30

After noon, they had to change trains at Ranaghat station. Despite getting coal dust in his eyes twice over, Apu had kept his face stuck out the window, gazing at the world outside all day long. What were those things called at station after station? Signals? Why were they rising and falling? The place where the train stopped was a raised brick structure, just like a roak. Was that called a platform? On wooden boards, the names of all the stations were written in large letters, in both English and Bengali: Kurulgachhi, Gobindapur, Banpur. When the train was about to leave, a bell would ring—dhong dhong dhong dhong, four strikes—Apu had counted. A large iron wheel with a handle all around it; turning it made the signal fall—Apu had observed this closely at Kurulgachhi station.

This was only the second time in her life Sarbajaya had been on a train. The other time had been ages ago—when her husband, having newly returned from Kashi, had set up their home in the village. She had gone to Aranghata in the month of Jyaishtha to see the idol of Jugalkishore—but that was another lifetime ago, wasn’t it? With delight, she stuck her head out at each station, watching the people get on and off—the wives and daughters-in-law boarding and alighting—what they looked like, what sorts of clothes and jewellery they wore. At Jagannathpur station, seeing a hawker selling fine murir moa, she said to her son, ‘Opu, would you like some murir moa? You love them, don’t you? Shall I get some for you?’ A bird was sitting and swinging on the telegraph wire at the station; Apu stared at it intently, then pointed and said, ‘Look, Ma, a mynah bird has escaped from someone’s cage!’

As their changed train from Naihati station crossed the immense bridge over the Ganga, the sun was setting. Sarbajaya stared, transfixed. A rushing wind blew from the far bank, boats dotted the Ganga’s waters, and both shores were lined with fine houses and gardens—sights she had never witnessed in her life. She pointed them out to her son. ‘Did you see that, Opu? A steamship!’ Then, touching her joined palms to her forehead, she murmured to herself, ‘Ma Ganga, I am crossing over you, forgive my transgression, Mother. In Kashi I will offer you flowers and bilwa leaves in worship. Keep Opu well, and may our journey’s purpose be fulfilled. Grant us shelter there, Mother—’

Her heart swayed with joy, with thrill, with the mystery of uncertainty—she had never felt such a state of mind before. For the first time, whether in comfort or in hardship, she tasted the joy of an unbound, free life. In her village life, forever enclosed within the narrow bounds of its bamboo-grove fences, she had never known such an intimate acquaintance with this procession of moving scenes, this novel velocity, this thrill of the unknown. The life that had built walls and ramparts around itself, making itself small, was today in motion, moving on, moving forward—racing towards the setting sun in the western sky, leaping over rivers and lands near and far—and today, with every fibre of her being, she was feeling the reality of this forward momentum! Why, just the other day, not even a year ago, lying in her bed at home in Nischindipur, when she would think of perhaps going for a dip in the Ganga at Chakdaha or Kaliganj, even that had seemed a thing far beyond the realm of possibility or certainty—and now, today:

At Bandel station, just before their train arrived, a large train went roaring past on the main line, departing with the speed of a storm. Apu stared after it in amazement. What a sound! Oof! Once they reached Bandel, they got down from the carriage. Engines bustled here and there; enormous goods trains went rumbling through without stopping, shaking the station every five minutes. A clamour of voices—here the deafening shriek of an engine’s whistle, there another passenger train departing, the guard waving a green flag—and as evening fell, clusters of signals glowed to the east and west of the station, their red and green lights shining—rails, engines, carriages, people.

A little later in the night, their train to Kashi arrived, coming to a halt on the platform with a tremendous noise. The station was vast, the crowd immense—Sarbajaya felt utterly lost. Hurried along, she followed her husband on stiff, unaccustomed feet to the door of a compartment, and as she stood there, Harihar, with great difficulty, pushed through the indomitable crowd and managed, by sheer effort, to seat his trembling wife and bewildered son on a bench inside, then had the coolie load their luggage and bundles.

Towards dawn, Sarbajaya’s light sleep was broken. The train was hurtling along at the speed of a storm—fields, earth, trees all blurring into one as it sped past. Because it was a night train, they had all boarded the same carriage—Harihar hadn’t put her in the women’s compartment. The carriage was less crowded than before—people were stretched out sleeping, one to a bench. On an upper berth, a Kabuliwala was snoring. Apu had woken up at some point and was now staring out the window, his mouth agape, his face thrust outside.

