The Goddess Speaks

The Goddess Speaks
(A Play)

(A shamiana with a flood-lit image of Bharata Mata shaped with the map of India in mind. At the entrance to the shamiana stands the patriot-artist. The shamiana is erected by the side of the main road in a big city, and pedestrians catch a glimpse of Bharata Mata as they pass along the road. It is past midnight and crowds have thinned. The patriot-artist looks around, wistful and meditating.)

Patriot-Artist: This is the Day of Days! For centuries has our country waited for this day to dawn. The very breeze that blows tonight tastes of heaven-born freedom. (Turning towards the image) Here by the wayside have eager crowds seen their Great Mother and bowed down to her in humility of heart. My art has fulfilled itself. My prayer has been heard.

(Enter an Englishman, walking very fast, with a chaprasi before him, carrying his suit-case. The Englishman looks at the artist and the image and stops on the way.)

Englishman: Hullo! Another idol of Mother India! Looks pretty, though!

Patriot-Artist: I am glad you admit it. Where are you moving out at this hour of the night?

Englishman (with great relief): I am going home,–home at last! (smiling) you see, I am quitting India. I have sold all my furniture and made money out of it too. I am carrying a few chairs with me,–for they are so hard to get in England. And a few woollen suits,–for there is a scramble for clothes at home. The last thing I sold was my car. The man to whom I sold it will take possession of it at the station. I sent my wife and children in it and here I am,–following them. Chalo, chaprasi!

Patriot-Artist: You lived here in princely mansions. You will now be huddled together in the hutments at Folkestone!

Englishman (with his face turned crimson, but with great restraint) Ah! I knew you would say so! But you have seen neither Folkestone nor the country of which it is a part. Let it be. It is all one now whether you know it or not. Yes. The Englishman is quitting. But a ghost will rise from the grave of his power and do ghastly deeds! Remember this, for this is a prophecy. And blame me not for it, for I speak the truth. (Moves on).

Patriot-Artist: Thank you for your parting kick, brother! Because you could no longer threaten us by being very much alive, you try to frighten us by going to be dead. Thank you!

(A State officer, in sherwani and fur cap, stops by the roadside and looks at the image.)

State-officer: Aha! what have we here! A lovely image! The Indian map turned goddess! How well-proportioned the figure is! You have fashioned it, have you?

Patriot-Artist: That is true. Every son knows the face of his Mother. But it has been granted to me to trace it in this marble.

State-officer: You are to be congratulated on your vision and flawless workmanship. But then, my friend, you forget. That patch of territory which stands for this flank of the body is a State to which I belong. It is a sovereign, independent State. Actually, the image should be without it.

Patriot-Artist (his blood mounting to his cheeks): Who are you, carving out portions from your mother’s flesh? This is worse than cannibalism. Bow down to the goddess, Mr. Bottle-Neck! Bow down and ask her pardon. Your days are numbered, even as it is.

State-officer: We shall see about the numbering later. As for asking pardon, you had much better ask me to pardon you for the polite language you have used. The age of courtesy is gone. Plebeians in white caps and dhoti are setting themselves up as statesmen. Fools!

(Struts out. A Leaguer enters, in fez cap and sherwani. The fez cap has a crescent on it).

Leaguer: Why was he so furious, brother? What did he want?

Patriot-Artist: (in sullen tones): He refused to bow down to the Great Mother.

Leaguer: Oh! Is that all? Don’t you worry about it. Here I am and I will pay homage to the Great Mother for him, for others,–in fact for every one under the sun!

(Is about to proceed towards the image).

Patriot-Artist: (startled): O no! I may not allow you to do so. Your religion forbids you to bow down to an idol.

Leaguer: May be so. But my religion bids me live in harmony with others. We are all brothers,–Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs!

(A Mahasabhite rushes in)

Mahasabhite: It is a lie! Don't believe him! I have followed him closely whole day, and he has nothing but honey on his tongue and poison in his heart. His heart is in the land of the crescent beyond our borders. But he seeks safety for his person by speaking fair and playing foul. He is a fifth-columnist!

