The Goddess Speaks
(A
Play)
(A
shamiana with a flood-lit image of Bharata Mata shaped with the map of
India in mind. At the entrance to the shamiana stands the
patriot-artist. The shamiana is erected by the side of the main road in
a big city, and pedestrians catch a glimpse of Bharata Mata as they pass along
the road. It is past midnight and crowds have thinned. The patriot-artist looks
around, wistful and meditating.)
Patriot-Artist: This
is the Day of Days! For centuries has our country waited for this day to dawn.
The very breeze that blows tonight tastes of heaven-born freedom. (Turning
towards the image) Here by the wayside have eager crowds seen their Great
Mother and bowed down to her in humility of heart. My art has fulfilled itself.
My prayer has been heard.
(Enter an Englishman,
walking very fast, with a chaprasi before him, carrying his suit-case.
The Englishman looks at the artist and the image and stops on the way.)
Englishman: Hullo!
Another idol of Mother India! Looks pretty, though!
Patriot-Artist: I
am glad you admit it. Where are you moving out at this hour of the night?
Englishman (with
great relief): I am going home,–home at last! (smiling) you see, I am quitting
India. I have sold all my furniture and made money out of it too. I am carrying
a few chairs with me,–for they are so hard to get in England. And a few woollen
suits,–for there is a scramble for clothes at home. The last thing I sold was
my car. The man to whom I sold it will take possession of it at the station. I
sent my wife and children in it and here I am,–following them. Chalo, chaprasi!
Patriot-Artist: You
lived here in princely mansions. You will now be huddled together in the
hutments at Folkestone!
Englishman (with
his face turned crimson, but with great restraint) Ah! I knew you would say so!
But you have seen neither Folkestone nor the country of which it is a part. Let
it be. It is all one now whether you know it or not. Yes. The Englishman is
quitting. But a ghost will rise from the grave of his power and do ghastly
deeds! Remember this, for this is a prophecy. And blame me not for it, for I
speak the truth. (Moves on).
Patriot-Artist: Thank
you for your parting kick, brother! Because you could no longer threaten us by
being very much alive, you try to frighten us by going to be dead. Thank you!
(A
State officer, in sherwani and fur cap, stops by the roadside and looks
at the image.)
State-officer: Aha!
what have we here! A lovely image! The Indian map turned goddess! How
well-proportioned the figure is! You have fashioned it, have you?
Patriot-Artist: That
is true. Every son knows the face of his Mother. But it has been granted to me
to trace it in this marble.
State-officer: You
are to be congratulated on your vision and flawless workmanship. But then, my
friend, you forget. That patch of territory which stands for this flank of the
body is a State to which I belong. It is a sovereign, independent State.
Actually, the image should be without it.
Patriot-Artist (his
blood mounting to his cheeks): Who are you, carving out portions from your
mother’s flesh? This is worse than cannibalism. Bow down to the goddess, Mr.
Bottle-Neck! Bow down and ask her pardon. Your days are numbered, even as it
is.
State-officer: We
shall see about the numbering later. As for asking pardon, you had much better
ask me to pardon you for the polite language you have used. The age of courtesy
is gone. Plebeians in white caps and dhoti are setting themselves up as
statesmen. Fools!
(Struts
out. A Leaguer enters, in fez cap and sherwani. The fez cap has a
crescent on it).
Leaguer: Why
was he so furious, brother? What did he want?
Patriot-Artist: (in
sullen tones): He refused to bow down to the Great Mother.
Leaguer: Oh!
Is that all? Don’t you worry about it. Here I am and I will pay homage to the
Great Mother for him, for others,–in fact for every one under the sun!
(Is
about to proceed towards the image).
Patriot-Artist: (startled):
O no! I may not allow you to do so. Your religion forbids you to bow down to an
idol.
Leaguer: May
be so. But my religion bids me live in harmony with others. We are all
brothers,–Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs!
(A
Mahasabhite rushes in)
Mahasabhite: It
is a lie! Don't believe him! I have followed him closely whole day, and he has
nothing but honey on his tongue and poison in his heart. His heart is in the
land of the crescent beyond our borders. But he seeks safety for his person by
speaking fair and playing foul. He is a fifth-columnist!