Harihar woke up and said to his son, ‘Don’t lean out and stare like that, Khoka, you’ll get coal dust in your eyes any second—’

Coal dust was a harmless thing; even if his eyes were to be gouged out and fly away, Apu did not have it in him to turn his gaze from that window now. He had been sitting there, stock-still, almost the entire night. His father and mother had been sleeping—but oh, the things he had seen! So many stations where the train didn’t stop, the whole place—lights, people and all—would flash past and fly away like a firework rocket. Once, in the deep of the moonlit night, the train had stormed across a small bridge over some river—ahead was a very high, darkish mound, with many trees and plants on top; the moonlight shimmered on the river’s water, and white clouds drifted in the sky. After that came several more large mounds of the same kind, with the same sort of trees and plants. Then a big station, people, lights—a train had stopped on the adjacent track—and what a quarrel broke out between a panwala and some man! There was a large clock at the station—he had learned to tell time from his teacher, Niren-babu, and counting carefully he saw that it was twenty-two minutes past three in the morning. Then the train started again—more trees, more of those high mounds—often there were mounds like that on both sides of the railway tracks. Everyone in the carriage was asleep. If they weren’t going to see anything, why had they even bothered to get on a train! Whom could he ask what all those mounds were for? From time to time he would lean his head out the window and peer down at the ground, trying to gauge how fast the train was going—his hair would fly into his face in the wind, the ground itself wasn’t visible, it was as if someone were drawing a series of straight lines along the earth—Oof! How fast a train goes! In his curiosity and excitement, he kept sticking his head out first one window, then the other.

Now and then, gazing towards the east at the fields filled with a faint, fast-fading moonlight, it would occur to him: how far they had come! Through what country of high and low fields were they travelling now?

Towards morning he had dozed off again, but his slumber was shattered when the train pulled noisily into an enormous station—carved on a stone plaque on the platform was the name: Patna City.

After that, so many stations passed. Such enormous bridges! The train went on and on, and it seemed the bridge would never end. So many kinds of signals, so many factories and workshops. In a room at one station, a railway babu was speaking into a funnel-like thing attached to an iron pillar—‘Private number? … Yes, alright, sixty-nine—sixty-nine—yes? … Sixty-nine … a six and a nine—yes, yes.’

Astonished, he asked his father, ‘What kind of machine is that, Baba? Why is he talking into it like that?’

By then the day was far gone. Just then, Harihar said, ‘We’ll be reaching Kashi any moment now. Keep looking out to the left; as soon as the train gets on the Ganga bridge, you’ll be able to see Kashi.’

Apu had been thinking about something for a long time. All day long he had been watching the telegraph wires and poles go by—he had never in his life seen them so closely, except for that one other time. The next time he got a chance to play his rail-rail game, he would set up poles just like these. What a mistake he used to make before. He wondered: in the place they were going, would he be able to find guloncho vines in the woods?

Some fifteen days had passed. Harihar had taken lodgings on the ground floor of a medium-sized, three-storey house in Bansphatka Gali. He had not been able to find any of his old acquaintances. No one could give him any news of the people who had once lived in the old places. Only Ramgopal Sahu, the old confectioner of Visveshwar Gali, was still alive.

On the top floor of the house lived a Punjabi man and his family; on the middle floor lived a Bengali merchant, whose outer room served as his shop and warehouse, while his cooking and sleeping quarters were in the two or three adjacent rooms.

In those five or six days, Sarbajaya had toured all the nearby places with her husband. Not even in her dreams had she ever imagined such sights—such temples! Such gods and goddesses! So many houses and buildings. Until now, the temple of Jugalkishore in Aranghata had been, to her, the pinnacle of architectural excellence—but the temple of Vishwanath? The temple of Annapurna? The red stone temples above Dashashwamedh Ghat?

One evening, she had gone with the Punjabi gentleman’s wife to see the Aarti at the Vishwanath temple—what an affair it was, she could not put it into words. The temple grew dark with the smoke of incense and dhuno—seven or eight priests began chanting mantras in unison. What a crowd, what splendour, how many women from great houses had come to watch, and what finery they wore! A rani from somewhere had come, accompanied by four or five maids. She was wearing a costly Banarasi sari, the gold-kalka-embroidered end-piece of which glittered like fire in the light of the five-flamed Aarti lamp. Such large, kohl-lined eyes—such eyebrows, such a beautiful face! She had never seen a real rani before, only heard of them in stories. Yes, this was true queenly beauty. She did not know which she had watched longer—the rani, or the deity’s Aarti.

