Vidisha Devi had only one trouble in
her life. Her daughter was too introvert. She was gentle, calm, witty and
charming, yes, but very shy.
Her demeanour might have impressed
most people in the world, but in the merchant town Dashamukuta, this
trait of her did not earn her much praise. She had turned sixteen last year,
and sixteen marriage negotiations had ended in failure for her within the
year.
The virtue of being outspoken in a
bride was something demanded by merchant grooms who sailed or journeyed on
roads for six months. At the outset of Magha travelling merchants
returned home. A period known as the Babvruh Agama.
The early months of their home stay
are witnessed with a flooding of marriage ceremonies.
They leave their homes in the month
of Shravan, they leave it the hands of their spouses, owing to this a
merchant wife was always expected to be authoritative, how otherwise would a
lady of the house, the grihapatni would command the servants and take
care of the household affairs and local commerce for her family. It was
least expected of a bride in Dashamukuta, named after the eight
mounts and the two rivers that surround it.
Vidisha Devi found a key to unlocking
her daughter’s reserved – ness in the seventy second year since Nara
Narayan’s accession.
She discovered a hidden obsession of
her daughter’s during the last agama.
A troupe of dancers was residing in
their mansion during that time, who performed for the men in the evenings.
All the women of the household, including Vidisha Devi would sit beside
their husbands and sons during these performances, but her daughter always
stayed behind. Which greatly contributed to her annoyance, until one day
when she noticed her, trying to imitate the moves of the dancers, while
hiding behind a door in the room adjacent to the hallway where the
performances took place.
The whole town had become a spectator
when the Devi had dragged her daughter through the streets on a fine
Panchami morning.
Her daughter, although unwilling at
first, was ashamed at being jeered at by the public, and accepted her
mother’s mandate with dejected shoulders.
For the
devi, her daughter finding a new interest was a ghost of a chance. She
viewed it as an opportunity to bring her out of her shell.
If veritably her intrigue turns into
a passion, she might be willing to open up more, plus spending time at a
academy would constantly force her engage with the others. Such was the
plan, such was her prayer.
There was another person in the town
who separated himself from it’s ways. He too was the son of a trading
family, and had never shown any flair in being a man of commerce. His father
felt often, and said that by all rights he ought to have been born in a
pandit's family with his interests in the itihasa and sahitya.
But he always said that was happy to be born in that family he called his
own. Besides social structures weren’t as rigid in those days, that a
merchant’s son could not have a scholarly aspiration or an ambition of an
artisan.
He never faced any discrimination or
othering from his family for selecting his choice of vocation. Although deep
down he has always felt that his family wished for him to become a Vaidya,
him being in the pursuit of having erudition. Even so in his 20 years of
life he has never been able to achieve anything significant.
He had all the qualities of a
Ronin. He was criticised by his parents from time to time, but he was
still a youth and had more of the world to see. But even he realised that he
won’t be a youth forever, but the realisation never provided him any
motivation. He was lost and hopeless.
He spent a lot of time reading erotic
literature and looking at erotic art. He had understood that the virtuous
and the pious women in the Kavyas and Gadyas he so dearly
cherished were not to be found in the world he lived in. He did not spite
the
Women of his town or any other women
in the world for not fitting into his imagination, they had their own world
and he had his own. It’s just that in his own world he was lonely and sad.
It was a chance encounter.
But not truly though.
For
all occurrences in life are part of God’s plan or the scheme of the large
universe. Your fate is decided the moment you are born, or the moment you
step out of your house, you step on a dry leaf, see a flock of birds flying
above, and your fate is fixed. Nothing is truly an accident.
And him seeing her was not either.
There was visible tension on her
face, asa drop of sweat trickled by her ear. She didn’t seem to him like the
other dancers. The separation, he understood, was caused by the fact that it
was her first day there, much like him. Her hair was not tied like the other
dancers. A older lady stood in front the girl.
Whom he assumed would be her new
Nrtyasikshika.
