(A Story)
BY T. J. RANGANATHAN
(Rendered from Tamil by MANJERI S. ISVARAN)
COME my son, come near me. Rainbound you are in a
real fix. Poor dear! How it pours! This rain does make a hell of the City.
Stowing away the waters of the heavens, man has built towns and cities of
indescribable splendour. But what he has stowed away–cunningly he thought–the
rain has showed up. My! How the rows of houses wriggle and blink like pythons
unable to bear the pain of the arrowy downpour! Don’t think for a moment that
crocodiles clad in velvet exist only in a sub-aqueous world. “Here, look at me!
look at me!” so seem to say the highways and byways from which the tar has
peeled off, exposing the layers of macadam. Like warriors heady with fight in a
field of battle, reeling under attack and counter-attack, the trees nearabouts
sway and toss violently. Is this a war between heaven and earth? Or is it the
time of a great deluge? Thoughts like these terrify you, isn’t that so? No my
son. No. This is the hour when the gods take their stroll, the hour of their
sport, their hilarious talk. That’s why I spoke to you. Yes, I, too, am a god
who is speaking to you. Not a god out for a saunter; but a god imprisoned.
Where are you gazing? Do you seek for me amid
thunder and lightning? Why are you looking through the branches of the trees? I
am not a monkey crouching on the topmost bough. Ah, that’s a creature more
fortunate than I. Today, like the monkey that dances to the tune of the
monkey-trainer, man has made me to caper and curvet to his countless little
whims. I am god. The omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient! The Great Immanence!
Ha! Ha! Ha!
Haven’t you yet discovered me? O-ho, why do you
want to run away? Are you afraid? Afraid of me? Wet to the marrowbone, your knees
buckling, heart going pit-a-pat, and hard of breath, don’t run away. Take
shelter under this tree. Here, see the structure built like a little doll’s
house, and within it on a small pedestal, a piece of brick adorned with sandal
and turmeric and vermilion. That piece of brick is me, the god. Ah, you look
astounded! But you are not, are you, when the gramophone sings and the radio
rumbles. When mere man has the power to make inanimate objects articulate,
can’t a god do it? I am god, I am not a piece of brick. I am god indwelling in
the brick.
Ah, that’s right. Now listen to me. Carefully. I
shall tell my story, the story of my birth, growth, and tenor of life. The gods
too have their birth, growth, tenor of life, and death. Do you doubt in the
self-existence of God? It’s high philosophy. The end of philosophy is
nothingness. To all intents and purposes, you and I are the same. Now, listen
further: -
Some days ago, of an evening, a party–members of a
small family–came along this road. You know that at the close of a particularly
hot day, many go to the seaside for a breath of fresh air. The family of which
I am speaking moved along with the general crowd. A young man, his wife, and
their two little children. The eldest was a girl of five, the other a lisping
boy of three, his mouth still redolent of his mother’s milk. Oh, the girl! She
was as lovely as a parrot. She talked with the mince so natural to children,
sweetly, cooingly. Her hand was clasped in her father’s. For a while the mother
would carry the boy on her hip, then she would put him down and catching hold
of his hand make him toddle along. The little one would laugh and take a step
or two, then hold out his arms, crying, “Boo-hoo! Carry me! Boo-hoo-hoo! Carry
me, mother!” At the sight the father would peal into pleasant laughter. And the
mother, though her heart expanded in beatitude, she would wrinkle up her
forehead, crying, “Naughty! Naughty!” and sweeping him up in her arms, strain
him to her bosom.
Look yonder, don’t you see a bridge and nigh it a
tree? It was while the family were passing under the shade of that tree that
they heard a voice calling, “Sunda! Sunda!” It came from the thither side of
the road. The young man recognised it as that of his friend who worked in the
same office as he. Instantly the friend and his newly-married bride emerged
into view and joined them. And forthwith man fell into talk with man, and woman
with woman, thus pairing themselves off. Meanwhile, what could the children do?
Left to themselves they began to play.
