23

The jatra begins. The world ceased to exist; there was no one else—only Apu, and before him, Nilmoni Hazra’s jatra troupe. Just before dusk, the violinist—a fine one—plays an alaap in the Iman raga. The village boy had never heard anything so fine; the plaintive, sorrowful melody suddenly made his heart ache… He imagined his father still at home, sitting and writing that thing of his, and his sister, who had wanted to come but couldn’t. When the king’s ministers first began to appear, dressed in costumes of gold brocade, in an arena lit by hanging chandeliers and seashell lamps, Apu thought of what wonders his father was missing. Everyone from the village was in the audience, not a soul from their neighbourhood was missing! Why wasn’t Baba here yet…? The play moves on swiftly. He had once seen a jatra by a troupe of boy kirtan singers—but what was that compared to this! Such costumes! Such faces!

Suddenly, a voice from behind him asks, “Son, can you see all right?” Apu hadn’t noticed when his father had arrived and taken a seat in the audience. Turning to him, he says, “Baba, is Didi here? … Behind the screen, is she?”

As the king, dethroned by his minister’s secret conspiracy, is heading into the forest with his wife and son, the violin plays a tearful accompaniment. Then, to prolong the pathos of the scene, the king, holding the hands of his wife and son, takes a step and pauses, then another step, in a manner that no real-life king on the verge of exile would adopt in front of a crowd, unless he were utterly unhinged. The loyal royal general trembles with such rage that it would be the envy of an epileptic. Apu sits staring, his eyes unblinking, utterly captivated and amazed; he has never seen anything like it.

Then, where has the king gone, where has the queen gone! In the deep, dense forest, only Prince Ajay and Princess Indulekha, brother and sister, wander alone. There is no one to look upon their faces, no one to show them the way in the desolate woods. Indulekha goes a short distance away to fetch fruit for her little brother and does not return. Ajay searches for his sister in the woods—then, by the riverbank, he suddenly finds Indulekha’s dead body. Driven by hunger, she had eaten a poisonous fruit and died. Listening to Ajay’s sorrowful song— Where have you gone and left me in this wilderness, O my beloved, companion of my soul?— Apu, who until now had been watching with enchanted eyes, can hold back no longer; his small body heaves with sobs.

The swordplay in the battle between the King of Kalinga and Bichtraketu—what a spectacle! It looks as though the chandeliers will be smashed to pieces, or else some hapless spectator will lose his eyes! A cry goes up: “Mind the chandeliers! Mind the chandeliers!” But their skill in combat is astounding—they miss everything. Bravo, Bichtraketu!

During a long interval filled with a song by the juri and a display of virtuosity on the violin, Apu’s father calls to him. “Getting sleepy… want to go home, son?” Sleep! Heavens, no! No, he will not go home. Calling him outside, his father says, “Here, keep these two pice, son. Buy yourself something to eat. I’m going home.” Apu feels like buying a pice’s worth of paan. Seeing a huge crowd for some reason near the paan stall, he goes closer and beholds a wondrous sight! The general, Bichtraketu, still in full armour, is buying a Bird’s Eye cigarette and lighting it—surrounded by a crowd as thick as one at the Rathayatra festival. Wonder of wonders! Prince Ajay appears from somewhere, touches Bichtraketu’s elbow and says, “Buy me a pice’s worth of paan, won’t you, Kishoree-da?” The general showed no sign of his on-stage loyalty to the prince. Shaking off his hand, he said, “Go on! I don’t have that kind of money. Besides, this afternoon when the two of us shared that bar of soap, what did you say to me then?” The prince said again, “Oh, come on, Kishoree-da! Haven’t I ever given you anything?” Bichtraketu pulled his arm free and walked away.

He must be about Apu’s age. Fair-skinned and handsome, with a beautiful singing voice. Apu gazes at him, captivated, overcome with a desire to speak to him. Suddenly, drawn by some impulse, he musters his courage and steps forward. A little shyly, he asks, “Would you like a paan?” Ajay is a little surprised. “You’re buying? Why not, bring one over.” The two become friends. To say they become friends would be an understatement. Apu is enchanted, overwhelmed! This was the very person he had been yearning for all this time—this Prince Ajay. Through his mother’s hundred fairy tales, through the spell of his childhood’s hundred mesmerised imaginings, his soul had longed for him—for these eyes, this face, this voice! Exactly what he had always wanted. Ajay asks, “Where do you live, brother? I’ve been assigned to someone’s house for my meals, but they serve me so late. Who from the troupe eats at your house?”

Apu’s whole body tingles with delight. He says, “Brother, one of them eats at our house—I saw him playing the dholak today. You can come starting tomorrow, I’ll come and fetch you. The dholak-player can just go back to the house where you used to eat.”