Leaguer: True
it is we fought for Pakistan. But it is not for us to perpetuate a domestic
feud. We sought division for the sake of harmony. Now that we are divided on
the map, let us be united in heart.
Mahasabhite: (red
with anger): Don’t believe him! He is a snake in the grass! There is no homeland
for Hindus in the world. Let us build a Hindu Rashtra! The Congress has cut the
heart of India in twain. The Congress....
Artist: (with
the palms of his hands on his ears): Brother! Leave the Congress alone. I do
not know what it has or has not done. But I know this,–that you have broken my
heart by talking so wildly. (Almost in a crying tone) Brothers, kindly leave me
alone!
Mahasabhite: (with
scorn) It is tear-droppers and colour-mongers like you that have imperiled the
country. You have gambled away Gangotri and mortgaged Mount Kailasa! But
it is all one now. I know what to do with the crescent and the star! (Exit)
Leaguer: And
I with your saffron flag! (Exit)
Artist: (turning
to the goddess): Mother mine! Was it for beholding such scenes that I filled
your marble-veins with my heart’s blood and chiselled you from my flesh? O! It
is terrible, too terrible for words!
(Enter
a merchant in gandhi cap, nehru shirt and jacket, and with bulging pockets).
Merchant: What
is terrible, my friend? Can anything be terrible on this night of Independence?
We have now come into our own. We shall have our own cars, engines and
aeroplanes! Our trade will no longer be confined to cocoanuts and sweet oil.
What is our earning tonight, my friend? You have put up a lovely image of
Bharata Mata, I must say! You must have drawn crowds to your door!
Artist: (startled):
Earning? Earning with what?
Merchant: (laughing):
Why! For exhibiting this image! That is what it is meant for, surely? But you
seem to have been unlucky. You are not looking cheerful.
Artist: God
forbid! You are mistaken if you think that this is a booth set up in a fair, my
friend! I thought that, on this great night, I might flood-light this face and
show to the long-lost orphans in this country the glory they have gained.
Merchant: (amazed):
What! You don’t mean to say that you have done all this at your own cost,–and
for no return? You seem to be out of your wits. Look at me! we have sold
thousands of Union flags in mercerised silk and managed the distribution of
sweets in all the schools in the city. The entire illumination along this road
is done by me. But it is no use recounting all this to you. I only say with all
my heart and soul: Long live the Indian Union!
Artist: (startled):
What! Have you exploited this great day for petty gain and middleman’s profits?
Say no, say no, brother! You would save my soul, if you did.
Merchant: (dismayed):
This is nothing but envy. You who have earned nothing grudge me my well-earned
money. What is Independence for, I should like to know? Independence is the
gateway to wealth. Remember, it is we henceforward that are going to rule,–the
merchants in Gandhi caps and Nehru shirts. The Indian Union is going to be a
nation of shopkeepers like England. It has, consequently, a glorious future
before it. Remember this, my friend! (is about to go away laughing).
Artist: Good-night
and good-bye, Mr. Pocket-full! I wish you well by your money.
(Enter
a beggar-woman, all bones and tattered clothes)
Beggar-Woman: God
bless you, sir! This is the day of Swaraj. Give alms. God will bless you.
Merchant: (frowning):
These beggars! They feel that it is their right to beg, and exercise it most
exactingly. I must table a motion in the Assembly. Begging must be stopped by
law, now that we are a free nation. Here, woman!
(gives
her a one-anna piece).
Remember
it is past midnight. The fifteenth of August is over and you have no right to
beg on the morning of the sixteenth. Did you think that, after the fifteenth of
August, life would all be jasmines and roses for you? (Exit, frowning).
Beggar-woman: An
anna-piece on the day of Swaraj and with a threat on top of it! God bless me!
Artist: What
else did you expect, sister? Didn’t you know that the rich are always like
that?
Beggar-woman: Do
I not know it, having begged my way these fifteen years? But I thought that
this day would make a difference. This is the day of Swaraj.