At the foot of the tree lay a piece of brick.
Kamali–for that was the name of the little girl–took it in her hands. She had
in the pocket of her jumper bits of different coloured chalk: violet, indigo,
blue, green, yellow, orange, red, and white. She brought them out and started
scoring lines on the brick, criss-cross all over. Her baby brother sat by her,
watching her, tilting his head from side to side like a magpie, and uttering
little exclamations of childish delight.
The work of scoring ended. On me, my son, yes; on
me the girl finished scratching with the chalks. In the innocent bliss of those
children was I born. In that bit of stone was I enshrined. You men think that
in your world, in the mortal world alone do children abide. They are in your midst,
I agree, but in truth the children live in a divine world, in a wonderland of
dreams. To them the clod and stone and tree do speak; the Deity hidden in these
speaks to them. When they talk to the dolls with which they play, it may seem
imbecile to you. But, in fact, dolls speak to bairns, for the gods themselves
sport with them, conversing gaily with them. You think that if you but mutter a
mantra, the gods will answer you. But there is a way of intoning it.
Like Parvati and Parameswara, the parents inseparable of the Universe, speech
and sense should fuse into one another; then, and only then does a mantra become
potent. The heavenly beings can never be bound by blank and barren words.
Kamali gathered me in her arms. “Gopala Krishna!
Govinda Rama!” she sang rapturously, and her little brother jumped about and
danced, as a complement to her lilting music. And in that piece of stone was I
animated.
How delightful were the dance and song and innocent
mirth of those children! I was immersed in them all. Of a sudden the frisking
youngster stretched out his hand and touched me. The contact of his soft, plump
fingers sent a thrill through me. The girl wheeled round briskly and snatched
me away from his hands. The boy burst out crying. Oh, how pleasing was that cry
to my ears! The mother looked at them. “Here, Kamali, why are you teasing the
child?” she snapped. “Give back that stone to him. Or do you want a good
hiding?” With which she resumed her talk with her interlocutor.
The threat went home. How frightened was poor
little Kamali! Quickly she put me back into the hands of her brother. He found
it hard to hold me, he was that tender. Still, he showed himself very brave and
did not drop me; but the next moment he was down on the ground, whimpering,
with me over him. He then began to rub out the many vivid lines of diverse hues
that his sister and drawn on me. “Oh, I don’t do that, Kanna, there’s a dear.
Don’t do that to our god. He’ll prick your eyes,” cried Kamali, holding the
boy’s hands tightly in hers. Ah, what a pleasure it gave me–their sport and
speech and quarrel and tears! Suddenly the boy laughed and laughing began to
spit on his sister, in quick spurts, and blowing bubbles out of his mouth.
Presently, the men and women stopped conversing. It
was time to move on. And holding me still, Kamali started to walk. “You stupid,
why do you carry that stone?” flared up her mother, and seizing me hastily,
chucked me summarily. They moved on and were soon out of sight.
I lay at the foot of the tree. The same night some
men came that way. They seemed to have had a good swill of toddy, and in their
semi-intoxication walked light of heel and of heart, singing a rollicking
ditty. And in the light of the moon one of them caught sight of me, lying there
at the base of the tree. And hardly had he spied the chalk marks on me when he
cried out to his companions: “Look, that’s the Deity!” They echoed his words,
and with much scraping of unsteady feet and broken ejaculations, they installed
me at the foot of the tree, falling down and prostrating full length before me,
their palms joined in fervid obeisance.
A couple of days passed and my importance began to
rise very high indeed. The tribe of my devotees increased. Every night, when
the noises of the day had died and silence descended on the road, quite a
goodly number of people gathered to worship me. They brought me offerings of
flowers, vermilion, turmeric, sandal, betel and areca-nuts, and with them came
a pujari, too, beating his drummikin.
