THE BROKEN IDOL

(A Story)

By S. R. Hemmadi, M.A.

Rendered from Kannada by the AUTHOR

“BINA! Bina!”

The feeble voice came through the half-shut door of the front bedroom. The child listened for a while, looked vaguely towards the room and then turned to the clay which she was moulding with her tiny fingers. She had been absorbed in that work from the early hours of the morning. It was a day dedicated to the puja of Goddess Gowri. Bina, however, was not interested in Gowri. All her interest was focussed on Gowri’s mighty son, God Ganesha, and tomorrow was the merry festival of Ganesha! Only the previous day, Bina had gone round with her mother visiting a few friends and had seen at Vinoo’s house a particularly lovely image of God Ganesha taking glorious shape through the deft fingers of Vinoo’s elder brother, Mohan, whose skill in making such things was famous throughout the town. Bina, like all children of her age, loved to make things. She had seen a crowd of giggling children surrounding Mohan and watching him with breathless interest as the various parts of God Ganesha’s grotesque anatomy took form and became vividly familiar to them. They sat for long times observing the skilful artist at work. Mohan had become another God in their eyes, a supreme creator. They sat chattering away, singing snatches of their school-book song about Ganesha, improvising ludicrous incidents about the God, and teasing Mohan. They told each other stories of Ganesha’s fantastic adventures, referred again and again to his voracious appetite, his insatiable greed for all his favourite delicacies, mimicked his uncouth gait and made fun of his small eyes, large ears and long trunk. Ganesha, the being who was half-God, half-Elephant, had suddenly become a friend, a companion, a playmate to these children.

When Bina returned from her visits, her one thought was about Ganesha. Tomorrow was the happy day, she said to herself, and she longed to make an image of this beloved God with her own hands. She begged her mother and got her permission to scoop up a few handfuls of wet clay in the garden. Bina had never known such excitement. Her imagination was on fire. Sitting with the lump of wet clay in her hands, a whole world of strange beings and wonderful adventures was born in her imagination–a huge universe peopled with gods, goddesses, giants and ogres whose breath-taking adventures she enacted again and again in her mind. And then her mind, after voyaging through this bewildering world, rested on the tranquil figure of Ganesha. Here was some one who appealed to her, as he appealed to all children–some one who was so serene and benevolent, and yet so laughably quizzical, strange and grotesque! Bina’s fingers worked assiduously’ with the clay. She would make a beautiful image of the God. Had not her father, her own beloved Papa, promised to instal the figures and offer puja to the God? ‘ Yes, she would make a lovely image, far more wonderful than Mohan’s. Suddenly Mohan’s idol which she had so admired yesterday, lost all its glamour and beauty. It became, curiously enough, a rival figure to her own, and with that swift change of mind, so natural to children, she decided that her image was going to beat Mohan’s…..

She worked in the shade of a cluster of plantain trees in a nook of her father’s garden, blissfully oblivious to her environment and utterly absorbed in giving a shape to her idea of the God. She went on, moulding the clay in numberless permutations and combinations, doing, undoing and re-doing, her delicate fingers clogged with the clay, her clothes soiled, her hair untidy. Tenderly she shaped the beloved God’s familiar limbs, his protruding belly, his large sweeping ears, the small twinkling eyes, the curling trunk, the crossed legs and the tiny mouse on which Ganesha is supposed to ride! To her child’s ayes, this ludicrous, disproportionate and grotesquely ugly figure was the last word in divine perfection! She breathed a sigh of triumph, and took a careful survey of her handiwork. Yes, a few finishing touches and then the lovely colours with which Father had promised to paint the God, and her Ganesha would be the lord of the other images in the town! Then pleasant thoughts were crowding upon her mind. And then her father’s feeble voice carne to her once again–a soft, musical voice, packed with suffering and pain, and yet, as her child’s heart knew, eager, urgent, and longing.

“Bina! Won’t you come in for a minute, darling?” her mother said coming to her, “Papa calls you and has been wanting you for nearly an hour.”

The child ran towards the room after taking a long admiring look at the idol. She trod softly on the carpet in the hall, re-arranged her hair and wiped her hands on a towel. She stood outside the door for a moment, peeped anxiously into the room, and opening the door silently, stood before her father.

