He (Shey)

  Sukumar went off for his lesson with the tutor. Before going, he warned me, ‘I’m not done talking to you yet.’

  I answered, ‘Can a talk ever come to an end? Where’s the fun, in that case?’

  ‘My lesson gets over at five. Will you come then, Dadamashai?’

  ‘After a session with the Third Class Reader, a first-class story is just what’s needed to refresh the taste. I’ll come,’ I promised.

  * * *

  62Phalgun: the eleventh month of the Bengali year (mid-February to mid-March).

  63Kishori Chatto: an employee of the Tagore household in Rabindranath’s own childhood, here imagined as belonging to Pupe’s times. Chatto is a short form of the surname Chattopadhyay or Chatterjee.

  64Ravana: the ten-headed demon-king whom Rama defeated in the Ramayana.

  65 In Bengali folk tales, the dark patches on the moon are often said to be in the shape of a rabbit.

  66Lord Brahma’s zoo: presumably the entire animal kingdom, which was created by Lord Brahma, creator of the universe.

  67Byangama: a mythical bird who, with his mate Byangami, often features in Bengali fairy tales.

  68Jatayu: a mythical bird. In the Ramayana, Jatayu carried to Rama the news of Sita’s abduction by Ravana.

  69Chhatrapati: a title often used by kings, most famously by the Maratha hero Shivaji. It refers to the royal umbrella and therefore suits Sukumar’s umbrella-horse.

  11

  I SIGHTED THE TUTOR AT THE END OF THE LANE, EVIDENTLY WAITING FOR A tram. When I went back to Sukumar’s house, it was half past five. The three-storey house opposite was shrouded in the glow of approaching twilight. I arrived to find Sukumar sitting silently in front of the room on the rooftop. Chhatrapati was resting in a corner of the terrace. The sound of my feet as I climbed the back stairs did not reach his ears. After a while I called, ‘Prince!’ He started, as if waking from a dream.

  I asked, ‘What are you thinking about, old fellow?’

  He answered, ‘The parrot and his mate.’70

  ‘Now, where did you catch sight of them?’

  ‘Away in the distance, where you see forests cloaking the hills. The branches are laden with flowers—yellow, red and blue, like clouds at sunset. From the depths of the branches come the voices of the parrot and his mate.’

  ‘You can see them, can’t you?’

  ‘I can, but only partly. They’re half-hidden by the leaves.’

  ‘Well, what are they saying?’

  This landed our prince in some difficulty. He said uncertainly, ‘Please, Dadamashai, you tell me what they are saying.’

  ‘Why, I can hear them quite clearly. They’re arguing.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The parrot is saying, “I’m going to fly away now.” His mate asks, “Where will you fly to?” The parrot answers, “To a place where they say there’s nothing, nothing but flying. And you’ll come with me.”

  ‘But his mate objects, “I love this forest; here, the passion-flower vines twine round the branches, clambering higher and higher; here one finds the fruits of the banyan. When the silk-cotton flowers bloom in this forest, I like to squabble over the honey with the crows. Here, at night, fireflies cast a shimmering veil over that clump of kamranga bushes; and in the monsoon, when the rain comes down in steady torrents, the coconut palms sway and their fronds brush against each other. What can one find in all your sky?” The parrot answers, “My sky holds both dawn and dusk, it holds the stars of midnight and the coming and going of the southerly breezes, and sheer emptiness—nothing, nothing at all.”

  Sukumar asked, ‘How can there be nothing at all, Dadamashai?’

  ‘That’s exactly the question his mate is asking at this moment.’

  ‘What does the parrot say to that?’

  ‘The parrot replies that the sky’s most priceless treasure is this nothing-at-all. “It’s this nothing-at-all that calls to me at dawn. I pine for it as we build our nest in these woods. This nothingat-all frolics in a riot of colours in the blue pastures of the sky. When the month of Magh is about to end, messages inviting the honeybees to come swarm along its tossing scarf and are carried swiftly on their way. The bees hear the call and stir joyfully.”’

  Sukumar leapt to his feet in enthusiasm. ‘It’s along the paths of nothingness that I must ride my horse,’ he declared.

  ‘Of course. Pupu-didi’s abduction begins and ends in those magic fields.’

  Sukumar clenched his fist. ‘I’ll bring her back through them, I swear I’ll bring her back.’