My son, in your world, the world of mortals, for
anything and everything a pujari makes himself indispensable. Why is it
so? In business–in buying and selling–he appears as the broker in politics he
ingratiates himself into the favour of the top-ranking leader, with a covey of chelas
around him; in literature he plays the grand role of the critic. To law the
lawyer is the pujari to ritual, the pundit; to democracy, the capitalist; to
the arts, the self-worshipper; to revolution, the atheist. Goodness gracious!
Anything in the world seems to stand in need of a pujari. If there is a
middleman to throw mud into the mouth of one who works with the sweat on his
brow, there is the lawyer to dig deep the earth to bury all justice and
righteousness. The critic of letters builds a mausoleum over some of the
world’s best poetry, enthroning himself as the arch-priest of taste and
judgment, and draws people to admire his eminence and bow unto him. The temple pujari
conceals the image of the Deity behind a thick curtain. And I, too, was not
spared by one such; he appeared on the scene, as I said, rather quickly.
The dance and song and adoration grew intense, day
by day. They did the karakam, 1 they twisted the necks of
cocks and scattered the crimson-crested heads in front of me. A great length of
the road was blocked by crowds which collected to witness these religious
gaieties.
My son, where are you gazing? Don’t you like my
story? Are you thinking of leaving? Oh, I didn’t notice it. The rain has
stopped and so you want to get away. Be patient for a while. A calm generally
precedes the storm. I am sure it is going to pour in torrents again. Then only
the skies will clear. In the meantime, I shall tell my tale briefly. Already I
have shortened it much too much. I want you to do me a favour; hence this
story. Be patient for a while and listen to me. A few more minutes and I have
done.
You harbour a doubt, don’t you? I told you that the
incidents connected with my life happened under the tree near yonder bridge,
didn’t I? How did I who lay there manage to reach the present spot–that’s your
doubt, isn’t it? Quit reasonable and justifiable. One day the crowd of people
happened to be very dense. Before me stood pots of toddy beautified and decked
with flowers, heaps of rice and other edible offerings. “Like rain-charged
clouds–like–like” sang the pujari, shaking his head vigorously and
beating his drummikin. Just then a posse of policemen, armed with lathis,
arrived at the spot. The crowd was obstructing the traffic on the road, they
rapped out, and ordered it to disperse immediately. It was the most troublous
of times, those days were–of political turmoil in the land. The police reigned.
There was no check to their zoolum. They were the Raj. The crowd
scattered helter-skelter. The pujari scooted with his drummikin. The
policemen picked me up and flung me far. Oh, the iniquity of it! But what could
I do with them who were drunk with defiance, the vicious crew? I prayed that
the District Collector might open his eyes and punish them for their crime, and
praying thus flew across space. But I didn’t fly of my own volition. The brawn
of the policemen’s arms inspired my flight. There was a mound of rubbish at the
foot of the tree and I fell precisely to perch on it. Had I touched hard
ground, I would have been smashed to dust. To have perished like that! Then I
would have saved myself, my peace undisturbed. But it was not to be. And who is
there that has the heart to perish my son? Shrunk and double bent, tottering
with the aid of a stick, and collapse threatening every step–an ancient and
decrepit like that wishes to live for ever in this planet. Disintegration!
Alas, it is dreadful!
I lay at the foot of the tree. The pujari didn’t
forget me. He came again, cautiously. He brought with him a charity-box and
placed it in front of me. Next he brought a mason and raised this wigwam for
me. Drivers of hackney carriages, rickshawallahs, and by and by the taxi-men,
too, began to put their nickels and coppers into the charity-box. And again, as
of old, the worship started to the sound of the drummikin. I was put on a firm
footing now. I was rather amused at the honours and solemnities done to me. A
little pleasure, a little pain–so mingled were my feelings. Whether the place
was no impediment to wheeled traffic, or whether there was a decline in the
sovereignty of the police, I knew not which; but the cops stopped their
interference.
