‘Can you see it, there, on that rock? A picture, drawn by a man. Who knows how many thousands of years ago. Before Christ. Before the Buddha. He must have used red soil, the blood of pigs. It’s faded, but it’s still visible.
‘One thing is certain, our ancestor didn’t make this sketch in the hope that we would see and appreciate it. You see how it’s almost impossible for any animal that moves on legs to get here.’ Somanath cast an amused look at Krishnaswamy, his old college friend, who was clearly terrified for his life. ‘My feeling is the picture was created to carry out some ritual from the magical canon. Perhaps our ancestor received this picture when the mantras were being transmitted to the Rigveda sages. Perhaps in a state of frenzy! He has seen the hunter with his killer instinct and the deer with its impulse for life, both with equal vision and wonder.’
Krishnaswamy stared at what Somanath pointed out to him. The picture emerged slowly, in stages, as he gazed at it, and finally materialised: a darting deer, behind which was a man chasing it with a spear.
They were on a steep, rounded rock face, on which ran a ridge with just enough room to partially rest their feet. Their only other support was the topmost branch of a monstrous tree. The tree had its beginnings somewhere deep down. Its source was not visible. Even the massive trunk from which the gigantic arms shot out couldn’t be seen. The branches had pushed through every cranny of the precipitous stone that provided the minute bit of space for their feet, and it was as if the tree was now hoping to find even more room and grow past the crest of the rock. With his right hand, Krishnaswamy had grasped one branch after the next, and with his left he had felt his way on the rock which was at chest level, groping, as he slowly propelled himself towards Somanath’s precious secret spot. Even though he was in fear of his life, he was driven by his yearning to view the hidden location.
As the picture revealed itself to him now, he was disappointed. Had he really used his nerves only to behold such a very ordinary piece of work? Hadn’t he seen so many similar pictures at the Bheem Baithak without having to suffer such rough terrain? Why, he had even lectured about them.
He held on tight to the branch, rested his back firmly against the rock face and looked around carefully, taking care not to lose his balance. From the point where they stood, all they could see beyond was the clear blue sky. To Krishnaswamy’s rear were huge trees that came cleaving through the rocks from fifty to sixty feet below. Far behind the trees, there probably was a village. Further down, according to the map, was the Arabian Sea. The bright sun of the West was to his back.
’Except for you and me, nobody else in our time would have seen this. At the base of this tree are its guardian spirits, the serpent god. Nobody dares to climb these trees to fell them. They don’t even pick the dry twigs that wither and drop down on their own.’
Krishnaswamy was more worried about the immediate: How did one reach the jeep that was parked two kilometres away? He had been standing in the same position for a long time now, would his weary legs walk him back?
It was possible to go higher, to place his arms on the concave granite face and, with an enormous forward thrust, reach the top, which was forty feet long and fifty feet wide. But to descend, to find his footing again on the ridge, that was not going to be easy. He focussed again. Was that the rock, the black one in front of him which seemed to rise from the one on which he so precariously leaned, was that the rock which had the fading red picture? It looked like it housed a cave: smooth and upright and sharp at the top. Like a massive linga, reaching to the sky. So forbidding, one couldn’t climb it, one couldn’t see what was beyond.
Despite the disappointment of the picture, he was comforted by the fact that the experience would help him analyse the extraordinary metaphysical nature of Somanath’s oeuvre in the book that he was planning to write in English. As Krishnaswamy was formulating sophisticated, wonderful phrases – about the virtues and limitations of Somanath’s work, the flaws that were born out of his excessive merits – he thought he saw something. In the light that fell on the bare rock it seemed there was a small protuberance in the picture: it was a chameleon.
This primordial creature has been living, dying, crawling, eating what it finds, acquiring the colour of its surroundings and has existed here since eternity … How is it that Somanath hasn’t spotted it by the picture that’s been fading with time? Or has he? The chameleon almost seems like Somanath’s signature that he places at the right bottom corner of his paintings.
Somanath began to hold forth again, like someone lost in his words. Krishnaswamy listened, but was beset with anxiety – that the branch would give way or that his hands would grow weary and let go of the branch.
When he was a young boy, Somanath had been crazy about hunting bees. He would skip school, making sure he was out of the sight of his father, a man oblivious to everything except his areca cultivation, agriculture, rites and rituals. His mother, who had to attend to the never-ending stream of guests, dishing out porridge, kadubu and the rest, had no clue what Somanath was up to either. He would hide his school bag in the hollow of the huge jackfruit tree, pull out the blanket he’d left there and wrap it around his face and head. Then, looking like one of the servants’ children, he would slip a catapult into the pocket of his shorts and when it seemed to him to be an appropriate day he would set out into the forest to hunt bees. As he wandered in the forest one day, he had stepped into this very groove in the rock, and sought support of the branch of this very tree, for he could see a coil of bees, black spots on the yellow blossoms of the tree, suggesting that there was a hive around. Just like today, even that day, placing half his foot on the ridge along the rock, he had held on to a branch, moved to the next and let go of the previous one … held … let go … smoothly, slithering like a green snake to the top to set eyes upon a huge, heavy hive pulsating with bees dripping in thousands from their segmented cases. It seemed like a living, breathing creature. A step further, and the bees were behind him, buzzing and alive. And before him was the still picture that in its very stillness throbbed with the eternal motion of life. The bees were forgotten; he was lost to the world. It felt as if the spirits from down below were whispering profound secrets to him.
Even when Somanath went to France, Italy, Mexico, Africa, America, many other places to promote his art, this spot was the object of his contemplation, this tranquil, serene spot throbbing with life, hidden in nature.
With its body that mimicked the rock, the raised head of the chameleon appeared to nod approvingly. It was so slight a motion that Krishnaswamy began to wonder if it stirred at all. In the background, was Somanath’s drone-like narrative.
’I am a thief, a thief of the divine. This is my sacred, secret haunt from my childhood. This is the source of my inspiration.’
Staring at the chameleon, all that had been left out of Somanath’s magical account came to Krishnaswamy’s mind.