And the residential houses themselves—what mansions! At the Durga Puja festival in Nischindipur, she would go to the Ganguly house, and seeing their natmandir, their two-storeyed house, their brick-paved pond-ghat, she would feel such envy. She remembered once saying to Durga, ‘Have you seen the auspicious splendour of a rich family’s home?’ Now, compared to the houses she saw lining both sides of the streets here, the Ganguly house was—

She had never seen so many horse-drawn carriages all at once. And the sheer variety of carriages! She had seen horse-drawn carriages at Ranaghat and Naihati on the day they left, but never so many different kinds. So many two-wheeled carts alone. She longed to stand by the side of the road for a moment and just watch them all—but with the Punjabi woman for company, she was too shy to.

As for Apu, he was utterly wonderstruck. He could never have imagined such goings-on. Their lodgings were not far from Dashashwamedh Ghat, and he went there for a walk every afternoon. It was as if the Charak festival fair were being held every single day. Here there was singing, there a sermon, over there someone was reciting the Ramayana; there were crowds of people, smiling faces, a constant festival. Apu would simply wander about, watching it all, and then come home in the evening to recount it with great enthusiasm.

Someone’s servant brought a little boy for a walk every day with a rope tied around his waist. Apu had made friends with him—his name was Poltu. He couldn’t speak clearly and was terribly restless, so, for fear he might get lost, his family had devised this jail-prisoner-like arrangement. Apu was beside himself with laughter. He had pleaded with the servant, but the man was too afraid to untie the rope. The captive was too small and innocent to have any idea that such treatment was worthy of protest. When Apu came home, Sarbajaya would scold him every time. ‘Why do you go off like that all by yourself? This is a city, a marketplace, what if you lose your way?’ Twice a day, with diligent waves of his hand, he would try to make his mother understand that her fears were entirely baseless.

After coming to Kashi, Harihar’s income also increased. After walking around to a few places, he managed to arrange regular scripture-reading sessions at several temples. Besides that, one day Sarbajaya said to her husband, ‘Why don’t you take your book and sit at Dashashwamedh Ghat every afternoon? People make money in all sorts of clever ways, but you just sit around hatching plans—’

Goaded by his wife, Harihar began to take his manuscript of the Kashi Khanda and sit at Dashashwamedh Ghat in the afternoons. Reading from the Puranas was no new business for him; back in the village, he had done it on many occasions at his disciples’ homes for various rites and festivals. Opening his book, he would begin the invocation in his melodious voice:

Barhapidabhiramam mrigamad-tilakam kundalakranta-gandam, …smita-subhaga-mukham svadhare nyasta-venum… …Brahma-Gopala-vesham.

The crowds were not bad.

Back at their lodgings, he would write something on sandy paper. He told his wife, ‘No one wants to listen if all you do is recite shlokas—that Bangal kathak gets a bigger crowd than I do. I’ve been thinking I’ll write a few palas myself, with songs, and in the style of a kathakata. Otherwise you can’t draw a crowd. I got to talking with that Bangal fellow the day before yesterday… he doesn’t even know the Devanagari script, just makes up rhymes to charm the women and take their money… I collect six annas, maybe eight, on my platter, while he never gets less than a whole rupee… Want to hear a bit of what I’m writing?’

He would read a little of it aloud. He said, ‘I was thinking I’d copy the description of the forest from that kathak’s manuscript—but do you think he’ll let me?’

‘Tell me, where exactly do you sit and perform? I must go and listen one day—’

‘Do come, I sit just below the temple of Shashthi—come tomorrow, I’ll be performing the new pala. It’s Ekadashi tomorrow, a good day—’

‘On your way back, bring four paisa worth of paniphal jilipi for Opu, will you? The other day the khotta woman from upstairs did some puja and called me over for a drink of water, and she gave me this… paniphal jilipi, she said, you can get it in Visveshwar Gali. As I was eating it, I thought of how much Opu loves jilipi—but since she had only offered me water to drink, how could I ask to bring some away for him? Do bring four paisa worth today.’

For a few days now, Harihar’s storytelling had been drawing quite a crowd. A maidservant from the Kalibari at Narad Ghat brought a large sidha on a big brass tray and set it down on their verandah. Sarbajaya said with a smile, ‘Is it the day for the weekly puja? I see he’s on his way home, is he, Jhi?’ After the maid had left, she called her son. ‘Come here, Opu—look! Here’s that coconut-heart you love so much! Raisins, bananas, and look how big the mangoes are! Come and eat, I’ll give you some—sit here—’

Thus encouraged, Harihar once again took out his bundle of old notebooks. Sarbajaya said, ‘People’s ears are ringing from hearing the story of Dhruva over and over, why don’t you start something new?’ For the whole morning and afternoon, Harihar sat, single-mindedly writing and finishing a kathakata pala based on the tale of Jadabharata. He remembered how, sitting right here in Kashi twenty-two years ago, he had translated the Gita Govinda into verse; he had been twenty-four years old then. After returning to the village, his life’s purpose had seemed to become even clearer to him. In Kashi it had not been so pronounced—but back in the village, the widespread currency and fame of Dashu Ray’s songs, Dewanji’s songs, Gobinda Adhikari’s Shak-Shari duels, the songs of Loka Dhopa’s troupe and Moti Juri—all this had cast a new kind of spell on his mind.