Leaguer: True it is we fought for Pakistan. But it is not for us to perpetuate a domestic feud. We sought division for the sake of harmony. Now that we are divided on the map, let us be united in heart.

Mahasabhite: (red with anger): Don’t believe him! He is a snake in the grass! There is no homeland for Hindus in the world. Let us build a Hindu Rashtra! The Congress has cut the heart of India in twain. The Congress....

Artist: (with the palms of his hands on his ears): Brother! Leave the Congress alone. I do not know what it has or has not done. But I know this,–that you have broken my heart by talking so wildly. (Almost in a crying tone) Brothers, kindly leave me alone!

Mahasabhite: (with scorn) It is tear-droppers and colour-mongers like you that have imperiled the country. You have gambled away Gangotri and mortgaged Mount Kailasa! But it is all one now. I know what to do with the crescent and the star! (Exit)

Leaguer: And I with your saffron flag! (Exit)

Artist: (turning to the goddess): Mother mine! Was it for beholding such scenes that I filled your marble-veins with my heart’s blood and chiselled you from my flesh? O! It is terrible, too terrible for words!

(Enter a merchant in gandhi cap, nehru shirt and jacket, and with bulging pockets).

Merchant: What is terrible, my friend? Can anything be terrible on this night of Independence? We have now come into our own. We shall have our own cars, engines and aeroplanes! Our trade will no longer be confined to cocoanuts and sweet oil. What is our earning tonight, my friend? You have put up a lovely image of Bharata Mata, I must say! You must have drawn crowds to your door!

Artist: (startled): Earning? Earning with what?

Merchant: (laughing): Why! For exhibiting this image! That is what it is meant for, surely? But you seem to have been unlucky. You are not looking cheerful.

Artist: God forbid! You are mistaken if you think that this is a booth set up in a fair, my friend! I thought that, on this great night, I might flood-light this face and show to the long-lost orphans in this country the glory they have gained.

Merchant: (amazed): What! You don’t mean to say that you have done all this at your own cost,–and for no return? You seem to be out of your wits. Look at me! we have sold thousands of Union flags in mercerised silk and managed the distribution of sweets in all the schools in the city. The entire illumination along this road is done by me. But it is no use recounting all this to you. I only say with all my heart and soul: Long live the Indian Union!

Artist: (startled): What! Have you exploited this great day for petty gain and middleman’s profits? Say no, say no, brother! You would save my soul, if you did.

Merchant: (dismayed): This is nothing but envy. You who have earned nothing grudge me my well-earned money. What is Independence for, I should like to know? Independence is the gateway to wealth. Remember, it is we henceforward that are going to rule,–the merchants in Gandhi caps and Nehru shirts. The Indian Union is going to be a nation of shopkeepers like England. It has, consequently, a glorious future before it. Remember this, my friend! (is about to go away laughing).

Artist: Good-night and good-bye, Mr. Pocket-full! I wish you well by your money.

(Enter a beggar-woman, all bones and tattered clothes)

Beggar-Woman: God bless you, sir! This is the day of Swaraj. Give alms. God will bless you.

Merchant: (frowning): These beggars! They feel that it is their right to beg, and exercise it most exactingly. I must table a motion in the Assembly. Begging must be stopped by law, now that we are a free nation. Here, woman!

(gives her a one-anna piece).

Remember it is past midnight. The fifteenth of August is over and you have no right to beg on the morning of the sixteenth. Did you think that, after the fifteenth of August, life would all be jasmines and roses for you? (Exit, frowning).

Beggar-woman: An anna-piece on the day of Swaraj and with a threat on top of it! God bless me!

Artist: What else did you expect, sister? Didn’t you know that the rich are always like that?

Beggar-woman: Do I not know it, having begged my way these fifteen years? But I thought that this day would make a difference. This is the day of Swaraj.

