Authors: Bani Basu
Mahanam’s lecture was scheduled for the first half of the seminar. Only ten minutes had been allocated for questions and answers, which did not prove sufficient. Several students had surrounded him with their queries during lunch. Answering them offered a pleasant opportunity to expand one’s ideas, which Mahanam was enjoying enormously. ‘No, you’re wrong,’ he was saying. ‘It isn’t a matter of which is better. One art form is bound to attack another, especially if the same artist were to use both. The artist’s personality asserts itself, perhaps unknown to him. When Nikhilesh is talking to the village heads in
Home and the World
, the director uses him like a fashion model. He has even arranged the folds of his shawl in perfect layers. Nikhilesh is a little stiff in the scene, as though to maintain the character of a photograph.
Kanchanjangha
,
The Chess Players
,
The Music Room
—all of these are a painter’s films, episodic in structure.’
Chandrashekhar came up to Mahanam, telling him that a Swedish student whose research had brought him here wanted to say something. Turning around, Mahanam discovered a young man with thin blond hair and pale eyes looking at him eagerly. He was studying the social background of Satyajit Ray’s cinema. Chandrashekhar translated his question. ‘In the last sequence of
Home and the World
, Bimala’s attire is gradually transformed into a widow’s garb. The director has presented this as a great tragedy, as though widowhood itself is a tragedy. But Bimala was bound to Nikhilesh only out of a sense of familial and social responsibility, not through a bond of love. Her relationship with Nikhilesh was like that between a mentor and a disciple. Sandeep may have proved a complete failure, but it was he who had aroused both her mind and body. Would it not have been more realistic for Bimala to prepare for larger and wider experiences now?’
Mahanam said, ‘The social context in which Ray’s film is set did not allow widowhood to be reversed. And this was considered a curse. No matter how enlightened a woman might be, she did not have the power to bypass this tradition, or to remain completely untouched by it. The methods for breaking socio-religious barriers are completely unknown to her. Bimala has now lost the entire freedom she could enjoy while a husband as broadminded as Nikhilesh was alive. Widowhood was indeed the ultimate tragedy for Bimala.
‘The other thing you do not seem to have noticed is the subtle change in the relationship between Nikhil and Bimala. What was originally a traditional relationship between a husband and wife, which Nikhil had wanted to be released from during the Sandeep episode, later moved to the turf of personality clash and love. It’s a tragedy of personality and love, not so much for Bimala as for Nikhilesh. This was what Nikhilesh had wanted. This clear-eyed way of seeing things. To establish themselves alongside events in the world and other people, and to understand themselves through comparisons and contrasts. And that is just what happens. But Bimala’s lapse during the Sandeep episode caused more pain to Nikhilesh than he could have ever imagined. And so he chooses the path of suicide.’
Johann said, ‘Then I must say Nikhilesh is not entirely free of orthodoxy.’
‘Of course he’s not. We bear orthodoxy in our blood. We can keep it at bay with our intellect, but the moment we are in emotional territory it raises its head.’
‘So Nikhilesh punishes Bimala,’ said Johann.
‘Very perceptive of you. Of course he does. After all, no one knows better than him how strong the socio-religious chains of widowhood are. But it is difficult to say how much of it is conscious. Nikhilesh is in fact the most complex character in the film. His final decision includes the desire to take revenge on Bimala as a spurned lover, the bravado to prove his superiority as a husband over his rival, and even the heartfelt wish as a landowner to take the responsibility for maintaining peace.’
Johann’s next question: ‘In
Days and Nights in the Forest
Ray depicts another widow, whose husband has committed suicide in a foreign country for some unknown reason, and who now lives with her dead husband’s family. In the desolate area of the forest where they live, she offers herself to one of four friends—all strangers to her—visiting them. What prevents the man from accepting her? He has already displayed his interest in the woman. His behaviour now is utterly inhuman. Why doesn’t the director show them sleeping together, Godard certainly would have.’
