Read He: (Shey) (Modern Classics (Penguin)) Online
Authors: Rabindranath Tagore
He: (Shey) (Modern Classics (Penguin)) (12 page)
‘What’s your body like, Dadamashai?’
‘I won’t tell you. The scriptures condemn vanity.’
‘Dadamashai, why did you stop telling me stories about He?’
‘Let me explain. Idleness is the highest state of heavenly bliss. The Indra
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who reigns above, luxuriously sipping nectar, with his thousand eyelids drooping, is the God of Storytelling. I used to worship him once, but now I find myself unable even to enter his courts. I’ve stopped receiving my share of the holy food of fiction.’
‘Why?’
‘I once forgot the way.’
‘How?’
The heavenly river Suradhuni that flows through the celestial city of Amaravati cradles the abode of the gods. But its ebb tide reveals another heaven. Dense black smoke from factory chimneys billows like a flag in the sky. That’s the Paradise of Labour. Lord Vishwakarma presides there, resplendent in workers’ shorts. One autumn morning, I was walking along the street carrying a plate of sheuli flowers for morning worship, when a priest’s agent descended upon me on a bicycle. His satchel was bulging with notebooks, and I could see two fountain pens—one with red ink in it, the other with black—sticking out of his pocket. Bundles of newspaper clippings sprouted from the pockets of his China-coat. The watch on his right wrist was set to Standard Time, the one on his left to Calcutta Time. His bag was stuffed with railway timetables, for the EIR and EBR, ABR and NWR, BNR, BBR and SIR.
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In his breast pocket was a notebook-cum-diary.
‘What hell-pit are you off to today, with your face turned up to the heavens?’ he demanded of me.
‘Don’t be angry, Panda-ji,’ I pleaded. ‘I’m going to offer prayers in the temple, but I can’t find the way.’
‘I suppose you’re one of that head-in-the-air, can’t-find-theway crew?’ he scolded. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the way.’
He dragged me off to the temple of Lord Vishwakarma. I was given no chance to protest. Before I could open my mouth, he commanded, ‘Put down that plate of flowers here and fork out your offering. Five quarter-rupees.’
I performed the puja like an idiot. He immediately copied down the accounts in his notebook. Then he glanced at one of his wristwatches and declared, ‘All right, your work’s done. I don’t have much time now. Scoot!’
From the very next day, I began to notice the fruit of my devotions. It was half past four in the morning. I woke up with a start, thinking robbers had broken in. But it was only the Society for the Protection of Orphans. The members had rounded up twenty-five boys, all between the ages of twelve and thirteen, who were standing at the door, singing loudly:
Your stomachs you stuff
With more than enough,
In your pockets you stash
Your bundles of cash,
But add up the due,
You’ll find that it’s true
That of your reserve,
The orphans deserve
The larger share,
And love and fond care.
So arise and awake
For the orphans’ sake.
O, give to the poor; help lessen their pain—
O, give to the poor and give once again!
Yelling this refrain, they gave the khol
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a number of tremendous whacks. The more I tried to reckon in my head how much money I had left, the more fiercely the beat assaulted my ears. Someone picked up the rhythm with a pair of castanets, and the boys struck up a jig. The din grew unbearable. I unlocked the safe and took out my money-bag. Their leader, sporting a week-old stubble, eagerly stretched out a sheet down below. On being shaken, the bag yielded exactly one rupee, nine annas and three paise. The month was all but over, and I had only just managed to save this money to pay the tailor’s bill.
The music gave way to abuse. ‘Sitting pretty on your pots of money, with your feet up on a feather bed!’ they yelled. ‘Remember this, the day you die, you millionaires will be worth no more than us beggars in our rags!’
The harangue was old stuff, but being called a millionaire sent a spasm of rage through me.