He lay on his bed–a pale emaciated figure. His still handsome face was quiet, shrewdly kind and humorous. There were wrinkles on his face, and in spite of his illness, he had not lost his serenity. He had been ill for a long time, now nearly six months. A simple ‘breakdown’ the doctor had said at the beginning. Narayan was a teacher in the local High School, a hard-working conscientious man loved by his boys and respected by his Colleagues. After a brilliant academic career, he entered the teaching profession, full of hopes and high aspirations. He had married the girl of his choice, an orphan brought up by her old aunt. His Parents had died while he was at college and Narayan had to wage a heroic, but extremely painful struggle against Poverty and discouragement. After his graduation, he married. Then came the offer from the Principal of the local High School, and his heart, full of idealism and a deep, unconquerable longing to serve the children of his country, yielded to the offer. He had served the school for nearly fifteen years, was a popular teacher and a respected citizen. His married life had been happy and was blessed by the birth of his only daughter, Bina, who was now seven years of age. He devoted his entire life to the child. She was literally the apple of his eye. Life was, on the whole happy for Narayan. But trouble came. His health began to fail, mostly as a result of overwork at the school. The worries and harassments of a poor teacher’s life when prices were soaring higher and higher every day, were too much for him. One day, valuing a bundle of answer papers of his Form, he had felt a funny sensation in his head, a sudden darkening of things around him and a sharp pain in his chest, accompanied by shortness of breath and utter exhaustion. The doctor said it was simple exhaustion due to overwork, ordered complete rest and wrote out a couple of tonics, cheerfully promising that Narayan would be up and doing in a week’s time. Narayan, however, did not improve. That funny feeling in the head persisted, the pain became constant and soon he was unable even to move out of his bed without getting exhausted and breathless. “Nothing serious,” assured the doctor who was a prosperous local practitioner, whose strongest point was an invincible optimism accompanied by a breezy, cheerful manner towards all his patients. “A few days of complete rest, another course of these injections, and you will want to join the next Mount Everest Expedition,” were the doctor’s encouraging words. Days passed, the injections were given, the medicines were drunk, the bills were paid, but Narayan did not get up from his bed. He remained there, vanquished and depressed, all his hopes shattered and his visions destroyed. Gradually a feeling of intense loneliness began to overwhelm him. He felt as though he was insulated from the main current of life that incessantly flowed around him. His world began to shrink till at last its boundaries were limited to his bedroom. Only two people mattered to him now–his devoted wife, Lakshmi, and his child. It was Bina’s laughter that still reminded him of the glory that was life. Bina was the precious link that bound him to the magic world that lay beyond his room. He listened to her childish chatter and her songs, and his mind attained some sort of tranquility. Otherwise he knew no peace. He lost count of the days, but lingered on his bed, struggling inwardly to make something coherent out of the vast incoherence which life was to him on his sickbed. He who had dreamt dreams and seen visions was now reduced to the position of clutching at the most trivial thing, provided it was stable and secure. How long was he going to last? What about the future of his wife and daughter? The thought filled him with despair. Bina, so innocent and playful, accustomed to love joy–what would happen to her after he was gone?

Today he had felt particularly wretched and miserable. He lay utterly prostrated on his bed. The slightest effort made him pant for breath. The darkness inside him was something impenetrable. He made no effort to think, for his mind was a vast ocean of incoherence. Things somehow seemed to be slipping away from him more rapidly than ever before. The doctor had no doubt seen him on his usual rounds that morning, put his stethescope for the thousandth time on his chest, listened to the struggles of his poor heart, given him an injection, pronounced the usual encouraging words to him, ordered a hot-water bag to relieve his pain, and had gone away promising to look him up that evening. Narayan did not want to alarm his poor wife. Today his heart went to her in silent sympathy. Six months of patient devotion and ungrudging ministry to him on his sickbed, the accumulating drudgery of the household, the fear and sense of insecurity steadily gnawing at her heart, the growing premonition of the darkness that would sooner or later engulf her and her beloved child, the poverty and the hourly struggle she had to wage against–a these had shattered Lakshmi. Her painful martyrdom tortured Narayan’s soul. He did not want to disturb her. He knew she was busy preparing for her annual Gowri puja. It was a day sacred to the Hindu wife–a day dedicated to the great Goddess Parvati, wife of Shiva, mother of Ganesha, the Goddess of chastity and wifely devotion, of purity and sacrificial renunciation, whose worship, so many thousands of Hindu women believed, would ensure eternal wifehood for them. Poor Lakshmi! The idea of her worshipping Gowri sent a pang through his heart. What a mockery life was! How the gods played with men! In the meantime his pain and discomfort were increasing. He wanted at least Bina to be by his side, and even as his mind was fighting for reassurance, his thoughts were on his child. He called her feebly. It was the cry of an anguished heart in desperate search for something to soothe and strengthen it on the eve of its final dissolution....

Bina stood before him and put her hands on his forehead. The touch soothed him beyond words. The soft hands that smelled of warm clay were an anodyne to his tortured spirit.

