Fiction

Uncursed

By Snigdha Agrawal

With the easterly winds blowing, the tongues of flames were behaving like a crowd fleeing from a stampede, hither thither and everywhere.  There were no fire extinguishers to douse the flames.  It had to die down on its own, in its own time, anything from three to four hours.  She sat patiently on the Ghat steps (flight of steps leading to the river), overcome with grief and a sense of loneliness watching her husband of over three decades consigned to flames.

The rest of them had persuaded her to go home, return later to collect the ashes.  She refused.   Felt it would be disrespectful to leave him while parts of him were still visible, his legs still sticking outside the sandalwood logs piled below and above his body.  They had promised to be together till the end.  She was keeping her end of the promise.  Childless….she insisted on performing the last rites of her husband much against the Priest’s objections.  Hell would have broken loose, if only they knew more.

The white and red shakha (conch shell) and pola (coral) bangles hung loose on her arthritic wrists.  They would be hard to slip off her bony wrists and fingers.  The huge granite block jutting out from the lowest step of the ghat would do that job.  Bang…bang…bang…till the bangles shattered leaving her hands naked. Did the mason deliberately keep that granite sticking out like a sore thumb, anticipating its need?  The red Sindhur (vermillion) showed brightly in the parting of her silver hair, like a neon light, boldly declaring her marital status.  The Bindi on her forehead, like her third eye, had lost its round shape, smudged and smeared like sharp whip lashes.  Yes… life had dealt her whip lashes many times over, but nothing as painful as this last one.  The smell of burning flesh and rising smoke, smarting her eyes, assailing her nostrils.

Hands tightly clasped across her chest, she sat staring at the flat horizon line, stretching linearly across the opposite bank of the Ganges. Sun was just about kissing this line when she was shaken from her reverie by a stranger.  Sensing her sorrow, he sidled up to where she sat on the steps “why are you here all alone?” he asked.  Failing to get any response, he continued, ”It’s getting dark, you should be heading home.  The alleys of Varanasi are hideouts for pickpockets and thieves.  Be careful when you walk home. I could accompany you if you like….you look as though you have lost a dear one.  I’m sorry for your loss”!    It was then that she looked up to see this man, maybe a few years older, grey-haired, balding on the crown, wearing soda glasses, clothed in saffron-colored dhoti and kurta (traditional Indian attire).  Must be a Sadhu (monk) belonging to some social service unit.  Varanasi had many, where elderly abandoned men retired, to lead a life of piety, just like the ones for widowed women, where they could find a safe haven, in their twilight years.

Madhurima tried to find her voice back, but words stayed stuck in her throat.  He looked safe enough to engage in a conversation with, till she waited for the embers to die and cool.  She had to collect the ashes to immerse them in the river.  That was his last wish, and she was not going to leave, till the last rites were completed.  She had promised many moons ago, should he be the first to leave, she would complete his last rites as per Hindu customs.  She was keeping to her end of the promise.  What about his promise, never to leave her alone!

“Swamiji…I am waiting to collect the ashes of my husband.  It will take some time before they hand over the urn.  Thank you for your offer to walk me home.  I have none now, without him.  I could have jumped into the pyre ending this life along with his.  But no.. I couldn’t summon up enough courage and I still have a mission to complete”….she demurely answered, looking ashen-faced.

Sensing her dilemma, the saffron-robed stranger offered help.  ‘If you are troubled ‘ Ma’, our Ashram has a wing for destitute women, where you could stay for the rest of your life.  Accommodation and food are free.  If you are interested, I can get you signed up. We just ask that the inmates live in peace and harmony, and join in the activities of the ashram….cooking the meals, maintaining the kitchen garden.  Our library is equipped with books for readers to study the Vedas and Puranas, apart from attending religious discourses that are held weekly.  We are self-sufficient.  Most of our funds are donations given by the inmates themselves, some of whom were once holding important positions and professions, even from zamindar (landowners) families, giving up everything, disillusioned with their lives’…he added.

“Ma” he addressed her once again.  ‘Life does throw a few curve balls….it’s for us to dodge them and move on.  He then narrated the story of the Maharaj, heading the Ashram.  Madhurima listened intently as the story unfolded, each layer peeling off, springing one surprise after another.

‘There was this rich Zamindar of Benaras who indulged in all the vices commensurate with a life of plenty.  Wine, women, music recitals on his Bajra (House Boat), with nautch girls dancing to the rhythm of the sound of the elements, wind, and water creating a symphony of its own, gave him the desired kick to live.  Priyotosh fondly named ‘Choto’ had no interest whatsoever in the affairs of his estate or his wife, he was coerced to marry at the age of eighteen.  Their interests were as different as chalk from cheese.  A marriage doomed to fail on grounds of incompatibility.