Mahanam smiled. ‘Three-fourths of what is observed in the society and culture of our country is accepted by our art. It would be unrealistic otherwise. What is shown in this film is that the physical purity of upper class women in our country cannot be defiled easily, unlike the case of the adivasi woman which is depicted alongside.’
‘Not even if the woman wants it?’
‘No, not even if the woman wants it. Secondly, the young man is not at all ready to accept the woman, no matter how much he flirts with her. There are certain implications of accepting a woman of her status, which the young man is quite aware of. On top of which, there is his natural inhibition.’
‘Why, because she is a widow?’
Mahanam seemed to falter.
Johann said, ‘So what you’re saying is that, even in the fifty or sixty years since 1905, Indian society has not become remotely progressive about widowhood. This man is selfish, incapable of shouldering a responsibility, which includes sexual impotence.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Mahanam. ‘But had he surrendered to the moment, we would have called him even more selfish.’
‘How strange,’ said Johann. His pen raced over the pages of his notebook. Heaven knew what sort of trial he would subject Indian society to.
Turning to Chandrashekhar, Mahanam said, ‘Do you see how differences in social systems create a gulf of difference in perspectives, Shekhar? That’s why they could not accept
The Goddess
despite its being such a good film. Long mental conditioning has come in the way of savouring art. And besides, Shekhar, I think there are some eternal values in human relationships, where we have retained some of the basics.’
‘Eternal values? I don’t get it,’ said Chandrashekhar.
‘Take our natural compassion for victims. That’s an eternal value, isn’t it? But in
Days and Nights in the Forest
we did not view the deprived wife with compassion. She has been treated as an eccentric rather than a pathetic figure.’
‘Explain, please.’
‘What is
Days and Nights in the Forest
? An excursion into the unfamiliar, the bizarre. Four friends are visiting a secluded forest region as a break from boredom. Nature, the people, and their ways are all unfamiliar to them. Not just unfamiliar, but odd, unsettling. We are being deeply unfair to the widow by considering her a part of this unsettling atmosphere. You understand? We are presenting her natural desire for love as a freak illness. That’s why Johann as a human being feels revolted.’
As he left the auditorium, Mahanam remembered his aunt Kasturi, who was married at fourteen and widowed at fifteen. That was when her father came to his senses. He had faithfully performed the task of protecting his daughter from the sympathy of relatives and the possessive love of her property-hungry in-laws, ensuring that she got an education and went abroad. His aunt used to say, ‘Not everyone is as lucky.’ The foundations of Mahanam’s attitude towards people were formed by her. This same aunt died of a sudden heart attack at fifty-five. Without any warning. Whatever other problems she may have had, her heart and brain had always been sound.
She returned from the nursing home in the afternoon, rinsing her hands and arms at the basin, covering them with soap and antiseptic up to the elbows. Her apron hung from a hook in the wall. Yagneshwar brought her some shorbot, grumbling under his breath. A few slices of cucumber, a boiled egg. Some pomegranate and cold milk. This was her afternoon meal. But today she had asked for only a glass of shorbot, which meant she would not eat anything more. Which was why Joggeshwar was infuriated.
‘Has anyone ever grown rich on food?’ she was asking, laughing. She had sat down on the sofa with the glass. Mahanam was at the other end with his book. Suddenly the glass fell from her hand, shattering on the floor. When he looked up, startled, she said, ‘My hand turned numb.’ Still grumbling, Joggeshwar said, ‘I’ll make you another glass at once. Don’t fall asleep.’ Her sleep was custom made. After her meal she would lean back in the sofa for exactly twenty minutes, silent and still. She knew all the rules of resting. When an hour had passed Mahanam called out to her—‘It’s time to eat, Kasturi Debi.’ She didn’t wake up. ‘Time to wake up, Mashi.’ She didn’t wake up. Mahanam nudged her, Kasturi slumped to one side. Mahanam understood at once. It really had been time for her to go.