This great artist, who is apparently above all worldly obligations, married his maternal uncle’s daughter in accordance with his parents’ will. With or without the marriage, the girl was his mother’s responsibility, her daughter-in-law. And didn’t this become so convenient an arrangement that he was free to indulge in the life of a drifter? And didn’t his mother lovingly nurture all the family heirs he produced in between these wanderings, and look after his wife who bore his progeny with such tender care and responsibility? Now, with a long, flowing beard that’s turned pepper-and-salt, and hair spread carelessly over his back, he is stylish in his worn green kurta darned many a times by his unadorned beauty of a wife. This Somanath, this lean, attractive man wearing head gear like the Byaris and looking like a sage of ancient times, is undoubtedly a thief.
Somanath is not only a thief, but the rogue is also deceptively astute in his worldly transactions. From his looks, from the manner in which he speaks, who would guess that he belongs to a traditional Brahmin family from Malnad. If I know it, it is because he was my friend right from college days itself. I became conscious of his many duplicities only when I began to envy him. But the rascal lives happily as if he is oblivious to my sceptical view of him. He seems to float forever in a state of emotional well-being, as if all my doubts and accusations are wrong.
The thought liberated Krishnaswamy from Somanath’s spell and it felt good. He felt a surge of affection for his friend rise in him. Now when he looked at the picture, it did not seem so ordinary anymore, it offered new meanings. The chameleon, with its bulbous eyes and raised head, was saying something very different; it was whispering to him that which it had whispered to primordial man …
He sensed a spontaneous, surreptitious laughter breaking within him.
Somanath continued as if he was speaking to himself, to nobody, ‘I got to know my parents were ill, bedridden. I returned, deciding to live in the village. My wife, that poor woman, was taking care of my parents and the children and was waiting for me to come back. I may not be a principled, dignified gentleman like you but I am not a scoundrel either. My parents died. I appointed people to take care of the lands. I come here every day, spend some time and then go back. I have been coming here since my childhood and nothing has changed. But I keep changing, in the sense that I move closer and closer to the picture.’
It seemed like the chameleon was staring into a vacuum. It opened and closed its mouth slightly. Perhaps it had swallowed something. It breathed, its neck rising and falling. Stoic, it almost seemed to mock the urgency of life in the picture of the charging hunter. And the instant the thought flashed across Krishnaswamy’s mind, he felt an urgent impulse to climb onto the rock against which he so precariously leaned. Somanath’s animated avowal on the worship of the life force was so amusing that Krishnaswamy wondered if a spirit from the hollows had entered his bamboo-like body and was charging him up: the rock, inanimate yet infused, it seemed to him, with just the right amount of life, and the still chameleon that yet was animate seemed to embody an extraordinary peace, cognisant of everything and the desire to achieve this state of being was so overpowering that his fear vanished and he let go of the branch, and transferred his weight on to his torso. Resting both his arms on the rock, he slithered forward like a python. He felt a huge sense of relief for having shed thus his dry dignity, his fear for life.
Somanath was standing in supplication as if hoping to achieve the state of being of the bare-bodied primitive creator of the picture. Krishnaswamy wished him good luck and yet again, felt exhilarated by his furtive laughter.
Somanath was about to continue with his epic. But Krishnaswamy suddenly stood up with a sloppy carelessness, and seeing this, Somanath said, ’Kittu, never do that again. I’ve never climbed on the rock like that. My legs never come in contact with the sacred surface. I cannot bear to walk around where the great man who created this picture meditated, where his every step was intense and engaged. Call it my fallacy if you wish.’
Krishnaswamy felt that Somanath was being silly, but said, ‘Sorry’. The next minute Somanath was laughing lightly and saying, ‘I suppose it’s okay for you. I’m a worshipper of this place, but you aren’t. You are a worshipper of civilisation, and a thinker. And yet, how strange, you are my close friend. And I have let you into this secret of mine for safekeeping. Be warned though, if you ever write about this, it will be the end of our friendship.’
’Let the epic continue,’ Krishnaswamy said, making his promise to Somanath. Floating in the spirit of camaraderie, Krishnaswamy didn’t in the least anticipate the divine dimension the story would lend to him.
- 2 -
A student tagged on to Somanath when news of his whereabouts became known. The region, dotted with ancient temples had kept alive many of the traditional rituals known only to those who were involved in them, and that stood the test of time only because of their secret worshippers. In France there was a great curiosity about these rituals. The student, whose name was Jyoti, had sought a fellowship from her French stepfather’s trust, and managed to come to the village to work on the spirit worship. The reason for her visit, however, was to be in the company of Somanath; she had trained in Art in France and was a passionate admirer of Somanath’s work.
Many well-known spirits lived in the base of the tree that was in the rear courtyard of the temples of Rama, Shiva, Krishna, Narayana and the rest of the gods. But in addition to these there were the malevolent, thieving spirits. For the laughing spirit, the screaming spirit, the gleeful spirit, the dacoits’ spirit, the prostitutes’ spirit, the liars’ spirit … the offering could only be arrack. Those who made the offering had to bite into the flesh of a fowl and suck hot blood. They had to be fanned with the areca flower. In case the spirit was not propitiated properly, it would whistle and hypnotise them when they walked in the dark forests, and ensure that they lost their way.
Somanath helped Jyoti video record many of the spirit worship rituals and the mystical stories around them. Jyoti, in turn, bought a number of Somanath’s paintings. She paid him phenomenal sums, four to five lakhs per piece. She was buying them for her stepfather. He was not a great connoisseur of art. Rather, he was a crook, a crook from a multinational organisation. He was after the ore that could be mined in the region, hugely profitable ore, and had sent his daughter ahead to win over the people. Jyoti was sly too. She had her own agenda – she was using her stepfather to gain proximity to Somanath.
’But you are a crook too; you gave away all the secret rituals of this region to a multinational company’s anthropology project.’
