Bhairavi

(A STORY)

The dawn-lovely river slowly wound its way past the dark bathing-ghat and the cocoanut groves and lost its golden threads in the distant blue haze. Here and there small ripples dotted her immemorial passage, and the spreading waves from the ghat dared even the sluggish calm of the centre.

Ramu came down the steps to the river with a hesitating gait. He stopped with his feet in the water and, turning to the slow-flushing East, began to drink in the virginal beauty of the morning. It was indeed breath-taking. The Sun-God was slowly rising from the distant mist fringed with sudden-gold trees and low-lying, blush-pierced clouds. Towards the other side of the river, the long expanse of fields was slowly awakening to a ruddy glow, and the people themselves who were dotted here and there on the land took shape–incongruous and fantastic shapes that bent and moved in absurd postures.

The bathing-ghat was rapidly filling up with humanity, and soon the morning air was shocked again and again by idle chatter and the beating of cloths. Ramu sighed at the intrusion and began to devote his attention to his early morning ablutions. These were soon over, and he ascended the steps. He sat on a raised platform and began to concentrate on the evanescent loveliness of the dawn.

A dreamer Ramu was; and, after a restless wandering round the world in search of something which he himself was not definite about, he had returned to his village. For, sick of the feverishness of mankind, he wanted a place of peace and quiet where nothing hurried, not even time. The villagers had their own view of the matter. First they thought he was a wastrel. Now they did not use words. They just tapped their heads significantly. Ramu did not mind. He wanted to be left alone. He never gave speech to them; he just wandered about the groves and the fields like a man anxious to get rid of a spirit that was possessing him. He wrote a lot which made him famous in the outside world. But here in the little village, whose only claim was a soft loveliness, he was known as the idiot.

One of the few pleasures in Ramu’s life was to sit near the river in the early morning and listen to the birds while his eyes would be fixed on the fugitive orange of the eastern skies. Thus he would dream on until the sharp cries of the birds as the sun ascended the vaults of heaven would bring him to the urgent necessity of going to the dark-cool room of his.

Thus a day, thus a year, thus eternity–until Ramu would be dissatisfied with his present mode of life and seek a change elsewhere. The river would flow with the same internal rhythm, the cocoanut groves would fling their arms above beseeching rain, and the eastern skies would blush every morning with the raptures of Usha, as they had done since the forgotten days when the river broke out of the majestic mountains of Mysore and tumbled down to the thirsty plains, daring the Sun-God. But this one day was different, significant in Ramu’s life, for that was the day when Ramu died his first death.

Near the river was a small house bordering on the temple of Siva which was justly famous among the religious-minded. And to that house had come a violinist, well-known in South India, for a rest-cure, and it was his custom to greet the dawn every day with music. And this morning he chose without realising, or probably because the gods had guided him without his being aware of it, the superb ‘Bhairavi’–the raga which tinges pleasure with a slight pain, but is at the same time both tender and solicitous. The violinist began, after the first few flourishes, to improvise.

Swiftly the beauty of the whole river and the landscape was coloured with a dim and distant anguish that would inevitably creep over every mortal thing. The cocoanut groves assumed an air of sweet melancholy and nodded their heads sagely at the follies of the world. The little flowers that grew riotous near the river opened their eyes in surprise and innocence.

Ramu was borne away on the wings of reminiscence to a valley in Devonshire where he had spent a week in passionate communion with himself. He remembered the tall, gnarled trees dense with foliage, the violets and the delphiniums that bloomed in blue-eyed gravity, and the daffodils that emphasised their gravity with their saffron happiness. Away on the horizon rolled the moors in deep conclave with low clouds. Just there, he thought with the exquisite pain that memories evoke, a girl had passed–a girl of the country, who, in her scarlet and orange dress, had harmonised with the vista. She had moved with an effortless grace across his vision, and had smiled at him in pure love. She had moved on until the thick forest had hid her from his view. He did not seek her again, for that perfect moment when he was one with the gods could not be had again, however much he strove. That perfect moment was evoked by the music that issued from the house near the temple, and he sat wrapt, savouring the pain-pleasure in his imagination.

Intent on the rapidly-changing skies, Ramu did not notice the girl until she was almost in the water. It was a mere chance that he turned his head. And lo! there she was, as if brought into existence by the wave of a magic wand. Ever since the time his eyes opened to a new day, he had been aware of a suppressed excitement as if something momentous, something singular was going to happen to him. Here was the justification. With the same intentness which he accorded everything, he looked at the girl.

