoobi
from a romance to a novel—what could have become another
Radharani
had almost become a
Chandrashekhar
instead.’

‘You remember everything. How amazing,’ said Aritra.

‘Why shouldn’t I remember Ari, it was Mahanam-da who taught me how to apply the fundamental theories of literary criticism—those things were never taught in class. What do they teach besides the use of some vague terms? I might not agree with him on everything, but it was he who showed me the way. I should have asked Mahanamda whether he’s revised his opinion on “Vasundhara” as a poem and
Sahitya
and
Sahityer Pathey
as prose.’

Aritra said, ‘Judging from the way he was reciting
Meghdoot
, it seems he quite likes emotion and hyperbole in poetry these days. Anyway, are we going to discuss Mahanam-da all the time, Esha? Don’t we have anything to say about ourselves?’

Smiling, Esha recited:

Everywhere in life, in every song, there are things to say
But even after that words hold silence.

Esha had bathed before they had begun talking. She had been exuding a mild fragrance for a long time, as though from the era of Kalidas himself. Her thick hair was untied, billowing. Had she too dried her hair in incense smoke? Her hair as dark as Vidisha’s ancient nights . . .

‘No Esha, if you have indeed come after all these years, I cannot imagine that you have nothing to give me besides silence in words.’

Esha recited:

Perhaps I give, not poetry or song
But the tears of the bird with broken wings
An evening face to face like a massive star
An eternal fragrance
If nothing else, as far as the eye can see
Sunlight on the earth the colour of grain . . .

‘I have given you so much, Aritra. The revival of old memories, forgiveness for an old injustice, imperishable friendship, what more can I give you?’

Aritra was almost on his knees. ‘Please, Esha,’ he said inarticulately.

‘You want more?’ Esha was not smiling. There was sadness in her eyes. Self-absorbed, she said distantly, ‘I give you those silk-cotton trees without leaves or fruits, which shine like lighthouses even in glaring sunlight, I give you the grey dust on this pilgrimage, I give you the strange smile and sorrow on Amitava’s face, neither of which I have understood properly, nor want to. What else do you want?’

Aritra had drawn Esha’s feet, like tender silk-cotton leaves, to his breast—such soft, smooth, generous petals of feet. Rubbing his cheeks against them, Ari smothered them with kisses.

Esha turned stock still. Her eyes and eyebrows held astonishment. Withdrawing her feet roughly, she stood up, saying with anger and disappointment, ‘Go away, Ari. Do you also think like Seema that you can do anything with me just because I am alone?’

‘Why don’t you understand?’ said Ari softly. ‘I have surrendered myself to you, I am surrendering to the first and last love of my life. I will take only as much as you give. You don’t know how much of your life has been deposited with me, Esha. How will you be fulfilled if you don’t have me?’

Esha said, ‘Nothing but a past experience of mine lies with you, Ari. And that experience belongs to me. There is no question of my fulfilling myself by getting something from you. I came away long ago from the truth that existed between us. Try to understand, Ari, for me you’re no different from my girlfriend Piku. There is no difference of gender in our relationship.’

Aritra said, ‘My blood is testifying just the opposite. It couldn’t be this way unless it was mutual. You’re lying, Esha. It’s just that you cannot reject your conditioning.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Esha emphatically. ‘If it had been a case of my conditioning, I would have told you as much. It’s your vanity that won’t let you admit that I have totally outgrown you, Ari. Even with an extraordinarily beautiful and talented wife like Neelam you’re behaving like a beggar with me. How can you? Shame on you, Ari!’

‘Alas, Esha, even with all her beauty and talents added and multiplied, Neelam cannot match up to you. How can I forget you!’

‘Leave the room, Ari,’ said Esha. ‘I’m going to bed now. I’m not enjoying myself anymore, I’m not enjoying any of this. I have made an unpardonable mistake in coming here.’