Somanath was not angered by Krishnaswamy’s accusation. He continued laughing. But, he said, he had not shown this secret place to anyone, not to Jyoti, not to his wife. He had only told Jyoti that a picture such as this one was the inspiration for his work, he had not divulged its location. Because the girl, he realised, was wicked enough to tell her stepfather about it and was capable of converting it into a pilgrimage spot by getting him to construct a flight of steps to take people up the rock. Like the mythical Gowri, Jyoti too sat in penance before the blazing holy fire, striving to unravel the inspiration behind Somanath’s works. By looking at a picture she could sense the source of its creation. But she, who was so adept at reading the masters, could not herself create. Somanath, however, had faith that one day, she too would find her sacred spot. He saw in her the throbbing vitality that he saw in the picture.
Krishnaswamy stretched himself on the rock, and tried to look at the picture with the eyes of a worshipper. The manner in which the hunter had infused the energy of his entire body into the tip of his spear and had thrown himself in a forward motion, the tearing rush of his mighty leap … now, Krishnaswamy perceived all this very differently. He felt that the beginnings of modern man were in the tip of the spear of the primitive man who was technically skilled and was greedy. Here was the hunter who yearned for the deer’s meat, Somanath who yearned for the picture and Jyoti who yearned to know the secret inspiration of Somanath’s art. The thing that would destroy this chain of yearning, devour it, was the desire of the French man to mine the land. And Krishnaswamy’s own burning desire to understand them all. There was one thing, however, that surpassed all desires – the patient chameleon.
Krishnaswamy felt the surreptitious laughter within him.
- 3 -
It was Somanath’s good fortune that the winds weren’t too heavy and the branch that he held on to wasn’t swaying too much. The leaves rustling in the gentle breeze filtered the sun’s rays from the west and there was a beautiful play of light and shade on the picture in front. The smooth granite was inviting and Krishnaswamy, galvanised into changing positions, now lay back, relaxing.
Somanath stopped talking. He stroked his long beard with his left hand, snapped his knuckles by pressing them against his temple, and pulled out a pack of beedis from his kurta pocket. He extracted a single beedi, threw it into his mouth and held it between his teeth. Thrusting the pack back into his pocket, he took out a matchbox carefully and drew one single matchstick from it. He then transferred the matchbox to his right hand, the one that was holding on to the branch, rubbed the stick against it and lit his beedi. Somanath was now before his canvas, calm and in deep contemplation.
’Without having to hide, without having to steal, I don’t think we can protect anything that’s sacred. I’m certain that there must be a secret spot on this earth that has never been sighted.’
Having said this, Somanath crushed his beedi and threw it away. When Krishnaswamy turned back to the picture, he gazed straight into the chameleon’s bulging, gem-like eyes. There was no expression in them. As it breathed, its neck, which looked like a vein in the rock, throbbed with life.
Suddenly Krishnaswamy caught sight of a flash of movement, someone or something was gesturing to him. There was a gleam at the bottom of the picture. Krishnaswamy could be tickled easily, so easily that even if someone moved their fingers as if to tickle him, he would roll in laughter. He felt that the movement, the gesture was intended just for him; he felt as if he was being tickled and a thrilled quiver ran up his entire body.
If Somanath sat before the picture in silence like an ancient sage, open and receptive to its signals, Krishnaswamy too, in his striped shirt and jeans, felt he was being signalled to by the primeval rock. He rubbed his eyes with their long eyelashes. Even at fifty, he admired himself in the mirror. He ran his hands over his face with its rather long, but sharp nose. Raising himself, he stood up as if to open the door for an unexpected arrival, an apparition that was to appear. He flicked back the hair on his forehead. He glanced at the corner that sparkled and beckoned. As his eagerness for a manifestation of a spectacle heightened, he wondered if it was the rascal Somanath’s company that was affecting him.
The preparedness of the hunter, his entire energy infused into his spear, the alertness of the deer which had compacted its body to escape the hunter’s weapon, Somanath’s absorption with trying to grapple with the meaning behind this passionate vitality of life … in the midst of all this could it be that he, Krishnaswamy, was humouring his bloated ego by telling himself that he too was receiving signals from nowhere.
If he hadn’t been in the company of Somanath, if he hadn’t scaled such difficult terrain with fear in every step, if he hadn’t been exposed to the experience of the difference between sight and perception, this picture of the hunter and the deer would have appeared insipid. For so long now, in order safeguard his social dignity, he had kept his inner self carefully locked in. Now, he could feel the latches beginning to give.
He suddenly felt that something gleam and gesticulate again, he felt his fingers delicately stroking the secret lock, and the prospect of feeling tickled, left him rapturous. One bunch of leaves among the thousands on that tree – the one which at that very moment was shielding the rays of the sun – swayed slightly in the gentle breeze, and allowed a beam of light to filter through. It touched the black rock at the bottom of which was a crevice where something shone. Somanath, who had been standing quietly, began to speak. ’This evening you will meet Jyoti. She knows the secrets of all the spirits in this area. They talk to her. The day this picture will talk to her is not too far away. I’m just waiting for her to get a bit more competent.’
’Or you can say that you are waiting for the day her stepfather will own this picture?’
’Listen fool. That deer, which the hunter is trying to hunt, dates back to a time before Dushyanta chased Shakuntala. Stupid fellow, look, look, hasn’t it remained unattainable for so many thousand years? That’s the truth of art.’
Krishnaswamy wondered at Somanath speaking with such reckless arrogance. Once again the corner of the rock, shone as if it was beckoning to him. What was surprising, however, was that Somanath, who could see metaphysical details of light and shade, failed to see this sparkle. Perhaps it wasn’t visible from where he stood. Could it be that what was shining was just something ordinary and not a spirit or an ethereal object?
His thoughts ran on: these narrow fissures were probably filled with rock structures painted on by primordial man that had collapsed when the land collapsed and were now covered in huge forests. This single rock must have survived by some chance, and it was chance that made it accessible to a man, a lizard and the birds flying above. Soon, the whole structure, the whole area would become the subject of research for the Frenchman’s giant company. The picture would be inscribed on the company’s main door. They would device a catch line ’from prehistoric times to modernity’ and boast of the company’s achievements.
- 4 -
Somanath motioned Krishnaswamy closer. Krishnaswamy, who was dying to move towards the gleaming crevice in the rock, went towards Somanath, feeling irritated.