At night he would tell his wife, ‘They were having a kobi-gaan at the bazaar baroari, you see? I sat and listened for a while, you know? …The verses are so simple…it’s nothing, really. Just you wait. Once I get our household settled, I’ll sit down properly and compose a whole new kind of pala. All these people just sing the same old verses from the age of Mandhata. That’s what I was telling Raju yesterday—’

Some days, waking late at night, Harihar would sit out on the verandah and think, and his mind would grow light as a feather with some indefinable joy.

What a brilliant future lay before him!…

In great assemblies swaying with the light of chandeliers, he could see his rhymes, his songs, his Shyama-sangeet, his verses being performed, night after night, in towns and villages across the land. People had come from far and wide, crossing fields and fording streams, carrying their bundles of food, just to sit and listen. The leaders of performance troupes had come to his house, earnestly requesting his palas.

‘Ah! How truly wonderful! Whose composition is this? “The poet’s guru, Thakur Haru—” Haru Thakur’s? No. It is by the esteemed Harihar Ray of Nischindipur.’

It was here, sitting at this very Dashashwamedh Ghat twenty-two years ago, that he had built and dismantled so many castles in his mind—and then, who knows when, he had slowly forgotten it all; who knows when the stack of new notebooks had taken refuge in a neglected, secret corner of a trunk, hiding its face from the light of day—the web of youthful dreams had vanished at the midday of life, like mist on the horizon.

Looking back at his lost youth made his heart ache. So many memories came flooding back—could those days of his life not be brought back, even for a single moment?

At Dashashwamedh Ghat, Apu had made friends with many boys. But here, all the boys his age went to school; he was the only one who still did not. In Nischindipur, it was fine to spend one’s days fishing and boating, but here, he was ashamed to admit to boys his own age that he didn’t study anything.

Moreover, the boys he had befriended at Dashashwamedh Ghat were all from well-to-do families. Poltu’s elder brother had mentioned one day, in passing, that his father had to travel abroad a great deal. Apu had said, ‘Why, do you have a lot of disciples’ houses to visit?’

Poltu’s brother said in surprise, ‘Disciples’ houses? What for, brother?…’

Before Apu could give a proper reply, he continued, ‘My father is a contractor, you see. Besides, we have a small zamindari in Kanthi—though after paying the revenue instalments, what’s really left these days?’

On some afternoons, Apu would go strolling at Dashashwamedh Ghat and listen to his father’s recitation from the Puranas. He would sit on the steps of the Shashti temple, listening with rapt attention to the story of the sage-king Bharata, whose heart was bound in affection to a young fawn; of the fawn’s death at the hands of a predator; of the king’s sorrowful, lonely grief; and finally, of his own death. As he listened, tears would well up in Apu’s eyes. And then, when the story turned to King Rahugana of Sindhu-Sauvira, who, not knowing his true identity, pressed the great sage Bharata into service as a palanquin-bearer—from that moment on, Apu’s heart would begin to pound with curiosity and suspense, and he would think, Something is about to happen now; it must happen. He dearly loved the benediction in the Purabi raga that came at the very end of the storytelling—

May the rains fall in their season, may the earth be rich with grain…

May all people be free from ailment…

Towards evening, the sound of conch shells and bells from the many temples, the red glow of the setting sun, and the strains of the Purabi melody all seemed to mingle with the pain of the sage-king, grieving for his lost fawn.

Back at their lodgings, he would fetch paper and pen for his father and say, “Won’t you write it down for me, Baba? That verse you sing—Kale barshatu parjanyang?”

Pleased, Harihar would say, “You listen then, do you, Khoka?”

“I’m there every day. Yesterday, when you were telling the story of Bharata’s mother’s death, I was sitting right behind you—on the steps of the Shashti temple.”

“And how do you like it—do you enjoy it?”

“Ve-e-e-ery much. I listen every single day.”