After wandering about for a while, Ajay says, “I must go now, brother, I have a song in the final scene. How do you like my part?”

At the end of the night, when the jatra is over, Apu returns home. On the way, whenever he hears people talking, it sounds to him like the actors performing their roles. At home, his sister says, “O Apu, how was the jatra?” In his mind, Apu hears Princess Indulekha crying out in the deep, deserted forest. He is possessed by a kind of spell. Overjoyed, he announces, “From tomorrow, Ma, the boy who played Ajay—he’s coming to our house for his meals.”

His mother says, “Two of them? Where will I get enough for two—”

Apu says, “No, not two. One will leave, only Ajay will eat here.”

Durga said, “How was the jatra, Opu? I’ve never seen anything like it. And that song, when the princess died…?” That night, as Apu sleeps, violin music seems to surround him in his dreams. He wakes up a little late in the morning. Having fallen asleep in the last hours of the night, he hadn’t slept soundly, and the sharp sunlight felt like needles in his eyes. Washing them only made them burn. But an orchestra of violin, dhol, and cymbals still seemed to be playing in his ears—as if he were still sitting in the jatra arena.

On the path to the bathing ghat, the neighbourhood women are walking and talking, and to Apu they seem to be Dheerabati, or the Maharani of Kalinga, or Prince Ajay’s mother, Vasumati. In his sister’s every word, in the very gesture of her hands and feet, the essence of Princess Indulekha seems to be infused. The boy who played Indulekha yesterday had been passable, of course, but the image of the princess that had formed in Apu’s mind was made in the mould of his sister—the same complexion, the same large eyes, the same lovely face, the same beautiful hair!

It was as if Indulekha, with all her compassion, affection, and sweetness, had returned from some bygone country’s forgotten life to be his sister once more. That was why, yesterday, in Indulekha’s every turn of phrase, every footstep, it was his own Didi who seemed to emerge again and again. When she had held her little brother in a hundred embraces in the deep woods, when she went to gather fruit to feed him and got lost in a lonely part of the forest—it was the incident with the makal fruit, that one day, that kept coming back to Apu’s mind.

At midday, Apu went and called Ajay for his meal. His mother, serving them both in the same spot, began to ask Ajay about himself. He was a Brahmin boy with no one in the world; an aunt had raised him, but she too had passed away. He had been working in the jatra troupe for about a year now. Sarbajaya felt a great affection for the boy; she plied him with questions and made sure he ate well. There was not much to offer, but the boy ate with great relish. Afterwards, Durga whispered to her mother, “Ma, ask him to sing that song from yesterday—the one that goes, ‘Where have you gone and left me in this wilderness, O my beloved, companion of my soul—’”

Ajay sang, his voice ringing out. Apu was spellbound. Sarbajaya’s eyes grew moist. Ah, a boy like this, and no mother! After that, he sang more songs. Sarbajaya said, “I’ll be making puffed rice this afternoon, son, you must come and have some then. Don’t be shy, now. Come whenever you like, as if it were your own home, you understand?”

Apu took him for a walk towards the riverbank. There, Ajay said, “Brother, you have such a sweet voice, why don’t you sing a song?” Apu very much wanted to show off his talent before him. But he was terrified—this was a boy from a jatra troupe. How could he sing in front of him? By the river, under the big silk-cotton tree, they sat down some distance from the main path, concealed by a thicket of bamboo. Apu, overcoming his shyness with great difficulty, sang a song: O Ananta, in your grace, lift me to your feet. It was a song from Dashu Ray’s panchali that he had copied down after hearing his father sing it. Ajay was astonished. “You have a voice like that, brother? Then why don’t you sing? Sing another one.” Encouraged, Apu began another: Waiting for the ferry, my soul, the sun has set by the landing. His sister had learned it from somewhere and come home singing it; Apu, loving the tune, had learned it from her. They often sang it together when no one else was home.

When the song was over, Ajay was effusive in his praise. “With a voice like that, I tell you, any troupe would be begging to give you a salary of fifteen rupees. And that’s before you’ve even had a bit of training.”

Many times, when no one was at home, Apu had sung for his sister and asked her, “Tell me, Didi, do I have a voice? Can I really sing?” His sister had always reassured him. But no matter how encouraging his sister’s assurances, to hear such praise today from a seasoned, medal-winning singer from a real jatra troupe—Apu was so filled with joy and pride he couldn’t think of what to say in reply.

He said, “Will you teach me that song of yours?” Then, the two of them, their voices blending, sang it together.