’Hold both my hands tight.’ Somanath let go off the branch and stretched his right hand out. Krishnaswamy turned quickly, dangled his legs over the edge and asked Somanath to grasp his waist. To ease his feet, Somanath lifted them off the groove on the rock one by one. He smiled at Krishnaswamy. Krishnaswamy was taken aback by his friend’s expression. Somanath’s eyes were gleaming with mischief.
’There was a Muslim girl who was terribly attracted to you. What was her name?’
‘Haseena.’
’She changed her name after she met you …’
’Tushara’
‘At the time of her death in the Bombay blasts last year her name was Nargis Michel. You didn’t know that? Never mind … her daughter’s name?’
’Paapi.’
Krishnaswamy felt shaken by what seemed like an agenda to unravel him. But he concealed his feelings and put his hands on Somanath’s shoulders with the camaraderie of college days, as if the whole exercise of question and answer was but a game.
’Her mother used to call her Paapi. But what was her real name?’
Krishnaswamy remembered. The little girl with two braids and rashes all over her back. Jyoti.
’Yes, it’s the same Jyoti, who’s my student. The one who has come from Paris. Her mother has told her everything about you.’ Somanath winked.
Krishnaswamy wanted to desperately move away from physical contact with his friend. ‘I think I dropped my pen. Shall I go get it?’ he lied.
‘Come,’ Somanath said. The change in position had left him rested and he held on to the branch again. ‘There are many things that you don’t know; Haseena was like the glorious goddess Durga. Come let’s go.’ He lit a beedi as he had done before.
Krishnaswamy went to the gleaming crevice on the pretext of looking for his pen. Whatever it was that had shone before had ceased to shine, nothing was visible. Perhaps it was films of mica, famous in the region that had been gleaming. The sun had shifted its position and maybe that’s why they were no longer doing so.
Krishnaswamy met the round, indifferent eyes of the chameleon. It was still there to his right, exactly at the height of the picture. The glimmering object had been on the left, at the opposite end, below the picture. At the point where the rocks met. Suddenly terrified for his life once more, he stooped. He was at the level of the picture and ran his fingers over the deer, bent further and crouched under the drawing. His eyes ran along the surface, searching. He spotted a small boat-shaped aperture. It was the place which had gleamed in the sunlight, the place he had seen from the shade. There were pieces of glass bangles in it. Red bangles, green bangles…. To lead Somanath to believe that he had found his pen, he picked up a piece of bangle and put it into his pocket. Instantly he felt as if an unknown woman’s fingers had touched his private parts and it electrified his being.
In the peak of passionate physical consummation, some woman must have thrown up her arms, must have rolled in ecstasy, lost to herself and to the world. Some unknown woman, from some unknown time. Yesterday, or the day before, or a hundred years ago, or even before the rocks collapsed. How did one comprehend these gestures that haven’t been discovered even by the divine thief? What or who is the couple that rolled here passionately, a single body with four arms trying to communicate to me?
Facing Somanath who looked like a sage from the times of the Rigveda, he dropped his hands into his pocket stroking the bangle piece. He had stumbled upon a secret that he wished to share with Somanath right here where he had found it. He said joyfully, but softly, to himself, ’Hey, you pompous fellow, it seems there was someone who came to your precious, secret place thousands of years ago and spent euphoric moments here. And here is a chameleon that has constantly resurrected itself and is as old as your picture.’
- 5 -
Now it didn’t seem as difficult to cross the semi-circular rock as it had earlier. In case he slipped, the branches of the tree were dense and strong enough to support him. They descended the rock. It was a two kilometre walk through the forest to the road where the jeep had been parked. The forest was fragrant: flowers were in bloom, firewood had been stacked in places exuding the aroma of the wood, the scent of the cats, the odour of the viper that rustled through the dry leaves…, the air was thick with a mixture of these many smells.
They began to exchange stories. Somanath was in the mood for light-hearted banter. Krishnaswamy could no longer sustain the state of intense feeling he had experienced. He reverted to his usual way – of perceiving anything marked by noble ideals with a deep scepticism. He had in fact, made this the very source of his writing. He was full of admiration for someone like Somanath who could adopt a style of carefree abandon with ease, right from his college days.
He remembered. Somanath had never struggled during his examinations. He never learnt by rote. He was a natural thief. He had created his own script, bizarre jottings that looked like worms. And this rogue of a friend with his self-invented secret script would write out answers for the complex questions that he anticipated in the examination and copy them into his answer sheets with such aplomb that he was never suspected of anything.
There was little that Somanath didn’t know about Krishnaswamy’s story involving Haseena and Jyothi. Apparently the girl had told him everything that her mother had told her.
About twenty-five years ago, when Krishnaswamy worked as a lecturer in a college in Mysore, he was a favourite among his students. His wife worked in a bank in Hassan and lived there too. They met occasionally and if you asked them about their arrangement, he would claim her parents were old and need looking after. Krishnaswamy led a disciplined, single life, and was known for hanging out late with friends, drinking beer and discussing various issues. He made no distinction between people. Kumaravyasa, Thomas Mann, Kafka, Lawrence were his favourite subjects for discussion. Everybody loved his ability to be critical even with subjects that were close to his heart.
He had a favourite class, the Honour’s class. Haseena, to whom he felt terribly attracted, was a student in that class. She was a Muslim girl from Coorg. Her father was an autorickshaw driver. She was around twenty years of age, had a thick, long braid that she draped sensuously over her ample bosom, and gazed out at the world with her attractive eyes brimming with promise. She was tall and curved, with just the right amount of flesh at the right places and had a dusky complexion, the effect of a body soaked in the heat of Bellary. She came from poor means and most of her schooling had been in Bellary, where she lived with her uncle who was a vendor. Her father had married twice and was indifferent to his family.
Haseena was quick to grasp the nuances of literature. Famous for her impish ways, she was a headache to the warden of her hostel. Once, she had gone deep into the forest along with a group of boys, and that too to see the naked Gommatta, without bothering to seek permission. As if that was not enough, this Muslim girl had returned from the expedition very late at night, causing her to be the object of much gossip. The other girls envied Haseena, finding her a source of great interest and excitement. Sometimes she would turn up in class wearing a big bindi, her braid adorned with jasmines. On other occasions, she would dress like a typical Muslim girl in a glittery salwar kameez with bright earrings and lots of glass bangles. When she walked her anklets tinkled; there was a whiff of attar about her and when she laughed her beautiful teeth sparkled.