That was just the beginning. Since then, I’ve been elected to no less than twenty-five committees. I’ve become the certified president of all societies in Bengal: the Society for the Revival of Ancient Indian Music, the Society for Eradication of the Pond-Choking Water Hyacinth, the Society for the Cremation of the Dead, the Society for the Improvement of Literature, the Society for the Unification of the Three Poets Chandidas,
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the Society for the Reform of Trade in Sugar-cane Fibres, the Society for the Reclamation of Khana’s Lost Homestead at Khanyan,
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the Society for the Improvement of Conditions in Homes for Aged Cattle, the Society for the Protection of Whiskers and Reduction of Barber’s Bills—I have become a distinguished member of all these. I have been requested to write a preface to a treatise on tetanus, to pronounce my opinion on modern mathematical textbooks, to bestow my blessings upon the book
The Identification of Bhavabhuti’s Birthplace at Bhubandanga
,
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to find a name for the infant daughter of the forest officer at Rawalpindi, to sing the praises of a particular brand of shaving soap,
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and to recount my personal experience of medicines for lunatics.
‘Dadamashai, you talk so much nonsense for no reason at all that no one ever believes you when you say you don’t have the time for something. Today you simply have to tell me what He did when he got his body back.’
‘He was immensely pleased and rushed off to Dumdum.’
‘Dumdum!’
‘You see, our He has got his ears back after quite a while. Now he just can’t get over his urge to hear every bit of sound for himself. He pricks up his ears at Shyambazar crossing: he delights in the rumble of buses and trams. He’s befriended the guard at the Titagarh jute mill, who lets him sit in his room for hours on end, listening to the grinding of the machines. The noise almost lulls him to sleep. He takes a snack of aloo dum and rosogollas with him in a paper bag, to eat at the workshop of the Baron Company’s blacksmith. The British troops have marched to Dumdum for target practice. It was the booming of their guns that he was listening to, sitting comfortably behind the targets. Unable to restrain his excitement, he poked out his face, caught a bullet in the head—and that was it.’
‘That was what, Dadamashai?’
‘That was that—meaning all my stories about him are quite finished.’
‘No, no, that simply can’t happen. You’re trying to dodge me. All the stories in the world could end that way.’
‘And so they do.’
‘Not this story. What happened after that?’
‘After he was dead? You can’t be serious.’
‘Yes, after he was dead.’
‘I see you’ve become quite the Savitri
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of myth.’
‘No, you can’t fob me off with all that. Tell me what happened next.’
‘Very well. They say that once you’re dead, nothing can hurt you. Let me prove to you that even when you’re dead, you’re not safe. The army surgeon, a famous man, was in his tent. When he heard that the poor fellow was dead of a bullet in the skull, he leapt up and let out a joyful “Hurrah!” ’
‘Why was he pleased?’
‘He said, “Now we can experiment with a brain transplant.” ’
‘How can you transplant a brain?’
‘It’s a feat of science. He sent for a gorilla from the zoo, and extracted its brain. Then he cranked open our man’s skull, put in the gorilla’s grey matter and kept the head bound up in plaster of lime for fifteen days. The skull became whole once again. But when our He got off his bed—what a nightmare! He bared his teeth at anyone he saw and chattered excitedly. The nurse took to her heels. The great doctor seized his patient’s hands in an iron grip and thundered, ‘Now sit here quietly and behave yourself!’ He understood the bellow, but not the language. He didn’t want to sit on the couch: he was determined to jump onto the table. But he couldn’t manage the leap, and fell on the floor with a bump. The door was open; there was an ashvatthva tree outside. Dodging all his captors, he made a bolt for the tree. He imagined he’d be among the branches in a single bound. He kept making wild springs at it, and falling down heavily each time he tried. His failure bewildered him. He began working himself into a rage. His frantic leaps sent the boys of the medical college into gales of mirth. He kept baring his teeth and making little rushes at them. One of the Anglo-Indian students was sitting under a tree with his legs stretched out, enjoying a snack of bread and butter with bananas, laid out neatly on a napkin. Our He pounced on the unsuspecting fellow and snatched away his fruit. The youth lost his temper and tried to hit him. Meanwhile, his friends couldn’t stop their guffaws.