A long time passed. Boats glided down the river with a soft, splashing sound. Down by the water’s edge below the riverbank, a man was searching for something. Ajay asked, “What’s he looking for, brother?” Apu replied, “Tadpoles. He’s going to use them for bait.” Then he said, “Listen, brother, why don’t you stay here with us? Don’t go anywhere else, will you stay?”

Such eyes, such a sweet-sounding voice! And on top of it all, to Apu, he was that same Prince Ajay. It was as if, while wandering in some forest, he had suddenly met a helpless, homeless, handsome king’s son, and they had become friends for life. How could he let him go now?

Ajay, too, opened his heart and shared many things. He had never found such a companion. He had saved nearly forty rupees. Once he was a little older, he would leave this troupe. The owner beat them terribly.

He would join Ashutosh Pal’s troupe—life was good there, they got luchis every night. And if you didn’t eat, they gave you three annas for your meal allowance. When he left this troupe, he would come back to Apu’s house and stay for a while. A little before afternoon, Ajay said, “Come on, brother, the performance will start again soon today. Let’s head back early. If they do ‘The Smiting of Parashuram’s Pride,’ I’ll be playing Niyati, the goddess of fate. You should see the song I have—”

The jatra continued for three more days. On the lips of everyone in the village, there was no other topic of conversation. On paths, at ghats, in the fields, the village boatman sang the newly learned songs from the play as he rowed his boat, the cowherd as he grazed his cattle. The village women called the boys from the troupe to their houses and requested their favourite songs from whichever singer they had liked best. Apu learned three or four new songs himself. One day, he went with Ajay to the troupe’s lodgings, where everyone ganged up on him, insisting he sing a song. They had all heard from Ajay that he could sing very well. After much persuasion, Apu, for the sake of properly displaying his art, sang one. They all grabbed him and took him to the owner. There too, he was made to sing. The owner was a dark, pot-bellied man who sang the juri parts on stage. After hearing the song, he said, “Come on, sonny, will you join the troupe?” Apu’s chest swelled ten hands wide with joy and pride. The others all chimed in, “Come on, come with us, we’ll take you into our troupe.” Apu felt he could leave this very instant. That working in a jatra troupe was the ultimate purpose of human existence—it was a wonder he hadn’t known this all along. He secretly asked Ajay, “Listen, brother, if I join the troupe now, what parts will they give me?” Ajay said, “For now, you’d play a handmaiden or a boy’s part, something like that. Then, after you learn properly—”

Apu did not want to play a handmaiden. He would wear a brocade crown, gird himself with a sword, and go to war as a general. When he grew up, he would join a jatra troupe for certain; it was the fixed star of his life. Ajay quietly pointed to a lad the colour of touchstone and said, “See him? His name is Bishtu Teli. We don’t get along at all. I buy my own matches with my own money and sleep with them under my pillow, and he just lifts them to smoke his cheroots and won’t give them back. I tell him I get scared at night, ‘Give me the matches.’ The dark gives me the creeps, and just because I asked for them the other day, he gave me such a slap! The owner dotes on him because he’s a good dancer, so there’s nothing you can say.”

About five days later, when the troupe’s performances were over, they prepared to leave. Ajay had been coming and going as if he were a son of the house; in those few days, he had become like another brother to Apu. Sarbajaya, hearing he was a young boy of Apu’s age with no one in the world, had cared for him just as she did for Apu. Durga, too, had looked upon him as her own brother—she had learned songs from him, told him countless stories, talked about her pishi, and the three of them had drawn a large house in the courtyard to play Ganga-Yamuna. At mealtimes, she had forced him to eat more. Living in a jatra troupe, who knew where he was looked after, where he slept, what he ate; there was no one to say a kind word. The touch of familial affection that had probably been denied him since birth, he had now tasted unexpectedly, and like a man starved, he did not want to let it go.

As he was leaving, he suddenly opened his bundle, took out the five rupees he had saved with such difficulty, and tried to press them into Sarbajaya’s hand. In a slightly shy voice, he said, “With these five rupees, for Didi’s wedding, a nice sari—”

Sarbajaya said, “No, my son, no. Your words are more than enough, you don’t have to give us money. You have so much need for money now—you have to get married and become a householder.”

Still, he wouldn’t give up. It took a great deal of persuading to make him stop.

Afterwards, they all walked him a little way down the path from their front door to see him off. As he went, he said again and again that they must be sure to write to him when Didi’s wedding was arranged.

When his graceful, boyish figure disappeared behind a thicket of bhant and sheora bushes in the shade of the gab tree, it suddenly occurred to Sarbajaya: Such a young child, ah, and at this age he’s gone out to earn his own living. What if it were her Apu who ended up like that—oh, Mother