Krishnaswamy and she shared a set of private gestures that would indicate to Krishnaswamy what lines of the poem she liked and what she didn’t. A pair of eyes, eyebrows, her lovely lips … those were the tools of her gestures. If she bit the chain around her neck, Krishnaswamy would hit the heavens. Thanks to Haseena, he had grown to like the writers he admired even more than before.
One day, Krishnaswamy decided to allow the boys and girls to sit together, something he thought was healthy. The next day, Haseena and the dehydrated Govind Rao sat next to each other, whispering and behaving in ways that left the teachers uncomfortable. Krishnaswamy enjoyed telling his intimate circle of friends how he was now viewed as Satan by his colleagues. But at the same time, he hated that an ineffectual person like Govind Rao was getting Haseena’s divine attention. With the two brushing shoulders with each other, Krishnaswamy’s heightened aesthetic experience in his poetry classes had come to an end.
One day, the two of them came to his room. Haseena took the lead and said, ’Sir, we went to the registrar and told him we had changed our names. From now, I’m Tushara and he’s Vinda.’
Krishnaswamy, not knowing how to respond, put on a façade of scholarship, ‘Didn’t Shakespeare say, “What’s in a name? A rose by any other name is still a rose.”?’
’Sir, please change our names in the register. Principal Shanta simply hates the sight of us. We have come seeking your intervention,’ Haseena said seriously.
Two months after this, the two disappeared. The college security officer learnt they were staying in some despicable lodge, took the police there and got them arrested. After they were threatened and made to pay their hostel dues, they were disgraced in front of all the students, and expelled. When they walked out holding hands, Krishnaswamy felt perturbed. Had he inadvertently caused it all to happen? Taking his scooter, he pulled up beside them, and asked them to come home, taking Haseena pillion and telling Govind Rao to take a bus.
Haseena seemed completely unabashed. When they got to his place Krishnaswamy asked her to sit down, went inside and brought her some leftover upma and a banana from the morning. ’Thanks,’ she said and ate heartily. She told Krishnaswamy that they had to leave as quickly as possible for fear their families would flog them to death.
’Aren’t you married yet? As per the law, you both are adults. You don’t have to worry,’ Krishnaswamy said. He was trying to play the role of a mature teacher.
Haseena told him how she had to sell her gold chain and earrings to be able to stay in the cheap lodge where they had been found. ‘Those philistine owls in college took away the rest of the money and now we are left with nothing,’ Haseena said laughing, and looking straight at Krishnaswamy. It was the first indication that she had the skill to manage the family.
As she expanded on her plans, however, she got more anxious. ’Vinda says he’ll find a server’s job in a hotel. And I know tailoring. I’ll buy myself a machine and take orders. We’ll somehow manage. We’ll go to Bangalore and have a registered wedding.’ Then, seeing Vinda walking towards Krishnaswamy’s house, she calmed down and went back to her chair.
’You are the source of our courage, Sir.’ Was there mischief in her words? He had recalled those lines again and again.
Krishnaswamy went to his bedroom. He kept two thousand rupees in a new purse that he had bought at Shantiniketan. He placed it in Haseena’s lap. He went in again. He had bought a Singer electric sewing machine for his sister who was to be married. Krishnaswamy brought it out and placed it on the table before her.
’It’s my gift to you. I wish you well,’ he said.
Govind Rao entered. There was no trace of enthusiasm on his face. His nervy demeanour irritated Krishnaswamy. ’Hello sir…,’ Govind Rao said in an over familiar tone; Krishnaswamy was even more irritated.
‘Mr. Vinda, will you please get a tonga from the stand,’ he addressed him in the formal plural for the first time. Govind Rao didn’t budge. It seemed he expected Haseena to go along with him, and carry the machine.
She laughed softly, a picture in her thick braid and wrists full of bangles. She patted Govind Rao on the back, glanced at him prettily with a pout, and placed the sewing machine in his hands. He took it, indifferent, and that was enough indication for Krishnaswamy to sense that this marriage would do Haseena no good. She tucked one end of her pallu in her waist and got ready to walk to the bus stand. ’I’ll write to you sir. You must reply. Now we’ll dash to Bangalore.’ As she said this she gave him a full look, from top to toe, and at that instant, Krishnaswamy was enveloped by a feeling of dejection; he felt he had failed.
That was in 1971, Haseena was twenty years old. He was thirty. It wasn’t too much of an age difference. He could have divorced his unpleasant wife and married Haseena. If that had made it difficult to stay on in Mysore, he could have sought a job elsewhere.
- 6 -
In Bangalore, Haseena lived in poverty. Govind Rao was slothful. While Haseena earned just enough to feed them by stitching clothes, Govind Rao would gulp down his share of the meagre ganji she provided, loaf around the slum and play cards with the local scoundrels. He took to selling ganja and would also get high on it. When he returned home smashed, he would thrash Haseena.
When Haseena gave birth to Jyoti, she visited all her old friends with the baby in her arms, begging for money. Some of Krishnaswamy’s friends told him she had even taken to theft.
One morning when he was reading the newspapers, Haseena got off the Shahpasand train in Mysore. She arrived at his doorstep with a small trunk in one hand and the toddler in the other. As soon as she saw him, she tried to smile with the familiarity of the past. There was no sparkle in her eyes, her face was gaunt. Her sari was so crumpled it looked like a wilted bunch of greens.
No sooner did little Jyoti see the cosy drawing room with its cane chairs and cushions, and the artefacts that decorated the place, she was excited. She picked things up off the table and shelves one by one and Haseena didn’t stop her. Concealing his anxiety, Krishnaswamy called out to the cook and asked him to make tea. Jyoti’s stomach was puffed up and she was pale. Her clothes were shabby and torn.
’Can I stay here?’ Haseena asked, holding back her tears.