Artist: What
is Swaraj?
Beggar-woman: I
do not know. They were all rejoicing over it and I thought that it must
certainly be a very great thing if it could send the city into raptures. Is it
not true that the saheb lok will leave the country today?
Artist: No.
It is not true. The white men will leave the country, but the native sahebs will
step into their shoes. The merchants will cheat us in their shops and rule us
from Delhi. But let not that worry you. Here is some money for you. (gives her
a rupee).
Beggar-woman: Thank
you, sir, God bless you! May Goddess Lakshmi, whom you worship here, crown you
with peace and plenty!
Artist: (amused)
This is not Goddess Lakshmi, remember! This is Bharata Mata, the Great Mother,
mother of us all.
Beggar-woman: Oh!
Bharata Mata! The very name that they utter when they shout Jai! Jai! Jai! I
shall try and remember, sir! (Exit)
Artist: (brooding)
Disenchantment! Disenchantment in every nerve and fibre of my being! (Turning
towards the image) Whose mother are you, O goddess? Do you mother those fiery
men generating hatred, that blood-sucker of the poor for whom freedom is the legalisation
of wrong, this beggar-woman ignorant of her parentage, or me, a disenchanted
artist? speak!
(Enter
a Communist bare-headed, in Nehru shirt and flowing pyjamas)
Communist: (laughing):
You are a peculiar tribe, you artists! Could any one in his senses
expect a marble statue to speak to him? You do not even have the brains of
rabbits, though you have the voices of nightingales. Oh, I see! This is Bharata
Mata! Aha! you have installed here the image of a bourgeoisie State, my friend!
Artist: I
am afraid what you say may be partly true of the State. I did not realise it
till I met a merchant a moment ago. But that has nothing to do with this sacred
image. It transcends all States and Dominions. It is a law unto itself.
Communist: (smiling):
Well! As a matter of fact, the image implies something more than a bourgeoisie
State. It is a strange admixture of the economics of the black marketeer and
the primitive fantasy of a religion monger. You are hypnotising yourself and
others. Pull down this image. I tell you! Pull it down and install in its place
the beggar-woman whom you dismissed with a rupee. She, helpless and homeless,
is Mother India. She can appreciate the comforts of the shamiana far
better than this lifeless image.
Artist: (indignant):
Who are you, blaspheming the goddess? Leave me alone. I am not going to take my
lessons in Communism from you.
Communist: So
I will. But I am sure to seek you out again. Remember, my friend! Artists like
you must be leaders of revolution!
Artist: Revolution!
so there is some more blood to be shed, is it? Who knows?….The lynx-eyed
profiteer and the fox-like politician have us in their grip. There is liberty
only in art, freedom only for dreams. (Turning to the image), Mother mine! you
are only a vision, a dream. The map and the soil will profane you with their
touch. Lift me into your realms, O goddess!
(Kneels
before the image. Enter a petty poet in long coat, with an uparan and a pugree).
Poet: Melancholy,
my friend1 Has not the great day rewarded you adequately? Look at me. I sang in
jail like a caged nightingale. My poems were on the lips of thousands. I became
a poet of the people. When I came out of jail, even the leaders of the country
had to reckon with me. Would you believe me, more than fifty journals from all
over the country approached me for a poem for their Independence issue. Of
course, they paid me handsomely for it. We are living in great times, brother!
who knows....who knows....I might even become the first poet-laureate of Free
India! Why are you so sad and dejected! It is a lovely statue you have raised.
Shall I secure you orders from governments and municipalities for statues of
Mother India to be set up in the squares of all big cities?
Artist: (anguished):
you, too, oh poet! Have you too joined the philistines in the land and the
leeches that suck freedom dry? I thought better of you. I deemed that victory
might chasten you rather than elate you and turn your head. You have
surrendered all the stars in the skies, oh poet, for a bare handful of silver!
Alas! That it should be so!
(Bows
his head and sits down in utter anguish).
Poet: (offended):
What! you seem to be an ascetic renouncing life itself and all its pleasure! Is
it sinful for a poet to be paid? Should a poet live on honeydew? Don’t be a
fool, brother.