But how had he felt? As though someone was missing, something was missing? Here a moment ago, but gone now. An emptiness. How often did he meet his aunt anyway, once he had left the hostel and moved back home? At ten at night, at seven in the morning, and from one to two in the afternoon. They would chat for a while at night. Of late Mahanam had begun to spend those hours with his books. Even if there had been an emptiness, the whirlwind that followed sucked everything in. His aunt’s distant relatives opposed her will. The seasoned solicitor from her father’s era said, ‘Why are you causing trouble, my friends? The cash was all earned by Kasturi Mitra herself, it has long been transferred to Mahanam Roy’s account. The house was built with the money earned by Kasturi’s father, who had bequeathed it unconditionally to his only child. There’s nothing you can touch.’
Then came Trinity College at Oxford, Professor Decker, friends and lovers. There was no time for emptiness. He returned from his sojourn abroad four years later, after travelling through all of Europe. The same Joggeshwar, the same marble floor with black and white squares. Wardrobes with enormous mirrors, walls with mouldings, chandeliers. Under the chandeliers, crowds of students.
They thronged to him in large numbers. Esha wasn’t supposed to be among them. She was new to the college, studying in the undergraduate classes. But she didn’t consider her rights any less than anyone else’s. Mahanam could not get away with ambiguous statements. Why weren’t ‘smooth as silk’ or ‘hammer and tongs’ considered clichés? Why shouldn’t ‘a mile of peace and quiet’ or ‘as swift as the legs of a deer’ be considered mixed metaphors? What sort of comparison was ‘people worked in a group like election ballots’? Couldn’t the phrase ‘nature’s boudoir’ have been avoided? She posed questions like these with an expression that suggested they were matters of life and death.
Poetry searched for its own articulation in a frenzy, it was pervaded by subtle irony from time to time, it was busy trying to awaken its slumbering audience with bursts of flippancy concealed in its gravity, it inevitably considers the vocabulary of its own language insufficient and acquires words from all known languages—Mahanam had devoted his time to explaining all this to her. He had to promise to help her read world literature. Or else Esha grew miserable.
Suddenly Mahanam asked, ‘Your friend, that boy. How is he?’
‘He’s very well.’
‘That’s a myth. He’s not very well at all. A ragged philosopher, doesn’t comb his hair, wears rumpled clothes, he’s a sulphur patient.’
Chandrashekhar was going into town for his survey, he would be there all day. He dropped Mahanam on his way. ‘You won’t find Chowdhury at home unless you get there early,’ he had said. ‘Though I’m not sure whether he has rejoined his office yet.’ Mahanam would have preferred to have gone in the evening. Visiting people at home in the morning meant bothering them. But there might be other guests in the evening, and Mahanam felt no urge to meet anyone, especially strangers, besides Aritra and Neelam. Even Chandrashekhar had said, ‘They might be calling on someone in the evening, the Chowdhury couple is extremely sociable.’ Mahanam bid Chandrashekhar goodbye on the main road. He walked around the corner, as though this was the preface to the main story or article. Savouring this preface, Mahanam came to a halt in front of the B block. It was Saturday, nearly 8.30 in the morning. He had rushed to get hold of Aritra Chowdhury. He wished he had more time. There was a small lawn in front of the house. Three wicker chairs, a stool, and a folding table of steel. A cushion lying on the grass. There must have been crumbs on the ground, for several crows were pecking away. Ari Chowdhury was the perfect householder, he took care of cats and crows too. Mahanam surveyed the entire house. Some birds had built nests here, having flown from one horizon to another, from one sanctuary to another. He needn’t have come. A few questions answered, mysteries unravelled . . . but could all questions even be answered? Mahanam was not vain enough to presume he could solve every mystery in his life. Since it concerned the human factor rather than mathematics. Possibly the birds were thinking of him as a falcon or owl or something equally predatory. Let them—he had no wish at this moment to inform them that he was nothing of the kind. What was wrong with a little apprehension, a little infatuation? It wasn’t bad at all. Till such time as one could become truly free of attachment, anger, fear and rage, a little anxiety in daily life was useful. Else the level of anarchy rose. Climbing up the two steps leading to the veranda, Mahanam pressed the bell next to the maroon door. Barely had it rung when the door opened. Esha stood before him. Dressed in a sky-blue sari with white dots, and a thin black shawl, tucking in wisps of hair that had escaped on either side of her face, she opened the door of Aritra’s house. Mahanam had never had a bigger surprise in his life. Esha stood facing him, silent with wonder. Neither Neelam nor Aritra had remembered to tell her that Mahanam was here. They had been busy with Esha herself, so busy that they had even forgotten the momentous news of Mahanam’s arrival. Aritra might even have secretly hoped that Mahanam would not show up.