Krishnaswamy picked up her trunk and placed it in the guest room. ‘Have a cup of tea, then bathe. Shall I give the child something to eat?’ he asked.
’Yes please.’ She wiped her tears. Krishnaswamy brought in some biscuits. Jyoti gobbled them up shedding crumbs all over the carpet. She drank the milk greedily slopping it all over herself.
Krishnaswamy was not sure if Haseena had walked out of her marriage, and wasn’t sure if he could ask her about it. So he sat before her, waiting for her to open up. ’It’s all over,’ she said, and went for a bath. She gave her daughter a bath too, got ready, and pulled out a fresh set of clothes out for her daughter from the trunk. When she came and sat beside Krishnaswamy he could see that she was not the same Haseena.
Krishnaswamy took Jyoti to the doctor. She was treated for skin allergies, worms and anaemia. With the good nourishment he provided, she recovered in a month. As for Haseena, he bought her new clothes, ordered chicken biriyani for her from a nearby restaurant, got her beer to drink. His feelings of sympathy made her seem piteous. The mutual attraction and mischief of the past was no longer there. They could no longer communicate to each other through gestures.
He tried to teach Jyoti good manners. She had been brought up with no discipline and the process became the source of much irritation rather than of affection. Haseena clearly suffered when he scolded Jyoti but did not say anything.
One day when Krishnaswamy came home late, he saw Govind Rao climbing down the steps of his house. Without a word, he went into his room and shut himself in. After a little while, Haseena knocked on the door, came in and sat beside him.
’Vindu was here. He was hungry. I felt sorry for him. Took out a five hundred rupee note from your suitcase and gave it to him.’ Haseena looked straight at him as she spoke. When he didn’t respond, she said, ’I have stolen in other people’s houses. But never in yours. Even if you hadn’t seen Vinda today, I would have told you.’
Krishnaswamy did not flare up but locked himself up in utter silence, and not a nerve on his face moved.
’Vinda has beaten me, kicked me … the rascal! But do you know why I still like him? Because he is human. Do you know what else I gave him? I wanted to hide this from you, but let me get it off my chest. The cassette tape recorder that you had kept in your cupboard, the one that you take when you go on picnics, I gave him that. That rascal of a loafer, he’ll probably sell it. He asked me for it and I gave it to him, sorry.’
Haseena laughed hideously. Krishnaswamy got up and poured himself a whiskey and drank it neat. He didn’t look at her.
’Beat me at least … are you such a gentleman that you don’t even realise how much I love you? Don’t you have any feelings?’
When Krishnaswamy turned to get another drink in complete indifference, Haseena stomped towards her room.
By morning, she had left with her daughter. Krishnaswamy opened his trunk and found that the entire wad of notes he had saved up for his research trip to Puri-Jagannath had vanished.
She could have, with her deft fingers opened the phoney lock in him, a long time ago.
- 7 -
Krishnaswamy saw no point in sharing all this with Somanath. Not that he would have been able to; by then they got into the jeep and reached Somanath’s ancestral house. He kept touching the bangle piece in his pocket, as if it were an addiction, and as he set out for his bath, he remembered the moment that he had felt the thrill.
Somanath and Krishnaswamy settled into the cane chairs in the backyard under the jackfruit tree. The water had been pleasantly warm and Krishnaswamy had enjoyed his bath. Traditional rangoli patterns adorned the huge pillars of the house. The ancient dwelling with its hidden secrets was cool with soft muted light. It put the mind into a soothing calm. Somanath brought out a bottle of rum wrapped in a newspaper and said, ‘Hey, Mr. Know-it-all, can you tell me why I have wrapped it?’ as he poured out two glasses. He added water and generously squeezed in lime and dropped in chopped chillies. ‘Shiva!’ he exclaimed, as they struck the two glasses together, said cheers and answered his own question. ’I’m being sly. I don’t want my stupid wife to know how much I drink. She can be unnecessarily annoying.’
As the two sipped their drinks, they heard someone calling out from the door. Somanath’s wife came to the backyard, and in her gentle, graceful voice said, ’Sebastian is here’. ’Send him here,’ said Somanath carelessly. Narmada hesitated for a moment, but she went outside and said, ’Please come in,’ in English.
Sebastian, in white shirt, black trousers and a tie took off his shoes and came to the backyard. He greeted them respectfully. Somanath moved to the huge root of the jackfruit tree and offered the chair to Sebastian. ’Will you have some rum?’ he asked.
’No thanks,’ Sebastian replied and waited for Somanath to introduce him to Krishnaswamy. Somanath realised this and quickly said, ‘This is Dr Sebastian. He is a PRO with the Banawasi multinational company. He is the one responsible for organising our programmes – he’s known Jyoti from the time she was in Paris. Sebastian, this is my friend, the famous writer, Krishnaswamy. He has got your company’s fellowship grant to write about me.’
Sebastian shook hands and said in English, his words running into each other, ‘I am so glad to have met you. Our M.D. was sorry not to meet you; he had to leave for Bangalore. He has asked me to wish you on his behalf and has asked me to put you up in our guest house. The guest house is on the banks of the river, it may be the best place to write. Jyoti has told me a lot about you. I wanted to make a request. On Friday, our company is opening an Areca Research Station and a laboratory for research on Monkey Fever. This area needs it very urgently. Our M.D. asks if you would be so kind as to inaugurate both. I’ll leave now and won’t trouble you any further.’
Krishnaswamy said ‘okay’ and shook hands. Somanath winked mischievously at him like in the old days. Then, he said, ’All this has been fixed by Jyoti. Her stepfather is one of the main shareholders of the company. Well, there’s another story. Jyoti’s mother, I mean your unrequited love, took her useless husband and her little daughter, only six, to Bombay. She changed her name from Haseena to Nargis Vinda. Somehow she got into the role of motivating people in the city. She was in the forefront of the Sanjay Brigade and the charged speeches she made began to appear in every newspaper. She became a famous fixer. She opened schools for children in slums, she took young doctors there and organised medical camps. Her transactions were in lakhs. Jyoti has a photo album in which she has pictures of her mother with the likes of Indira Gandhi and Rajiv Gandhi. Jyoti’s father would spend the day gambling, while her mother became the smuggler queen. Officers in high places were her friends. But all the scandals didn’t detract from her charisma which only grew.