Every night he returned in an inebriated state to slump on his bed, beside his wifeTapashree. She never complained, but like a dutiful wife, cleaned him up, took off his shoes, straightened the pillow so his head rested correctly.  He was oblivious to her ministrations… vomit that she wiped from his mouth, mopped up the floor spilled with acidic remnants of his stomach.  Never complained, never demanded her conjugal rights, and never looked into his eyes to tell him, she yearned for his touch, his love, his seed to be planted in her womb.  When she undressed him, her fingers would caress his body lovingly, waiting for that awakening moment when she could claim him as her own.  But that never happened.  His obsession with Fareeda, the nautch girl eclipsed everything else;  invading his dreams too, as he uttered her name in his sleep”.

Madhurima was all ears by the time he reached this part of the story.  By then she began to feel comfortable in his presence.  The Priests were pouring buckets full of Ganga water on the dying embers as opposed to the embers rekindling inside her.   She didn’t interrupt him, as he continued after a pause.

‘All hell broke loose in the Zamindar household, when one-day Choto Raja, announced his desire to marry Fareeda, without usurping Tanushree.  She would be his second wife.  Outrageous proposition his father bellowed with the authority befitting a head of the Zamindar’s household….how could he even think of bringing in a Muslim nautch girl as his wife?   Priyotosh in defiance stopped returning home, spending the nights on his boat with Fareeda, losing himself in her arms, her soft bosom his pillow for the night, her legs with the ghungroos (musical anklet) on, his side pillow, her black tresses, as black as the overhead sky, his chaddar (comforter).  Messengers were sent persuading him to return home to Tapashree, who kept cursing the nautch girl for stealing him away.  .

More than a decade went by as the lovers made the river their home.  News arrived that his father had passed away, but he didn’t go home to perform the last rites. Ashutosh, his first cousin, next in line to the inheritance, conducted the ceremonies as per Brahmin custom.  Tapashree who arrived as a virgin bride, died a virgin maid, pining for her husband, who never was her husband. And I suppose her restless soul never stopped wishing evil for the lovers.  One night dark threatening clouds rocked the boat, angry cyclonic winds whipping against the stern, awakening the boatmen and the onboard staff.  The wrath of God unleashed as never before, as the river bore down on the boat that capsized on that stormy night.

Yes, Paritosh was saved by a fisherman and brought home in an unconscious state.  No one knew the fate of Fareeda or the rest of the crew, assumed to have drowned that fateful night.   The rescue team searched for days downstream, to see if the bodies had been swept to the banks after the fury of the storm had subsided.  But no one reported any dead bodies lying around.   When Paritosh regained consciousness all he kept asking was for Fareeda.  To comfort him, the local police confirmed her death, based on evidence of female arms with bangles, severed from the body, found stuck in the mud banks.

The raunchy zamindar changed overnight reflecting on his lifestyle.  But his love for Fareeda never abated.  He donated his entire inheritance to the Ashram, and immersed himself in the study of Theology, taking up residence as the Maharaj of the Ashram, offering shelter to whosoever wanted a home to live in their old age.”

******

Whose story was this?  Should she, or should she not, tell him of her past?  Wouldn’t it be catastrophic for both of them?  The only person, who knew her past and had rescued her from the banks of the river, had made her his legal wife, giving her a new identity, and therefore, acceptance into his society, was already ashes.  His voice stilled forever. Let sleeping dogs lie….she rued.

Madhurima had an uncanny feeling she knew Swamiji, as she got up and excused herself folding her hands to thank him for his company.  She climbed down the stairs to take the urn from the Priest to perform the last rites of her husband.

Fareeda had drowned.  Madhurima lives.  Why rake up the past?  Her mission was over.  Her heart catapulted with joy.  Priyotosh aged, but a transformed person.  Has the curse finally been lifted from their lives?  Being an artist, her mind composed unwritten verses that she kept repeating to validate her belief.

I knew you were an imposter

Right from the start

How could I forget the long nights

Sailing near the Ghats

How could I forget when

the tides turned

swallowed by the holy waters

from you had to depart

with a sorrowful heart

 

I knew you survived that night

you thought I had died

God has other plans for me

An opportunity to be

someone’s legal wife

No more the nautch girl described

So grabbed it and learned to love

another, who gave me new sight

to live with dignity and pride

 

Their paths were meant to cross, but never to merge!

About the Author:

Snigdha Agrawal is a published author of two books of poetry and has contributed to several anthologies. Her writings include all genres of poetry, prose, short stories, travelogues, restaurant reviews, and book reviews.  She is widely travelled and shares her travel experiences in her blog : randomramblings52.wordpress.com.  She lives with her husband in Bangalore, India. 

 

One Comment

  1. Very nice.