‘Dare I believe my eyes?’ said Mahanam. ‘You
are
Esha?’
‘So it seems.’
‘Not a doppelganger? Or a twin I didn’t know about? Like they have in the movies . . .’
Esha laughed. Mahanam had placed one foot inside the room. ‘I’m not part of a science fiction story, am I?’ he said. ‘The gates of this house don’t lead back to 1969, do they? O woman, if thou art Esha, how couldst thou appear as the Esha of the 1970s in 1988 without science fiction . . .’
Esha said, ‘I’m tired of hearing this, Mahanam-da. Those who keep moving cannot be touched by time easily, it loses the race to them, and besides, you haven’t changed much either.’
Touching his sideburns and running his hand through his beard pointedly, Mahanam said, ‘
Thodi daari pakka, thodi aur kachha, wohi aadmi sachha, wohi aadmi sachha.
Salt and pepper in his hair, that’s the man whose heart is clear. Now tell me what’s going on. The other night it was Neelam who came out, and this morning it’s you. Has Aritra married both of you, then?’
Unable to contain herself, Esha laughed loudly. The sound of the laughter reached the bathroom, from which Aritra emerged in surprise. He had been shaving, a towel draped around his shoulders. Neelam came out of the kitchen with a tin of spices in her hand, and Pupu from the study, parting the curtains.
Mahanam towered over everyone on this side of the room. A giant of a man in a sparkling white kurta-pyjama. And then there was Pupu on the other side, almost as tall as her father. An extraordinary young woman five feet nine inches of height.
‘Perfect,’ said Mahanam. ‘Your clarion call has brought all the actors out one by one, Esha. Three of the faces are familiar to me, though I’m having to strain my eyes a little to recognize some of them. Introduce me to the fourth.’
Putting his arm around Pupu, practically encircling her, Aritra said, ‘This is Pupu. Samidhha Chowdhury. My only child. She’s studying architecture. Pupu, this is the famous Dr Mahanam Roy. History, sociology, literature, art, mathematics—I’m not entirely sure which of them is actually his subject. You could call him the Aristotle of modern India, although he knows very little about your subject.’
Pupu was staring at Mahanam in surprise. Neelam could see her staring, Mahanam could see that Neelam had turned pale.
Pupu greeted Mahanam, saying, ‘Have I met you somewhere, professor? I must have.’
Mahanam said, ‘Did you by any chance go to the lectures at the film institute or at Max Müller Bhavan last week? I don’t think that’s likely.’
‘No, but I have never seen a face so familiar. Excuse me, I’m going to the market.’ Pupu seemed to be talking in a trance.
‘I’m ready,’ said Esha. ‘Just a minute, let me get the shopping bags. We’ll be back soon Mahanam-da, don’t go away.’
Entering the kitchen to get the bags, Esha found Neelam weeping silently. Weeping while she pretended to wash the dishes at the sink. Fat tears fell from her eyes, soaking everything.
‘What’s this Neelam, what are you doing?’ whispered Esha. ‘Don’t cry, everything will be all right.’