Her lies, her corrupt, devious ways, her politicking, her aggressive feminist battles, her tree planting campaign … according to Jyoti, she donned all these cloaks out of love for her daughter and sympathy for her husband.
At some point Nargis Vinda became a Frenchman’s assistant. From assistant she eventually graduated to sweetheart. She got the man to send Jyoti to Paris to study. I have forgotten his name, a fifty-five year rich, old, hedonistic fool. Nargis Vinda was about thirty-five then, oozing sensuousness.
Her shrivelled up husband didn’t object, in fact, he became her pimp. Eventually she separated from him and married the Frenchman. Yes … now I remember his name, Andre Michel. And she became Nargis Michel. Travelling between Paris and Bombay, Madame Michel looked after her husband and took care of her daughter. She used to have so much money on her that she had no need to steal. Nevertheless, Nargis did pinch money from her French husband to give it to Govind Rao whom she continued to meet secretly.
Somanath had no idea of the effect his story was having on Krishnaswamy. As he listened to the story, Krishnaswamy kept recollecting the glass bangle piece that had shone under the rock, the still chameleon, the vibrant life force bursting out of the hunting picture, and Somanath who’d stood there, sage-like.
Swayed by emotions he said to himself: This is how I am, and this is how they are. It was a feeling that neither soothed him nor troubled him. The shining bangle piece may have gestured to me and made me feel a secret latch had been unlocked. But then, gestures materialise, disappear and elapse. Like the signals I received from Haseena. That night she had tried to provoke me. She had stolen money. Had left without telling me. But I lived on as if I had forgotten. She too lived on: for her daughter, for her useless husband and probably for her own personal avarice, she became a thief, working the international arena. The epitome of sensuousness, she grew more beautiful till she vanished. And I remained the gentleman, dry distant, an observer.
’What are you thinking off dullard? You should always be prepared like the hunter. And like the deer, you should be alert to danger. When you see the deer, it feels like the hunter’s spear will not touch it. But the picture was drawn by an artist with a hunter’s instinct. It’s a masterly game played by life force itself.’
’Ok sage Soma,’ said Krishnaswamy in reply to Somanath’s remark, as he looked into the mirror and combed his hair.
’Go, your girlfriend’s daughter is waiting for you. She lives at the guest house. But first have your breakfast, Narmada is waiting.’
Adorned with turmeric and kumkum, Narmada looked like goddess Gowri. She had spread out plantain leaves and was waiting with a serving spoon in hand. She had placed a polished rosewood plank for him to sit on. She served him upma. ‘Will you have some chutney pudi? Is it too hot? Do you want some curd?’
Krishnaswamy was embarrassed by the shower of hospitality. Narmada started speaking about Jyoti. Oh, she looks exactly like goddess Durga. Every month I ask the bangle seller to come home and buy glass bangles for her. You know, I’m a strict observer of the everyday purity rites. I don’t even allow my husband to come into the kitchen. But if I had a grown up son, I wouldn’t have stopped him from marrying Jyoti. It’s up to you whether you want to believe me or not.’
Somanath winked mischievously and said, ‘Yes, she’s a very beautiful girl. If something prevents her from evolving into a good artist it could be the radiance of her own body. If you tell Jyoti how beautiful she is, she’ll say you should have seen my mother. And then she’ll add how all the good-looking young men are stupid bores and the ones that she likes are old men like me.’
Narmada laughed. Krishnaswamy felt jealous of his anarchist friend’s peaceful, family life. This divine thief is not just a mesmeriser, he’s a womaniser too. And me, even if I encounter a sage from the Vedic times, a strain of suspicion will colour my wonder.
’I forgot to ask how many children you have. How many boys and how many girls?’ Narmada asked.
’I have one son. He lives in America. My wife lives with him. He married my wife’s close relative last year.’
’Oh, good! That’s when family life works you see…’
- 8 -
It was a lovely, clear morning, and the hills covered in dew looked greener than ever. Wondering for how long the place would remain so pristine and cursing the multinational company for his own moral consolation, Krishnaswamy got into the jeep to visit Jyoti.
Jyoti was waiting at the gate. She had lush, black tresses that covered her back. She wore a bindi on her forehead, a conch shell necklace and glass bangles on her long, slender arms. She did look like the goddess Durga.
She walked up to him and gave him a hug. ’Do you remember this itchy little girl whom you would shout at for scribbling on your walls?’ She clasped her necklace in her teeth, just like her mother used to, a sensuous doll.
Krishnaswamy didn’t have to say a word. In English, with a smattering of Kannada and the occasional French word, she blurted out her political stances, aesthetic theories, what she liked and disliked in Somanath, and all the stories she had heard from her mother. She laughed. She laughed so much that she wept. ’Here, this is for you. I brought it from Paris,’ she gave him a bottle of Cognac. Beginning from learning how to drink, Jyoti told him of all that her mother had learnt from him. “From this Krishna.” She pointed her fingers at him. Her mother was the only one who called him Krishna. It was from Krishna that she’d learnt to despise the caste system, “from this abject lover Krishna”. She’d married a man she loved, and stayed in touch even after separating from him and died in the car when travelling with him. The thought must have reminded Jyoti of Hindu-Muslim hostility, of Ayodhya.
’Mosques, temples, and churches everything must be destroyed. If we have to experience God like the gurus of the Vedic times did, then all these claustrophobic memories of the past that are heaped on us must be completely destroyed. It was you – with the name of the Lord, the eternal lover – it was this very you who was responsible for such strength in my mother.’
As Jyoti spoke with a French accent to her English, the mild tinkling of her glass bangles mingled with her words. He thought of Somanath’s endless chatter, his own stale ideas, and the intoxicated night they had spent talking. From deep inside him, a note of cynicism surged unsuppressed: Hey cutie, what is this French multinational doing here, in this back of the beyond place? Aren’t they adept at using your passion and mine, and the divine art of that wise scoundrel Soma? It can only lead to the destruction of the age-old indicators that have their sources in caste and religion?