“Why did Papa call me?” asked Bina, and soon she pattered away without waiting for a reply. “You see, I was busy making the image of Ganesha, because you promised to get it painted in beautiful colours and instal it in the house and offer puja and have a grand feast in His honour. ‘Are you not doing it tomorrow, Father?”

“Yes, darling–if Vighneswara wills....” Narayan spoke with a tremendous effort, in a voice that seemed to come from afar, it sounded so queer and hollow to the child’s ears.

“Papa is not well. May I call Mother?”

“No, dear....but tomorrow you shall have your Ganesh installed and we shall sit before Him and offer worship.” Narayan spoke these words with the greatest pain. He knew how cruel it was to deceive the child, but what else could he do? Deceit and untruth were part of life. He would soon be beyond all these! And then he asked her, “But is your idol finished?”

“Yes, Father. Just finished and I am giving it now the final touch. How wonderful he is, Father! You should see the merry twinkle in his eyes!” She added after a pause: “But it is too wet for me to bring it here, and….you can’t come to see it.”

“Never mind, darling. Now go and finish it.”

The Vinayak Chaturthi dawned gloriously. The air was delicious, cool and soothing after the monsoon rains. The sun was shining beautifully, drenching the whole land in golden light. The town was agog with joy and excitement. Innumerable processions of coloured images of God Ganesha accompanied by nagaswaram and bhajans were seen in the streets throughout the morning. The whole juvenile population of the town was abroad, gay, noisy and uproariously happy. Bina woke up in great excitement. All night, as long as she could keep herself awake, she had prayed her beloved Ganesha to restore her father to health. She joined in the morning a large group of children who went scurrying through the neighbouring groves and valleys for flowers and leaves of all kinds required for the great puja. She brought a basketful of these flowers and leaves, sweetly smelling and of variegated colours and patterns. She was sure that her father would be well today. He would bathe and wear his rose-coloured silk dhoti, smear his forehead with the sacred ash and sit before the idol and do the puja. He would prepare a beautiful mantapam for the idol. There would be flower garlands, sandal paste, sugared curds, the sweet-smelling leaves of the forest and delicacies of all kinds and sizes to be offered to the God. The room would be filled with the fragrance of scented sticks, the sweet odour of fried delicacies, and Papa would chant the mantrams in his own sweet, drawling manner as he had always done in the past. Bina did not doubt for a moment that these things would happen that day. Had she not prayed incessantly to her God the whole night? And how lovingly she had made the idol with her own hands and how beautiful he was as he sat on the wooden plank in the cool shade of the trees in her garden, ready to be lifted up and taken ceremoniously into the mantapam inside the house! Mohan’s boasted idol paled into insignificance before her own glorious creation!

She ran into the house, her heart throbbing with glad expectation. She opened the gate. But what was that? She saw a group of women who, instead of smiling at her, as they usually did, raised a pitiful wail as she entered! Bina wondered what it was all about. She would find out, of course. Her father...No, he would be quite well. God Ganesha would not fail her, for had she not moulded him tenderly with her own hands into His divine shape? She ran into the house. Somehow everything looked so strange and bewildering and queer. Why such wailing and weeping in a house that was the abode of Lord Vighneswara? Then she saw her mother stretched on the floor in the hall and women sat round her beating their breasts and wailing. The doctor came out of Papa’s room, looking woe-begone and broken; his usual cheerfulness was not there. He, who had never left the house without a tender word to her, now seemed to avoid her. And he was in such a dreadful hurry to leave the house too! Bina did not understand all these things...this mystery, this terrible up-setting of all her beautiful plans. Then she looked in the direction of her father’s room. The door was half-open and she caught sight of her Papa lying on the bed, his face ivory-white, his eyes closed. Someone caught her by the hand. And into the child’s heart flashed the truth. Her world had crumbled....Papa would not perform the puja today!

Then suddenly she remembered her idol–the idol of the God over which she had taken such pains and uttered so many prayers. She wrenched herself away from the woman who was trying to caress her and speaking soft words into her ears....She ran into the garden, saw her idol. Ganesha’s merry twinkle which had so bewitched her a few hours earlier, appeared something terribly sardonic and menacing. He became at that moment not a God of life, but of death. In a fit of sudden fury she lifted the half-wet clay figure and dashed it to the ground where it lay, sprawled most undivinely, a sorry mess of broken limbs and sticky lumps!

The processions of God Ganesha continued throughout the morning with band and music, shouts of men and the laughter of children. But Bina was not among the children, and her sweet, pure laughter was not heard in that merry crowd that morning. And when these processions had passed, towards the noon, another procession left the house of Narayan, a silent and melancholy one, and wended its way solemnly to the banks of the river, a mile from the town.

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