Hurrying out through the back door, Esha sat pillion behind Pupu on the scooter, which sputtered around the side of the house and rolled down the slope leading away from the portico outside the open front door. At top speed, Pupu sat in front, in trousers and a baggy shirt, her hair cut short, astonishment frozen in her wide eyes, frowning slightly. She was holding the handles tightly, as though determined not to let them slip out of her grasp. Pupu was going away to a distant land on a winged horse. The sorceress sat behind her, having promised to help her in a crisis. Would Pupu need help?
Aritra said a little belligerently, ‘Please sit down, Mahanam-da. How long do you want to keep standing?’
Taking a seat, Mahanam asked directly, ‘Is she mine?’
Aritra was reddening. Contemptuously he said, ‘The seed might be yours, but she’s my daughter.’
‘I’ve never seen such an uncanny resemblance,’ said Mahanam. ‘It’s like looking at myself in the mirror. Did Neelam think about me all the time during her pregnancy? If that were so why did she go away?’
Emerging from the kitchen, Neelam said, ‘Suppose the girl IS yours. Are you going to uproot her and take her away, or will you shout it from the rooftops? Which of these do you want?’
‘Just a minute. Everything’s become entangled. Let me unravel the knots one by one. So you are virtually admitting that she’s mine. Aritra has brought her up for so many years, with so much affection, that he could easily say that the seed may be mine but the daughter is his. In other words, he has been a loving father. I can tell by looking at you that you’re happy, Neelam, in fact there has been an excess of happiness. No, I will certainly not take Samiddha away, but she is an expression of myself. I don’t think anyone who sees the two of us together will have the slightest doubt about whose child she is. Alas, Aritra, it appears that the lord has played a massive joke on you. And you’re bearing the joke like a fool. Why have you dressed her like a boy? The resemblance is even more obvious.’
‘She prefers to dress this way,’ said Neelam succinctly.
Mahanam said, ‘Thankfully she doesn’t have a beard, that’s the only saving grace. Now what is the way out?’
‘The only way out is for you to leave,’ said Aritra curtly. ‘The sooner the better. Leave Pune.’
Shaking his head, Mahanam said, ‘Once upon a time you did not observe the courtesy of a guest, today you aren’t observing the duty of a host either. I expected as much, more or less. But what you’re saying isn’t possible, Aritra. I have a fixed schedule, I cannot inconvenience myself for the sake of your small convenience. But I’d better not appear among your acquaintances. They have invited me to a literary meet for Bengalis, I’ll tell Shekhar to turn them down. But where did Esha come from? All my lost treasures seem to be in your grasp. By what magic? Have you turned into a yaksha or something?’
‘There must be some magic,’ said Aritra, ‘which is beyond you.’
The doorbell rang, and Aritra hurried to open the door. It was the lady from the flat upstairs. The bulb in the passage was fused, she had something to say about it.
At once Mahanam turned his back on her and became very busy stuffing his pipe with tobacco. When the lady had left he turned to Neelam with a smile. ‘One can’t see one’s back. Can you check whether I look like Samiddha from the back?’
Resuming his seat, Aritra said, ‘Yes, it’s important to consider what people will think. But your moustache and beard will make the resemblance less obvious. I’m thinking of Pupu. What if she guesses?’
Neelam, who had been sitting with her head in her hands, said, ‘That’s what I was thinking too.’
Mahanam said, ‘There’s not much to think about. She knows already.’
Neelam’s face was drained of colour ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Aritra, agitated.
‘I know what I’m saying. Samiddha knows that she has a deep relationship with me. She’s not only extremely intelligent, her intuition is mature too. I have created a miracle. Aritra, I hope you will not prevent me from enjoying, not my right, but the joy of such creation.’