  ‘So you see, don’t you, Pupu-didi?—The prince is quite ready, your rescue shan’t be delayed. By now, his steed is testing its wings on the terrace.’

  You flared up. ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘What a thing to say! Until you’re rescued from this grave danger, how can we be at peace?’

  ‘I’ve been rescued already.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear it? Just a little while ago, a Bell-Ear returned me to you.’

  ‘When did all this happen?’

  ‘Why, just as he rang nine peals on his bells.’

  ‘What kind of Bell-Ear was he?’

  ‘The fierce kind. Soon it’ll be time to go to school. That’s why his bells sounded so horrible.’

  The story was thus broken off betimes. I should have hunted out some other prince. After all, this wasn’t the kind of adding and taking-away one does in arithmetic: you couldn’t bear the thought that the best boy in the class should have the audacity to cross the enchanted field of Tepantar.I’d already made up my mind to catch a hundred thousand of the crickets that haunt the undergrowth around our lotus pond. In huge swarms, they’d fly right through the west-facing windows of Uncle Moon’s palace of sleep and tug at your bed sheet. Gently, they’d lower you onto it. Their droning would lull the watchman who guards the moon to sleep. I’d coax a band of torch-bearing fireflies to light your way. The crickets would carry you down a path through the bamboo grove; the dry leaves strewn over the ground would rustle and sigh. The fronds of the coconut palm would shudder and brush against each other. As you passed through the scented mustard-fields and reached Tirpurni's Ghat,71 I would lure Mother Ganga's own makara72 to me with a bushel of the best paddy and put you on his back. The water would break into gurgling ripples as his tail cleft it, left and right. When the night reached its third hour, jackals would stand on the banks, and call, ‘Whoo-oo goes by?’ I’d scold them, ‘Be quiet, no one goes by.’ I’d have already made some discreet arrangements with the owl and the bat, and put them to use as well. At half past four, as dawn broke, the wishing star would droop low over the western horizon, but in the streak of light in the eastern sky, morning’s pointing forefinger would be seen wearing a golden ring, whose scattered rays would signal the coming of day.

  Pupu-didi smiled a little and said, ‘About this story of my childishness that you’ve just told me—well, what pleasure did you get by twisting things so much? You seem very eager to show what a jealous creature I was! But as for my smuggling ripe fruit from our hog-plum tree to Sukumar-da, because he likes hogplums—I faced the punishment for stealing them, while he tasted the rewards—you’ve left that out, haven’t you? Perhaps Sukumar-da was quick at his sums, but I clearly remember the time when he couldn’t think of the meaning of “cogitation”, so I scribbled it on the back of my slate and showed it to him secretly. I suppose there’s no room for all this in your story?’

  I answered, ‘What pleases me is not that you refused to accept Sukumar’s princehood out of jealousy. You were jealous of him because of your love for me—that’s what makes me happy when I remember it all.’

  ‘Very well, you can keep your vanity to yourself. Let me ask you a question. What has become of that nameless man you made up, whom you used to call He?’

  ‘He’s grown older.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘He’s become a thinker. Worries buzz like hornets in his head, and have b
uilt a nest of cares. I can no longer match him in argument.’

  ‘I see he’s progressing on a line parallel to my own.’

  ‘That may be so, but he’s crossed the limits of fiction. Now and then, he clenches his fist and declares, “I must grow tougher!” ’

  ‘Let him. Let the story be built on a tougher skeleton this time. If we can’t slurp it down, we’ll at least be able to chew on it. Perhaps I’ll like it better then.’

  ‘I’ve kept him quiet all this time, for fear that your lack of wisdom teeth would make it hard for you to tackle him.’

  ‘Dear me! Your fears make me laugh! You keep him away, and I’m the one not old enough!’

  ‘Great heavens! Not even my worst enemy dares insult me so!’

  ‘Then call him to your court, and let me judge his present mood.’

  ‘So be it.’

  * * *

  70The parrot and his mate: shuk and shari, common figures in Bengali folk tales and songs.

  71Tirpurni'S Ghat: a ghat Getty or bathing place) mentioned in old rhymes and fairy tales.

  72makara: a mythological aquatic animal, mount of the Goddess Ganga.

  12

  I SAID TO JHAGRU, ‘WHERE’S THAT MONKEY HE? WHEREVER YOU FIND him, call him here.’