Artist: What is Swaraj?

Beggar-woman: I do not know. They were all rejoicing over it and I thought that it must certainly be a very great thing if it could send the city into raptures. Is it not true that the saheb lok will leave the country today?

Artist: No. It is not true. The white men will leave the country, but the native sahebs will step into their shoes. The merchants will cheat us in their shops and rule us from Delhi. But let not that worry you. Here is some money for you. (gives her a rupee).

Beggar-woman: Thank you, sir, God bless you! May Goddess Lakshmi, whom you worship here, crown you with peace and plenty!

Artist: (amused) This is not Goddess Lakshmi, remember! This is Bharata Mata, the Great Mother, mother of us all.

Beggar-woman: Oh! Bharata Mata! The very name that they utter when they shout Jai! Jai! Jai! I shall try and remember, sir! (Exit)

Artist: (brooding) Disenchantment! Disenchantment in every nerve and fibre of my being! (Turning towards the image) Whose mother are you, O goddess? Do you mother those fiery men generating hatred, that blood-sucker of the poor for whom freedom is the legalisation of wrong, this beggar-woman ignorant of her parentage, or me, a disenchanted artist? speak!

(Enter a Communist bare-headed, in Nehru shirt and flowing pyjamas)

Communist: (laughing): You are a peculiar tribe, you artists! Could any one inhis senses expect a marble statue to speak to him? You do not even have the brains of rabbits, though you have the voices of nightingales. Oh, I see! This is Bharata Mata! Aha! you have installed here the image of a bourgeoisie State, my friend!

Artist: I am afraid what you say may be partly true of the State. I did not realise it till I met a merchant a moment ago. But that has nothing to do with this sacred image. It transcends all States and Dominions. It is a law unto itself.

Communist: (smiling): Well! As a matter of fact, the image implies something more than a bourgeoisie State. It is a strange admixture of the economics of the black marketeer and the primitive fantasy of a religion monger. You are hypnotising yourself and others. Pull down this image. I tell you! Pull it down and install in its place the beggar-woman whom you dismissed with a rupee. She, helpless and homeless, is Mother India. She can appreciate the comforts of the shamiana far better than this lifeless image.

Artist: (indignant): Who are you, blaspheming the goddess? Leave me alone. I am not going to take my lessons in Communism from you.

Communist: So I will. But I am sure to seek you out again. Remember, my friend! Artists like you must be leaders of revolution!

Artist: Revolution! so there is some more blood to be shed, is it? Who knows?….The lynx-eyed profiteer and the fox-like politician have us in their grip. There is liberty only in art, freedom only for dreams. (Turning to the image), Mother mine! you are only a vision, a dream. The map and the soil will profane you with their touch. Lift me into your realms, O goddess!

(Kneels before the image. Enter a petty poet in long coat, with an uparan and a pugree).

Poet: Melancholy, my friend1 Has not the great day rewarded you adequately? Look at me. I sang in jail like a caged nightingale. My poems were on the lips of thousands. I became a poet of the people. When I came out of jail, even the leaders of the country had to reckon with me. Would you believe me, more than fifty journals from all over the country approached me for a poem for their Independence issue. Of course, they paid me handsomely for it. We are living in great times, brother! who knows....who knows....I might even become the first poet-laureate of Free India! Why are you so sad and dejected! It is a lovely statue you have raised. Shall I secure you orders from governments and municipalities for statues of Mother India to be set up in the squares of all big cities?

Artist: (anguished): you, too, oh poet! Have you too joined the philistines in the land and the leeches that suck freedom dry? I thought better of you. I deemed that victory might chasten you rather than elate you and turn your head. You have surrendered all the stars in the skies, oh poet, for a bare handful of silver! Alas! That it should be so!

(Bows his head and sits down in utter anguish).

Poet: (offended): What! you seem to be an ascetic renouncing life itself and all its pleasure! Is it sinful for a poet to be paid? Should a poet live on honeydew? Don’t be a fool, brother.