She was a stranger. He had never seen her before, and he knew everyone by sight. The beauty of the scene, and the music, took on an added meaning to him. It seemed to him that the noise of the bathers was hushed a little in deference to this girl.

She was lovely as a fairy. Ethereal was a word that would have fitted her. She was tall and slight, her blue-black hair done up in a knot at the nape from where recalcitrant tendrils escaped and vaunted their gladness in the sunlight; her onyx eyes looked like two wells in a night of stars, modestly veiled by long, curving lashes and thin brows; her ivory forehead sloping gently towards the eyes seemed arrested by the beauty of the tiny red caste-mark that seemed like a blob of blood on marble. Her nose was that of the ancient Greeks, and was adorned by a single diamond. Her ears were glistening with two diamond tear-drops. Her mouth was like a closed cup designed by the Creator to receive untold kisses. A thin blue vein accentuated the fairness of her neck, and the wandering eye of Ramu was suddenly checked by her jacket which was severe and prim. Her slow swaying body was swathed in an orange saree with scarlet borders.

Ramu forgot the spell of the dawn, the haunting melody, the vision of the Devon moors. It was a shock to him. He gazed at the new vision with rapture in the heart.

The violinist had by now attained the crescendo. The violin sobbed with the Sorrow of the Ages, and it held a note vibrant with the passion of the damned souls. And it lost itself in the succeeding phrases that were rapturous and exulting in a new discovery. again, relentlessly, it returned to its original theme and began to wail. The discovery was, after all, a common one the violin seemed to say, and that that itself was a great tragedy.

Ramu felt his soul troubled by the music, but he was tempted to ignore the prophetic message. He sank and lost himself in the contemplation of the girl. The music but added to the scheme of things.

The girl was oblivious of Ramu. She bathed decorously but with enjoyment, and once or twice indulged in mild play with an old lady who was with her. She laughed once loud, and the music of it shook Ramu anew. It was indeed a grand prelude to whatever music the gods intended playing that day. The girl was a vision; and a vision she remained to Ramu, long after she had left. He sat on there, unaware of her departure. He felt himself immersed in the golden waters of Lethe, and all he needed for his happiness was an inner vision of the girl who had so inspired him. He remained there for an unconscionable time, until the arrival of his servant, with a mundane complaint about a cold breakfast, made him get up, regretfully. Now that the variegated bubble had burst, he looked for the girl. Even the violin was silent. The sun was now in the middle of his journey, and showered his red-hot arrows on the long-suffering land. Reluctantly he walked to his house.

In the blue-black room, shaded with khus-khus curtains and furnished in an uncompromisingly Hindu fashion, Ramu lay and tossed in a dream of anticipation. The early morning rapture could not be recaptured. He was in love. The first flush of idealism had spent itself in the worship of beauty in the abstract, and now he was faced with the problems that assail every young man in the throes of love. Though it was nauseating to a sensitive young man like him, he could not avoid giving due regard to the practical aspects of the question. He had until then passionately and tenaciously clung to his liberty as inviolate as any wild bird’s. But now he had to relinquish his cherished status, so that the girl might become a part of him. He must marry her, and keep her in himself, like the kernel in its fruit. Fortunately he had enough money for the new adventure. And the girl would be happy to live with him in this village and be a true wife to him. Her soul must be in tune with his, or how could he have felt that sudden swift ravishment that morning?

Thus he mused and christened her ‘Usha,’ for she was as lovely as the dawn-goddess. And he repeated her name a hundred times with delight and, without being aware of it, began to sleep–and to dream.

He dreamt a sweet dream. Usha and he were walking along the bank of the river that wound round the orchards and the gardens. She was wearing the same orange and scarlet saree. In one garden, he picked a cluster of roses and of jasmines and adorned his beloved with them. She kissed him on the cheek with adoration in her eyes. The sun was slanting in the west, and he could see the sun, the moon, and the stars in her eyes. For love had taught her the mysteries of the universe. From the distance came the music of a violin playing the inevitable Bhairavi. Usha ran and Ramu followed her in haste. She hid herself behind a tree, and Ramu cried out in anguish. Quickly she came out and kissed his eyes. Oh! they were happy, supremely happy.