The months have passed, six months after my birth
in the new spot. I thought of the innumerable brother bricks who had been baked
and burnt along with me in the same kiln, and it made my heart swell with pride
and happiness. Poor things! Some among them stood closely packed and choking in
the wall of a building, supporting a beam. While others in flights of stairs
leading to higher storeys were wearing out under the tread of human feet. But
see, that a glorious life was I destined to lead, I who chanced to tumble down
from a load of bricks which a cart was carrying! “He who bolts becomes king,”
thus in the houses of heaven, the planet in the ninth says it, which is truth,
my son, a simple truth. But I am not thinking like that at the moment; I
thought so in the days bygone and exulted in it.
Six months have passed since I was born, you know
that already. How was I born? In the innocence of the children. You know that
too. This is the secret of Creation: No creative process is involved in the
acquirement of knowledge. The instrument to split the atom is born in the
imagination of the scientist. In the dream of the poet is the poem born. The
world is born in the illusion of god. When the devotee becomes simple as a
child, divinity is born. The sport of children is the highest piety. For long I
didn’t see the little ones who were responsible for my birth.
Yesternight, as usual, the pujari was engaged in
conducting the worship to me. People clustered all around the place. In the
fringe of the crowd stood that young man–yes, Kamali’s father–watching the fun.
Near him, holding his hand, was the lovely Kamali herself. I was thrilled to
see her. I wanted to fly into her hands; and as in that day long past yearned
to be petted and talked to endearingly by her. I hungered to hear her sing
again the divine song: “Gopala Krishna! Govinda Rama!” Ah, she saw me suddenly.
Maybe she had seen some of the coloured lines she had scored over me, running
like exaggerated nerves, still shining undimmed for all the lapse of six
months, or maybe had seen some other mark of recognition. The pujari had
not only not rubbed out those lines, but he had emphasised them with a thick
coat of paint. She, certainly, had espied the nascent ones. “Father, it’s my
stone, it’s my god!” exclaimed Kamali, her lips parting in a flowerlike smile
and eyes widening with wonder. And shaking herself free from his clasp, she
darted through the crowd to take hold of me. The crowd parted and cleared the
way for her, thinking that some preternatural fever had suddenly overpowered
her in presence of the Deity. She reached the sanctum, I felt the tips of her
fingers caressing me. Ah, how blissful was that touch! But there was the pujari,
he was outraged. “Get away!” he growled in a towering rage, and pushed her out
brutally. “Is the Deity reserved for you?” he snarled again. Was it not
installed as his sole monopoly? Was it not there to fill his charity-box?
The child was thrown into a swoon. She couldn’t
bear the shock. The cause was not that the pujari had pushed her out.
She had given me life, she was my mother who had dandled me in her tender arms
and croodled sweetly in my ears. And the pujari who had sprung up from
nowhere, like mushroom in a fleeting hour, had prevented her from even touching
me: that caused the shock and the swoon. Was she not my mother who had breathed
life into me? The superstitious folks expressed that she was possessed by some
Spirit. They lighted camphor, burnt incense, and swung the dipa before
me. But she lay unconscious. Her father bore her home on his shoulders. She was
stricken with high fever. Now, they have summoned the pujari to exorcise
the spirit, by casting the sacred ashes on her to the chant of incantations.
Every day, both morning and evening, the pujari goes with his charity-box,
beats his drummikin, and does his work of casting the ashes. And I tell you, so
long as he does this, my son, the girl’s fever will not abate. There’s only one
way to save her. And it is to drive out this pujari.
But alas, what can I do! I can blind the eyes of
the People, but I can do nothing to the pujari, I am powerless with him.
I can even change the hearts of sham devotees and show compassion to them. But
I have no power over the pujari who sells my compassion in doles. The
crocodile is strong in the waters; the pujari derives his might from me.
If I am no more, there will be no work for him. So, my son, you must do me a
service. You will be blest immeasurably. Uproot me from this spot, go straight
east. See yonder, the deep, dark ocean, rolling its billows, bursting and
boiling and clamouring with a million throats! Fling me far into the ocean.
This, only this boon, I beg of you, my son.
1 A kind of
country-dance, the dancer carrying on his head a pot bedecked with flowers.