There was great consternation when it came to deciding who should take charge of him. Some were all for sending him to the zoo, others advised the orphanage. The zookeeper objected, ‘We can’t keep humans here.’ The superintendent of the orphanage demurred, ‘Our rules won’t allow a monkey to be kept here.’
‘Dadamashai, why did you stop?’
‘Didimani, at the absolute end of absolutely everything in this world of ours, there comes a stop.’
‘No, this can’t have stopped yet. Anybody could snatch a banana and eat it.’
‘I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow. I have work to do today.’
‘Do tell me what’s going to happen tomorrow. Just a little bit.’
‘You know our He has received a proposal of marriage, don’t you? Well, the bride’s family haven’t heard that his brain’s been exchanged. They’ve settled the day and hour of the wedding. The groom’s uncle cooled him down with two enormous bunches of bananas, and led him to the venue for the wedding. And after that—when I describe to you the pandemonium that followed, you’ll be forced to acknowledge that it’s a story indeed. We won’t need to kill him off after that. He’ll be beyond death.’
It was evening, and I was sitting on the terrace, enjoying the southerly breeze. It was shukla chaturthi, the fourth evening of the bright phase of the moon, and the moon was shining radiantly. Pupu-didi had brought with her a wreath of akanda flowers on a glass platter. After the story, I was to receive my reward.
Meanwhile, He arrived, out of breath. He said, ‘Today I’m resigning from my job of finding matter for your stories. I didn’t say anything when you dressed me in that ganja-addict Patu’s skin. But I can’t have you putting an ape’s brain in my skull. Who knows what you’ll do next? Perhaps you’ll turn me into a fruit bat, or a lizard, or a dung beetle. I’d believe you capable of anything. Today, when I sat down in my chair at the office, what did I find on my desk? A bunch of yellow bananas. Normally I’m not averse to a few bananas. But now I see I’ll have to give up eating bananas altogether. Pupu-didi, if this grandfather of yours turns me into a Brahmin ogre or a headless spectre next, make sure the tale doesn’t get into print. I’ve already received a visit from my father-in-law-to-be. He’d promised me eighty tolas of gold as his daughter’s dowry; now it’s come down to thirteen. They know I’ll find it difficult to get another bride, after what you’ve done to my reputation. So now I’m off, and a very good bye to you.’
IT WAS EVENING, AND I WAS SITTING IN THE SOUTHERN COURTYARD. THE stars were invisible, hidden behind a screen of venerable rain trees. Alive with fireflies, their branches seemed to wink a hundred jewel-bright eyes at me.
I remarked to Pupu-didi, ‘Your wits are ripening rather precociously, so today I think I’ll remind you that at one time you too were young.’
Didi laughed. ‘You win there. I can’t remind you that at one time, you were young as well.’
I sighed. ‘Probably no one can any longer. Only the stars in the sky can bear witness to my forgotten childhood. But enough about me—let me tell you a story of your own past childishness. I don’t know if you’ll enjoy it, but I’ll find it sweet.’
‘Very well, go on.’
I think it was the month of Phalgun.
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For the past few days, that Kishori Chatto,
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with his shiny bald head, had been entertaining you with stories from the
Ramayana.
One morning as I sat reading a newspaper and sipping tea, you arrived, wide-eyed.
I exclaimed, ‘What’s the matter?’
You gasped, ‘I’ve been kidnapped!’
‘Great heavens! Who could have committed this nefarious deed?’
You hadn’t yet thought up an answer to that. You could have said it was Ravana,
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but since that wouldn’t have been true, you felt a twinge of misgiving. In the story you’d been told the previous evening, Ravana had been killed in battle—not one of his ten heads had survived. Not seeing a way out, you replied, ‘He told me to keep it a secret.’
‘Now you’ve created a problem. How am I to rescue you now? Which way did he take you?’
‘Oh, through an unknown country.’
‘It wasn’t Khandesh, was it?’
‘No.’
‘Not Bundelkhand?’
‘No.’
‘What kind of a country was it?’
‘It had rivers and mountains and big trees. In some parts it was dark, in others there was light.’