But there was one thing Apu kept hidden. On days when his friends were with him, he stayed well away from his father. Once, as he was passing nearby, his father spotted him and called out, “Khoka, oh Khoka—”

The friend with him asked, “Does he know you?”

Apu simply nodded his head to say yes. He did not go to his father that day. What if his friends were to find out his father was a storyteller at the ghat! He had told his friends—all except Poltu’s older brother—that they had a house in Kashi, that they had come for a change of air, that they had a very big house back in their village, that his father was a contractor, and that, on top of that, they had a zamindari. Then he would add, “But what’s the use of a zamindari? After paying the taxes, what’s left?”

Perhaps because his friends were not much older than he was, they never seemed to notice the incongruity between his stories and his clothes; his beautiful face, in particular, seemed to make it all plausible.

On the day of the full moon, a large crowd gathered for the storyteller. In the evening, after finishing his own recitation, Harihar was resting on the ghat steps when the other storyteller came down to the water to wash his hands and face. Seeing Harihar, he said, “Ah, so you’re here too. Did you see what happened? I thought, it’s the full moon, a good day, I’ll hold a collection for Brahmins—time was, moshai, a monthly Brahmin-alms round in this city would bring in fifteen seers, half a maund of rice. Nowadays, people’s hearts are no longer moved, not even for a grand collection. Not a single grain of rice—I got maybe five sikas in coin, and two of them were dud doyanis! … Where did you receive your training, moshai?”

“My training was right here in Kashi, a long time ago. But I’ve been back in my village all this while—I’ve only just come and taken a place here…”

“Are your lodgings nearby, moshai? … Could you offer me a little tea? … I’ve been thinking of having some tea for days—look here, I even carry it tied in the corner of my shawl, thinking I might get some hot water at a sweet-seller’s shop… my voice has gone hoarse, a little salt-tea would do my throat some good…”

“Yes, yes, of course, please come! My place is very near—won’t you come?” Taking the storyteller with him, Harihar returned to his lodgings.

Drinking tea was not a custom in their house. Water was heated in a small iron pan and the tea was made. Apu brought it in a bronze tumbler, along with a few things to eat on a saucer. Seeing the food, the storyteller was overjoyed—he had not expected anything to eat.

“Is this your boy? My, what a fine boy you have! Very handsome to look at, my word—come, come, my boy, stay right there, may you be blessed—you’ve made it with salt, haven’t you, moshai? … Let me see—”

Harihar asked, “Are your wife and children all here?”

“I have no family, so how could I have children? … I lost ten bighas of land, and that too was land that could have fed us forever. If I had those few bighas today—would I have come this far from home? You tell me! … Is this any kind of a country to live in, moshai? … May Lord Vishweshwar keep me in His grace, of course—but this whole winter is passing, moshai—not a drop of date-palm juice, not a single cake of patali gur. I myself owned forty date-palm trees—”

“And where is your home village, moshai?”

“Near Satkhira, in Badure—do you know Shitalakati? The Chakkottis of Shitalakati are a very distinguished family—”

Harihar prepared the hookah, took a few puffs himself, and handed it to the storyteller. “Have some,” he said. “It’s nothing, moshai, but around the month of Fagun I go back. I have an orchard, I sell the produce and come back—we are Shrotriya Brahmins, you see? … I had ten bighas of land, you know, so I mortgaged it to raise the money for my wedding. I married—and we were together for ten years, moshai. And then do you know what happened? One evening, she went to cut a pumpkin from the kitchen roof—and a snake was lying in wait for me there, moshai. It bit her on the hand. And I wasn’t even home that day. Who was there to call a physician or a snakebite-charmer, who was there to do anything? I was just crossing the ferry at Patuli ghat—Mahesh Sadhukhan from my village was coming from the other side. He told me, ‘Go home quickly, moshai—a great misfortune has befallen your house.’ But he wouldn’t say what. When I reached home, I found my wife had died the previous night! That was the end of that, moshai… The land was gone—and so was she. Since then I said to myself, what’s the use of staying in the village? Where would I get three or four hundred rupees to marry again? … So I said, I’ll go to the city of Vishwanath… at least I won’t starve… It’s been eight years now. I have a cousin—he has taken possession of the little land and property that remains. Says I have no share. Fine, I said, if I have none, I have none. I will never get involved in a squabble. Do as you please, take possession. I should be going now, moshai—that was a fine cup of tea I had at your place. Where did your boy go? … A fine boy, a wonderful boy—”

Dusting off his canvas shoes, patched with old leather, the storyteller put them on and came to the door. As he was leaving, he said, “I’ll try for Brahmin-alms again tomorrow—let’s see what happens.”