The lady uttered a command. And the
girl lifted her hands, her fingers making a symbol.
Her feet moved too. He had no idea
what any of it meant. She spun around her axis and when her face came in his
fore again, it had transformed. A broad smile had formed on trembling lips,
which caused clefts to appear in both her cheeks, they had the shape a thin
stambha.
He had witnessed a spell before his
eyes.
That’s recreational activity could
have such influence on a person, he learned that day.
From that day he frequented that
place regularly.
He composed a poetry that evening, he
had picked up the pen after a long time, yet it took him almost no time to
fill the page. Sitting on the open, parapet – less roof on his house, he
sketched his thoughts. The leaves of a coconut tree waved over his head in
the windy night, as if it took part in his muse too, yet the shadow of the
same in front, filled him with certain doubt and angst. He felt a little
choked, he was feeling things he never thought he could feel.
He had not expected to end his
writer’s block in such way. He felt a little drunk, but he had not consumed
a drop ever in his life. It was a
Disparate intoxication. The kind from
which some never achieve sobriety in their lifetime.
Yet, it was only the beginning of his
life.
Should he commit himself to such
perpetual devotion?
He could not find for himself an
answer. He need not. For he could only think of the present, none could say
of future. So it’s not worth pondering over. He only knew for certain that
he was elated after what he witnessed the past afternoon.
So he wrote the following:
How freely the limbs moved,
Was a veteran in that move, she
proved!
The toes and fingers followed
suit,
The eyes and lips had a heart to
loot.
He looked at the sentences for a
while and judged that it was not his best work.
He walked into that hall again, the
next afternoon.
He found the courage to ask someone,
only after the sun had gone down, as he was unable to place his glint in
daylight.
His description of hers proved
worthy, as the person he asked was quick to recognise and he soon informed
that she was not to come that day.
Dejected he walked towards his house.
Perhaps he could write something on his estrangement.
He walked through the market square
for a while as the lights were lit up on the edges of the street. But
without realising he had stepped on the grassy earth. He deduced that he was
not drawn to it by his unmindfulness but because it had what he was looking
for. He bent on one knee to pick up the white flower and brought it close to
his nose gently. He followed the scent presuming it would bring him to his
muse. He walked far on the grass then without realising that the sounds of
the town had started fading.
He stopped before two large trees
whose leaves and branches were hugging each other above his head.
Between the bodies of the tree he
noticed the moon and the complete orb of night above her.
There was no light upon her, but for
the moves he had no doubt. Her dark figure in the orchard looked like a
spirit sent to heal, not haunt him.
Again the hands moved like they had
no bone, her foot had its own gravity. He wished he could watch it more,
watch it many times over and over.
But he knew he could see it only once
for now and then after returning to his house, he will play the scene over
and over in his head, lastly he would write about it for eternity to see.
Did she realise that she had an
audience in the darkness? He sincerely hoped that she did.
When he got back to his home, he left
the white flower at the family alter, at the feet of the gods.
The night was clear,
Cloudy was but my head
It was in front of me, my life so
dear
As lonely as I feel in my bed,
In the outside world, I have no
fear
The stage was built right in the
middle of the road. Passerby’s had to turn a left around Vinayak square to
go to the other side.
For it was the end of Jyestha
festival. And the men would leave before the rains come.
It was a celebration of the arrival
of monsoon and a send-off for the big boys. The women, the young and old men
who ought not to make the journey for trade took part in arranging the
festivities. And every year, this part in the centre of the city, the
performing artists showed their talents.
Some juggled with torches, some tried
to swallow a sword, some made children disappear.
Some made jokes at the expense of the
audience.
But the most famous attraction of day
was the musical cooked by one of the most prestigious culture schools in the
town.
And he had remained seated in his
place the entire day for that performance only.
Only if he had wits to know that such
performances were preserved for the last. But then again he won’t have found
a proper seat for viewing later. Sometimes ignorance can be a blessing for
the fools.