Suddenly a cloud hid the sun. The cluster of the roses and the jasmines fell down and was accidentally trampled by Usha. She began to weep, holding the tortured flowers to her eyes. Ramu’s heart was shot by an agony, but he sought to comfort her. The atmosphere grew swiftly ominous. There was a huge menacing shadow covering the entire sky. The darkness grew until Ramu could only see the brilliant, tear-smeared eyes of his beloved. Rain came down faster and faster, and there was the crash of thunder. Usha clung to him in terror. Curiously they had no thought of taking shelter. The storm became terrific, until, maddened with fright, Usha tore herself from her lover’s arms and plunged into the swollen river. Ramu cried out in anguish and moved to throw himself after her.

He awoke, perspiring hot, with his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth. For a moment he lay trembling. But when he knew that it was only a dream, a wave of swift relief coursed through his body.

He looked out on the street, and saw that there had, indeed, been a storm which had just left off. He could hear the distant rumble of thunder. The street was a mass of puddles, and the opposite house was still dripping with the rain. It was already evening. Ramu did not know that he had slept so late.

He drank his coffee quickly and ran to the river in the hope of seeing the girl. But he was doomed to disappointment. Though he waited there until darkness cloaked the river, she did not come. He finished his bath and slowly walked along.

The call of the temple-bells floating on the cool fresh breeze stirred him deeply. And he suddenly decided to go to the temple and pay his homage to God who alone could help him to bear the quiet happiness that suffused him.

Though the temple was situated in a village, it was a large one. Ramu threaded his way through the people crowding below the gopuram. Everywhere small lamps twinkled in pallid hues, and led the trail to the main building–that of Lord Siva. He first went to the shrine of Parvati, the lotus-eyed goddess round whom many beautiful legends have woven themselves and have echoed down the dim corridors of the past ages. Ramu prayed for courage in love.

He prayed for the same thing from Lord Siva, and, his soul suddenly uplifted, he left the shrine and came out. There in the big hall, he saw a concourse of people and a small figure on a raised platform with a veena. It was a fitting end to a magic day, he thought, and drew near. To his great surprise, he saw that the girl on the platform was none other than the dawn-girl. His whole body was shot with a sudden gladness, and he elbowed his way to a place quite near the centre.

Usha had just finished a piece, and began another–Bhairavi! Once again Ramu listened to the liquid notes that had only that morning awakened in him such heights of ecstasy. Phrases chased each other, were caught and then they vanished into the thin air. Bewitched by her other-worldly loveliness and the unison of her voice and the veena, Ramu stood covered in a golden mist. She was, indeed, more than proficient. The raga, in her hands, yielded all its secrets without reluctance. It stood out in its naked glory, and Ramu felt his soul responding, eager to take wings and fly away along with the melody. The veena propounded a question and the voice answered it truthfully. Usha was in a trance; and so was Ramu.

Gradually the raga attained its end, and the audience shattered the sweet spell which the music had woven, with its heavy-handed applause. At one stroke, Ramu’s dream faded away. He turned and looked at the people with a withering contempt, but they were not aware of him. He saw Usha hesitate and then smile–a rare smile that blended sweetness with pity, that would linger long in his memory.

"Who is the girl?" somebody was asking somebody else near him.

"Don’t you know? She is the Karnam’s niece. Her husband is employed in Madras. She has come here for a holiday……."

Words trailed on, dragging, but Ramu was benumbed. Husband! Husband!! So the girl was already married! And his dreams were just–dreams! He felt hot and stifled. Slowly he edged his way out of the crowd and gained his freedom. His brain was only capable of giving its attention to the one word, Husband.

He walked out of the temple as if in a daze, and blindly took the path that led to the river. He did not know how he gained his favourite seat near the river.

He sat there like a carven image and gazed into the middle distance of the darkness. Suddenly he was reminded of the message of Bhairavi that he had listened to in the morning, and which again echoed itself in the evening–the commonness of the discovery which repeated itself again and again. It was, indeed, a great tragedy, but it was a curse of the gods on Man and must be borne patiently.

Tears coursed down his cheeks. He wept silently. He wept not because the girl was unattainable. His tears were not due to disappointment that he could not present her with roses and jasmines. It was the commonness of the discovery. His soul seemed steeped in an overpowering melancholy. Usha–he did not even know her real name, and there was no need now to know–was just a dream-girl, Tomorrow he would see her again but she had already lost her significance to him, for she did not any more belong to him as she did during the afternoon.

Ramu died his first death with that realization. The late moon silvered the landscape and the river went on murmuring her secrets to the banks, but he sat on, the tears frozen on his cheeks.