Artist: (rising):
I would rather be a fool than play the wise man with you. I do not mind your
being rewarded for your pains. But I
do mind your gloating over it,–the serfdom of your imagination,
the clipping of her holy wings. But I cannot tell you clearly what I think,
brother. I have lost my grip over words. I have, indeed, lost my grip over
myself. Leave me alone. (Turns away from the poet).
Poet: (frowning):
Peace be with you. I would not trouble you with my presence when it is not
needed. (Exit)
(The
artist turns towards the goddess with a desolate, heart-rending sob and sinks
at her feet. For a moment, the stage is completely dark).
Artist: O,
Mother! O, goddess! The pity and the horror of it, Mother! The panther, the tiger,
the lynx and the fox! whelps of an aboriginal womb, wild beasts of the jungle!
How could they be your sons,–you so divine, so effulgent,–the source of
all light, the home of all bliss! Are these your sons? Say no, say no, Mother!
speak and disown them! Can these ever be your sons?
(Lies
prostrate at the feet of the goddess, lost in reverie. For a minute all is dark
and silent on the stage. Then, slowly, the form of the goddess becomes visible,
lit up with a shaft of light. The goddess speaks).
Goddess: Yea.
These are my sons. Flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone.
Artist: (Slowly
raising his head and looking at the goddess): If these are your sons,
what hope? What light of faith? What joy? What cheer?
Goddess: The
hope that wells from the heart. The faith that leads you through fire
unscathed.
Artist: (Wringing
his hands): But how to sustain them? O, Form and Light divine! Speak! But how?
Goddess: These
have been my sons for ages. Thing of yesterday! How and Why is not for you to
ask. Build,–and you shall see. See,….and you will build.
Artist: (With
folded hands): O, Form Immaculate! O, Heavenly Apparition! The ages have
mingled with the past and are like pebbles dropped in the ocean. But this is
the Day of Days. The unsceptred hands among the sceptred,–these are at the helm
today. This should make a difference, surely?
Goddess: That
it should, my son. But many a false dawn have I seen and lost my soul to
them for a while. I have grown wiser with the wisdom of years. I now judge the
dawn by the day. I look on calmly into the infinite vacancy of space, not
stretch my hand to the wheeling hollow time. And I live on,–a lonely pilgrim
among the stars. I bathe now and then in the radiant pool of an artist’s
dreams,–as I did in yours. You have been restless, my son, for you have seen my
face mirrored in your mind.
Artist: (With
stretched hands): But, surely, this is a great day, Mother? A new dawn and a
new delight?
Goddess: Yes
and no, my son. I can now come nearer the soil and not lose my splendour yet.
But wait not for a miracle to spring from the dial of a clock. All days are
alike till you hew the granite of the nation’s ignorance and cleave the clod of
its soul. Walk serenely with a young hope in your heart. Look to the horizon
and move on.
Artist: (Agonised
and eager): But if the horizon lifts, Mother? If one horizon lifts into
another, and another into a third, and I be caught in an endless hollow of
horizons, pursuing a mirage.
Goddess: Never
mind, my son. Yours be the glory of the pilgrimage, the martyrdom of the road.
In pursuing what is god-like, you will yourself be a god. And this face of mine
will cheer you on the path and this hand hold forth a cool draught of water
when your lips are parched and dry.
Artist: (Stepping
forward): But, O Mother! Mother of all lands! Cradle of the world! When will
you transfigure this clay, the very subsoil this sub-continent? When will your
looks shine through the eyes of every son and daughter of the soil? When will
this archetypal face this elemental splendour, be rocked in every cradle and
hailed in ever home?
Goddess: That
day, my son, the earth will be turned into heaven and man himself become
divine. That day, the Day of Days, may dawn yet Wait and strive and anchor in
that faith, my son! Out of the flesh-pot of the frail body of a nation, the
violet of the sky may yet spring an blossom!
Artist: Amen!
(The
figure of the goddess slowly vanishes out of sight. The artist stands, with
outstretched hands, looking at the statue into which the apparition has merged.)
(Curtain)