’I like the spirits here. I feel they speak to me. I feel that their anger, distress, deception, revenge, grace, everything is true. Come and see.’
She led him to his room. The walls were covered with huge poster-like pictures of the spirits in predominantly red and yellow. There was a picture of a peacock under them, as if it were her signature.
’Are you remembering those peacock drawings that left your walls untidy?’ It seemed it was impossible to hide anything from Jyoti. Krishnaswamy felt disconcerted.
’Come I’ll show you what you’ve lost,’ Jyoti said holding him close and looking at him with great affection. She stroked his cheeks, ’Why don’t you have a beard like my guru?’ she asked.
’Now that you ask, I’ll grow one,’ he said.
‘I know you won’t. You’re Krishna only by name.’ Jyoti quickly changed the topic. ’You’re planning to write on Somanath, isn’t it? It was my idea. My stepfather is a stupid philistine!’ He was staggered that she was using words that Haseena had learnt from him. ‘But he takes my advice, listens to whatever I say.’
’He paid Rs five lakhs and bought a picture from Somanath recently. Of course, he may be a philistine, but he’s astute too. He will auction the painting in Paris and make an extra five lakhs on it. Why am I saying all this … I forget … you’ve left me very excited. Wasn’t my mother an enigma to you? You are a stupid fool. You never realised how much she loved you and she continued to, till her last breath. You were fated to be a lonely ghost she would always say.’
As I listened to her with wide-eyed wonder, Jyoti got bashful. She looked like a little girl when she covered her face and laughed. I was immediately reminded of Haseena, sitting on the class bench. Haseena too, like her, would be brazen one moment, and then the next minute she would be all shy and naïve like a little girl.
’Look at my arrogance. I’m just blabbering as if what I say is the ultimate truth. What I wanted to discuss with you is the hidden philosophical brilliance of Somanath’s works. You both go a long way, don’t you? He laughs when I ask him about it. “You find your own secret dear”, is his stock reply. I’ll show you a picture of Somanath. But not today … this day is dedicated to my mother.’
Within seconds, however, she had forgotten what she’d said and already begun to describe the picture that she wanted to show him.
’It’s a picture that glows with a weird and wonderful light. It looks extremely simple, barely anything in it. Just a huge rock. It looks as if it is controlled by gravity, but actually is not. It stands without the support of the earth, like a transient object, something that despite its massive appearance has lost its density. What is startling is the chameleon that sits at the edge of the seemingly weightless but solid piece of rock. The beady, bulging, eyes that can be seen because of its raised head, eyes that stare into nothingness – really stunning! A realistic chameleon on a symbolic rock. The two blend to become a gesture. There’s no trace of the erotic in the picture. It’s so spare with the absence of the erotic, that its absence itself seems like an implicit presence to me.’
Krishnaswamy was speechless, he listened to her open-mouthed. In jealousy, appreciation and wonder he said ’bastard’.
He was relieved when Jyoti changed the topic. Now she started speaking about her mother. Her mother might have become an expert in striking business deals between India and France. But in intimate conversations with her daughter, she had spoken about Krishnaswamy. And about Jyoti’s father. As soon as she learnt he was ill, she rushed to Mumbai, brought him to her flat and nursed him. She died in a blast that occurred when she was taking him to the hospital. Her exquisite body had been blown to bits and scattered ... Jyoti broke down. She embraced Krishnaswamy, her head on his chest, and wept. Krishnaswamy was overcome by affection. He patted her back, kissed and consoled her. ‘Come,’ she said, holding his hand and took him to her bedroom.
On the wall opposite Jyoti’s bed was a life-size picture of Haseena. A clay lamp had been lit underneath. Krishnaswamy sank to his knees and closed his eyes. Jyoti rested her forehead on the ground as if she was in namaaz. When she arose, she said, ‘Even when Amma became rich she would listen to her favourite Raj Kapoor’s songs on this tape recorder she stole from you. She had it repaired and even brought it to Paris. All the parts are new but it is still a reminder of you. So is the sewing machine you gave her. They are things that my mother bequeathed to me.’
She opened the cupboard next to the bed. She rummaged through the clothes and carefully pulled out the old two-in-one tape recorder. Krishnaswamy ran his hands over it gently.
’Do you know Amma’s favourite song?’ she asked pressing the button.
The song from the film ’Awaara’ began to play. There were tears in Krishnaswamy’s eyes.
’Amma never told me how I used to address you when I was little. Those days … when I had rashes all over … now I don’t know how to call you … Be here with Amma. If you are ready, I will show my guru’s picture today itself. Alright?’
As he struggled to say ‘yes’ he looked at Jyoti with affection. Jyoti quickly went in to make coffee.
Krishnaswamy pulled out the piece of bangle from the pocket of his jeans. It glistened, green. He placed it under Haseena’s picture in which she was draped in a silk sari, her hair adorned with jasmine. She wore a mischievous smile…
He waited for another gesture, from beyond the silence of death.
- 9 -
’Your mother lived. I didn’t. It’s unforgivable to not live,’ he told Jyoti who brought them coffee.
He felt shy for having made such a ponderous statement. He sipped the aromatic Malnad coffee and said, ‘Come, show me the rogue’s picture. Let’s see if I can see what you have seen.’
*
This story, which bears the title Bete Bale Otiketa in Kannada, appeared in his anthology Aidu Dashakada Kathegalu (Akshara Prakashana, Sagar, 1995).
*
U. R. Ananthamurthy is one of India’s key literary figures and an important representative of the ‘Navya’ movement (the new movement) in the literature of Kannada. His works have been translated into many Indian and European languages and have been awarded major literary prizes, including the Jnanpeeth Award in 1994. He was honoured by the Government of India with the Padma Bhushan in 1998.
Ananthamurthy consciously writes in Kannada and not in English. A detailed bibliography and select essays may be found on his Website
Deepa Ganesh is assistant editor at The Hindu, Bangalore. She writes and translates for various journals and magazines.
This translation was edited by Indira Chandrasekhar, founding editor of Out of Print.