  He came, thumping his spiky staff of a stout rose-plant stem. His dhoti was tucked between his legs, his shawl wrapped around his waist. He wore knee-length socks of thick black wool and a sleeveless European waistcoat of green broadcloth over a red striped vest. On his head was a furry white Russian cap, bought at some second-hand shop, and his left thumb was bandaged with a strip of rag, clear witness to some recent rough-and-tumble. As he walked, the scrunch of his stout leather boots could be heard all the way from the corner of the lane. The eyes under his beetling brows were like a pair of bullets stopped in mid-flight.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded. ‘I was chewing on dried peas to strengthen my teeth, but your Jhagru wouldn’t leave me alone. He said, “Babu’s eyes are bloodshot, probably we’ll have to call the doctor.” As soon as I heard this, I rushed here with a jar of cow’s piss from the cowshed. Take it in a banana-flower gourd and put it in your eyes drop by drop—they’ll clear up in no time.’

  I retorted, ‘My eyes will remain bloodshot as long as you’re around. All the important people from your neighbourhood have been laying siege at my door since early morning.’

  ‘Why are you so upset?’

  ‘If you’re around, I don’t need any other reason to feel upset. I’ve had news that Kansari Munshi, the very sight of whose face brings bad luck on a journey, is sitting on your roof, blowing on a horn. You’ve lured a battalion of the hoarsest voices there with the promise of ganja, and the assemblage is rehearsing its yells with might and main. The gentlefolk are declaring their intention of either quitting the locality themselves, or driving you out of it.’

  He leapt up in great enthusiasm, bellowing, ‘That proves it!’

  ‘Proves what?’

  ‘A combination of complete tunelessness and unequalled vigour is absolute dynamite. Overpowering energy bursts forth from the depths of discordance. Peace has fled and slumber taken wing from the neighbourhood. Everywhere, people are vowing to run away. The cacophony has unmistakably diabolic associations. One day, even the worthy folk in heaven became conscious of its impact. They were sitting with their eyes half-closed, dreamily sipping nectar. The gandharva maestros73 had broken tunefully into taans74 in the raga Paraj Vasant, tanpuras75 balanced against their shoulders. The apsaras76 danced in expert rhythm, amid a thunder of ankle-bells. Meanwhile, the demons had sat for three long ages in the deathlike blue gloom of Hell’s chief mausoleum, fervently cultivating a tuneless furore while a whale beat time with flicks of its tail. At last, one day, Saturn 77 went into conjunction with this last degenerate age78 to send out a signal for the screaming demons to descend upon the tuneful angels with all manner of bangs and thuds. Their tunelessness sizzled like a piece of eggplant cast into hot oil, prompting the gods to seek refuge in the inner chambers inhabited by Brahma’s wife with cries of “grandfather, grandfather”. I need tell you no more. I’m sure you’re learned in the scriptures.’

  ‘Your story has revealed my lamentable ignorance.’

  ‘Dada, all your knowledge comes out of books, the real stuff never reaches your ears. Now I roam the cremation grounds, and pick up many little-known principles from their practitioners. From the blessed lips of my oddly toothed guru, I picked up some of the principles of tunelessness, after massaging his feet for several days with castor oil.’

  ‘I realize it didn’t take you long to imbibe the principles of tunelessness. I believe in the division of rights.’

  ‘Dada, that’s what I’m proud of. Being born male doesn’t make you a man, you must possess the genius to become one. One day, from my Guru’s divinely hideous lips—’

  ‘A Guru’s lips are said to be blessedly beautiful, and you call them divinely hideous!’

  ‘My Guru’s orders. He says that a beautiful face is weak, feminine. A hideous face is a man’s pride. Its strength lies not in attraction but in repulsion. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘An unfortunate creature who’s forced to agree can hardly do otherwise.’

  ‘Your honeyed words have trapped you in a stupor, Dada— the harsh truth doesn’t please your palate. You must break out of this weakness that you sweetly call “good taste”—not being strong enough to stand the hideous.’

  ‘It’s much more difficult to break down a weakness than a strength. But you wanted to tell me what your Guru had said about the principles of tunelessness. Fire away.’