Neelam gazed steadily at Mahanam. His sideburns had greyed a little, so had his hair and beard. A man of unusually powerful build. And yet his eyes were big and distant. His most prominent feature was his nose. Thin, fragile, not like a human’s. It was this nose and those eyes that had captivated Neelam. Her mother had deposited her at the hostel. Her local guardian was her mother’s friend’s son. Dubbed Aristotle by students, part mockingly, part reverentially. Neelam Joshi couldn’t sleep nights unless she visited Mahanam-da every day for Aristotelian wisdom.
Those were the days of shoreless seas. How long had it taken Mahanam to identify the besotted creature? Women themselves didn’t know the weapons they used in different ways to enchant the man of their desires. Neelam had wielded all of them, holding nothing back. Her quiver held as many arrows as her ten hands did missiles. Smiles flowered on intimate summer afternoons. The skilled archer struck every target in her body with his arrows. Surrender in her breath. If Mahanam was absorbed in her, Neelam lost herself completely, entranced, mesmerized. Mahanam had not hypnotized her knowingly, Neelam’s fate had played this game with her. Two enchantments were bound to lead to the ultimate union. Neelam could still see two enormous eyes poised over her face, the nostrils flared, suddenly Mahanam’s mouth descends on hers. This way, exactly this way, Pupu was conceived, amidst entrancement and captivation, although it was doubtful whether Pupu’s own personality had the ability to be enchanted.
Seeing Neelam shiver, Aritra said, ‘It’s chilly, Neelam, use a cotton shawl or something.’
‘Who knows whether she’s shivering with cold or trembling in delight, Ari,’ said Mahanam, smiling.
Aritra looked grim. Mahanam was trying to prove that no matter how anxious Neelam’s husband might be for her health, he knew her more intimately.
‘I’ll get you a cup of tea, Mahanam-da,’ said Neelam, springing to her feet. ‘You must have lunch with us today.’
Mahanam said, ‘I had an enormous breakfast, with two or three cups of tea. No more tea for me, Neelam. All right, make me a light lemon tea.’
Aritra was surprised. Neelam had invited Mahanam of her own accord, without even checking with him—the same Mahanam whose name could well turn out to be Mahakal, or death. Having lunch meant spending a long time here. Esha would return, they would chat, Pupu would return, would Mahanam chat with her too? Not only was Saturday ruined, but there would now be a layer of anxiety on top of it.
‘Play some music, Aritra,’ said Mahanam.
‘Why this sudden desire for music?’
Laughing, Mahanam said, ‘When discomfited hosts have nothing to say and feel the need to conceal this foolish silence with words, they usually put on some music. Jagjit Singh or Ghulam Ali or Anup Jalota or whatever you like. Guzzle on ghazals, or give us a vision of bhajans.’
‘Are you taunting me, Mahanam-da?’ asked Aritra hotly. ‘I’ve long gone past the age of tolerating taunts.’
Mahanam said, ‘Look my friend, if it comes to that, the relationship between us is such that we could easily fight a French duel. My exercise chart will tell you what the outcome will be. Even without the chart, my physique alone makes it clear. But there’s no need for all that. Do you know where philosophers triumph over poets? Philosophers can see through poets clearly when they try to win women over with flattery. I shan’t lie, if you hold on to Neelam, not even the most adroit thief can take her away. But you have a big problem, for you resort to lies far too often. Poets already have the licence to tell enchanting untruths, but by resorting to much lower lies you have proved yourself worthy of my hatred. What did you tell Neelam to keep her from trusting me even in her crisis? Look, Aritra, I don’t like considering a rival as a hateful person, can’t you help me get rid of my loathing? I’m too old to live with hatred now.’
Trying his utmost to restrain himself, Aritra said, ‘Are you demanding an explanation about Neelam? After all these years? Because you were my teacher once and I gained considerably as a result, I’m not responding to your insult. Any further and we’ll have to go to court.’
Mahanam said, ‘It’s defamation only when the accusation is false. You know very well that I told the truth about your lying. You used a heap of lies to snatch Neelam away from me, and another pile of falsehoods to prevent Esha from getting closer to me. What exactly were these lies?’