Artist: (rising): I would rather be a fool than play the wise man with you. I do not mind your being rewarded for your pains. But I domind your gloating over it,–the serfdom of your imagination, the clipping of her holy wings. But I cannot tell you clearly what I think, brother. I have lost my grip over words. I have, indeed, lost my grip over myself. Leave me alone. (Turns away from the poet).

Poet: (frowning): Peace be with you. I would not trouble you with my presence when it is not needed. (Exit)

(The artist turns towards the goddess with a desolate, heart-rending sob and sinks at her feet. For a moment, the stage is completely dark).

Artist: O, Mother! O, goddess! The pity and the horror of it, Mother! The panther, the tiger, the lynx and the fox! whelps of an aboriginal womb, wild beasts of the jungle! How could they be your sons,–you so divine, so effulgent,–the source of all light, the home of all bliss! Are these your sons? Say no, say no, Mother! speak and disown them! Can these ever be your sons?

(Lies prostrate at the feet of the goddess, lost in reverie. For a minute all is dark and silent on the stage. Then, slowly, the form of the goddess becomes visible, lit up with a shaft of light. The goddess speaks).

Goddess: Yea. These are my sons. Flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone.

Artist: (Slowly raising his head and looking at the goddess): If these are your sons, what hope? What light of faith? What joy? What cheer?

Goddess: The hope that wells from the heart. The faith that leads you through fire unscathed.

Artist: (Wringing his hands): But how to sustain them? O, Form and Light divine! Speak! But how?

Goddess: These have been my sons for ages. Thing of yesterday! How and Why is not for you to ask. Build,–and you shall see. See,….and you will build.

Artist: (With folded hands): O, Form Immaculate! O, Heavenly Apparition! The ages have mingled with the past and are like pebbles dropped in the ocean. But this is the Day of Days. The unsceptred hands among the sceptred,–these are at the helm today. This should make a difference, surely?

Goddess: That it should, my son. But many a false dawn have I seen and lost my soul to them for a while. I have grown wiser with the wisdom of years. I now judge the dawn by the day. I look on calmly into the infinite vacancy of space, not stretch my hand to the wheeling hollow time. And I live on,–a lonely pilgrim among the stars. I bathe now and then in the radiant pool of an artist’s dreams,–as I did in yours. You have been restless, my son, for you have seen my face mirrored in your mind.

Artist: (With stretched hands): But, surely, this is a great day, Mother? A new dawn and a new delight?

Goddess: Yes and no, my son. I can now come nearer the soil and not lose my splendour yet. But wait not for a miracle to spring from the dial of a clock. All days are alike till you hew the granite of the nation’s ignorance and cleave the clod of its soul. Walk serenely with a young hope in your heart. Look to the horizon and move on.

Artist: (Agonised and eager): But if the horizon lifts, Mother? If one horizon lifts into another, and another into a third, and I be caught in an endless hollow of horizons, pursuing a mirage.

Goddess: Never mind, my son. Yours be the glory of the pilgrimage, the martyrdom of the road. In pursuing what is god-like, you will yourself be a god. And this face of mine will cheer you on the path and this hand hold forth a cool draught of water when your lips are parched and dry.

Artist: (Stepping forward): But, O Mother! Mother of all lands! Cradle of the world! When will you transfigure this clay, the very subsoil this sub-continent? When will your looks shine through the eyes of every son and daughter of the soil? When will this archetypal face this elemental splendour, be rocked in every cradle and hailed in ever home?

Goddess: That day, my son, the earth will be turned into heaven and man himself become divine. That day, the Day of Days, may dawn yet Wait and strive and anchor in that faith, my son! Out of the flesh-pot of the frail body of a nation, the violet of the sky may yet spring an blossom!

Artist: Amen!

(The figure of the goddess slowly vanishes out of sight. The artist stands, with outstretched hands, looking at the statue into which the apparition has merged.)

(Curtain)