  ‘My Guru began his explanation right from ancient times. He said, when man was about to be created, Lord Brahma the Four-Faced79 produced a sweet tune from the lips on his two clean-shaven faces in front. Starting from the soft re and proceeding melodiously up the scale, slipping and sliding on a few smooth twists of the voice, he reached the soft ni.80 This graceful wave of notes issued from the ruddy dawn clouds in the sky and set the sweet breeze swaying. In its gentle ripples, woman showed herself in the swaying rhythm of dance. Up in heaven, Lord Varuna’s81 wife began blowing on a conch-shell.’

  ‘Why Lord Varuna’s wife?’

  ‘Why, she’s the Goddess of Water. The race of woman is pure and fluid; not rigid, but lively and vivacious, even setting other things into motion. When the earth was being assembled, the ocean came first. The women floated about on its waters, mounted on cormorants.’

  ‘Wonderful. But had cormorants been created by then?’

  ‘Certainly. Why, it was in the voices of birds that the first sweet notes were being sung. It was these frail creatures’ voices and wings that first proved how melody couldn’t be separated from weakness. Let me tell you something. Promise you won’t get angry.’

  ‘I’ll try not to.’

  ‘At the beginning of the new age, when Grandfather God82 created poets to bring mankind under the rule of weakness, he moulded them on the lines of the birds. That day there was a kind of literary gathering in his meeting hall and, as president, he exhorted all the poets who had gathered there to keep flying through space in their minds, to break into song for no reason at all, to turn everything unyielding into rippling liquid, to make soft what was sturdy. You’re the King of Poets—you’ve obeyed his decree to this day.’

  ‘I’ll have to go on doing so, until I’m moulded differently.’

  ‘The modern age is growing hard and dry; you won’t get your soft waxen moulds any longer. The Goddess of Femininity no longer sits in a nest rocking on the water, swung back and forth by the swaying lotuses.83 The world isn’t sunk in the depths of languid delicacy.’

  ‘Why didn’t Creation stop once it reached that smooth rhythm?’

  ‘Hardly had a few ages passed when the Earth-Goddess sent a pitiful appeal to Lord Brahma. She complained, “I can’t bear the lolling grace of these ladies any longer.” In rippling but afflicted tones,
the women themselves declared that they were sick of it. From the higher regions came the question, “What are you sick of?” The maidens replied, “We don’t know.”—“What do you want?”—“We can’t quite find that out either.” ’

  ‘Did the termagants among them keep quiet? Did they only speak sweet words from beginning to end?’

  ‘There was no excuse for a quarrel, you see. There were no shafts of complaints to shoot off, so the bows remained sunk in the depths of the ocean, the twanging of their strings inaudible. No broomsticks to thwack anyone could sprout from the sea bed.’

  ‘I suppose Lord Brahma was very ashamed at this sad news?’

  ‘Without doubt. Why, all his four heads were bowed in shame. He sat in stunned silence upon the thousand-jointed wings of his swan84 for a whole Brahmaic aeon.85 But there was the celebrated priestess of ancient lore, the divine She-Cormorant, who, trying to match her colour with the pristine white of Lord Brahma’s swan, had dived a thousand times into the water and rubbed at her feathers with her beak till they looked like cabbage-stalks thrown out into the garden for compost. Even she said, “Where there’s too much mildness and decency, the chief delight of virtue is lacking, since you can’t nag other people about their faults. You don’t get any fun out of being good.” She prayed, “O Lord, give us mean-mindedness immediately, in large and potent quantities.” The Maker of Laws86 sprang up in consternation, saying, “I’ve made a mistake—it must be corrected.” That was it. What a voice! It was as if the Goddess Durga’s lion had pounced upon Lord Shiva’s bull,87 and the furious roars of the lion were mingling with the tremendous bellows of the bull to crack the sapphire-studded foundations of heaven. The sage Narada hurried out, hoping for some fun. Thumping his threshing-stone on the back, he declared, “Threshing-stone, my son, listen carefully to this root of all future discord. It’ll help us break up homes in due course.” The celestial elephants that guard the ten quarters of the universe raised their trunks and added their trumpeting to Lord Brahma’s furious four-throated roar. The sound was so powerful that the long hair of the Diganganas, the ten guardian goddesses of the earth, was swept loose and darkened the sky in billowing black clouds—it looked as if the sky was filled with the black sails of ships racing to Lord Yama’s burning ghats.’