If was well into the night when the
performers of the musical started putting their feet on the stage. A monsoon
wind embraced that part of the town, yet there was no sign of rain.
The act began with an applause.
The story of the play was about a
young prince, who struggles to make a decision regarding his beloved. He is
unsure whether to confess his heart to a daughter of a noble family.
He is afraid, there will be
indifference in their sensibility. Because in his eyes she was purer than a
lotus, wittier than Narada and virtuous than veenapani. Yet,
he had never once met or spoken with her. He was afraid of rejection, but he
was more afraid that the image of her in his mind could be destroyed if he
got to know her. He felt like the most selfish person in the world. How
could he want something from someone, whom he had provided with none?
Dejected, he covered his skull within his palms and sat under a
Brisakkhya tree.
And then came the gentler nymphs from
the sky, to soothe his soul. The group of Gandharvis descended to his
side and began their eternal dance.
A dance to commemorate his love, his
passion and to encourage him to follow his heart and not his mind.
And so his mind swung like a cradle,
and soon lost all its strength. The heart reached for the Sengol then
and grabbed it better than the mind ever could.
She wore the Makuta, a tall
pointed crown of gold,
Finely so, it seemed she was the
potentate of bhuvar – loka from times old
A peach in colour of the saree
felt so sweet to my eyes
The lightness of her moves
cherished my senses, freed me of all lies
The verse composed itself, or mishaps
the swift perfusion in his veins did.
The blood was the ink, the veins the
lekhani,
The kernel became the parchment.
The words were done, but the act was
not.
His eyes remained affixed as it got
wet.
His overwhelmed figure was not
noticed, as water touched everyone.
Could find no reason, how he could
have offended Indra deva on such day. A blessed moment he was having.
The townsfolk ran around to find
shelter. Some got inside the tents of the performers behind the stage. He
found himself in one too.
But the one in which he found himself
was dark and devoid of any noticeable living creature.
Short of a deterrent, the place was
radiated with a luminescence. He saw the moon, reflected by the small lamp
in her hand. Divine the sight was, divine her demeanour. He spoke not a word
for a second. And the moment passed on like it came. He was left alone there
for the rest of the rain.
He found courage after much
assertion.
He walked up to the only person he
ever spoke to.
In that school, who upon hearing his
question betrayed confusion and asked for the attributes to place the
person.
Upon confirming the person with his
descriptions, he asked for a name.
“Antarmukhi”, she was called. Her
real name that was not. “The one who looked inward”. A name she received for
her reserved nature. But her real name, he knew not.
So he named his book after that name.
It wasn’t just a mere collection of
poetry, but an account of his experiences written in prose too.
Only a few nights ago he had no
words, now he lacked pages. How one small encounter, one small event could
become such a great inspiration? Only the inspirited would know!
He decided to publish only one volume
of his book. The other he would keep to himself for the time being, he
wanted to see how the rest of the story would unfold.
He walked the market side that
evening. He was pretty pleased with himself, he finally did something worthy
he felt. Rain would come that night too as a heavy breeze flowed and the sky
cuddled with the hues of dark orange and purple skins. He liked the
atmosphere, the winds just before the rain, but there was dust flowing in
his eyes. And there was an unbecoming sight, with the shopkeepers were
running after their products claimed by the Kalbaishakhi winds. Even
stalls with heavy cloth and strong wood stands seem to be flowing.
He decided to turn around towards his
to house, but could only turn only halfway.
She was dressed in homely clothes,
but still had that amiable look. She noticed him for a second then passed by
him. He wondered if in his moments of devotion, when she danced with the
grace of Ambavalan, did she for even once recognise his sight?
Her most dedicated and honest admirer
he was. And that presumption pleased him.
Will she ever know how she affected
him?
Will she ever speak to him in a
kindly tone? He declined that aspiration himself.
“She has already given me lot”, he
breathed under the howls of the wind. “In this floating life”
A small cup of made of clay flew from
nowhere and hit his head.