Bhrigu Mahesh, Phd Page 5

  ‘When I could take it no more,’ he went on with difficulty, ‘I decided that I would talk to my friend about it. We were doing our metric and would soon be in a position to look for wives. What did I lack as a bachelor? Nothing. I was a good looking lad, hard working and honest; my feelings for Savita were sincere and my family was one of the richest in the village, owning to the sweets shop that did so well. I thought if I sent a marriage proposal to the parents of Nataraj ji and Savita, they would be over the moon with joy. I acted upon it the very next day. My parents thought I could have done better but as I persisted in my demand, they relented and soon a proposal was sent to Savita’s house…’ His look had now changed completely. The tenderness had gone to be replaced by something mimicking trauma.

  ‘You don’t look good.’ I observed ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Yes… yes I am.’ he replied weakly, but clearly he was not. ‘I am about to reveal the most painful part of my story; a part that I have buried at the bottom of my heart and never dare to visit it once. It sometimes throbs painfully but I pay no heed to it and try to drown it in the worries of my domestic problems.’

  ‘What did she do?’ asked Bhrigu and Manjunath jumped in his seat a little. ‘H…how did you know that it was her…?’ he stammered.

  ‘The pain that I can see so clearly on your face can only be caused by someone you love. Love has the power to hurt the most.’ he replied calmly.

  ‘Y…yes. That’s true.’ he replied in a daze. ‘She…she did what was least expected of her. As my we sat in her house, tended to by her ecstatic family like royalty, she barged into the room and…and…shouted at me!’

  We sat there for a couple of minutes, trying to clear the air that had become saturated with the agitation of our companion. ‘Really?’ Bhrigu asked with a faint hint of annoyance.

  ‘Yes’ replied the stricken man. ‘How unwomanly, isn’t it? I always worshipped Savita from afar but never in my wildest dreams could I associate such a temper to someone who looked so gentle.’

  ‘And why did she shout at you?’ I asked, absorbed in his story.

  ‘Because she said…she said that she did not like me enough to talk to me, let alone marry me!’ he cried ‘Could you believe such rubbish? Any girl in the village would have given her right hand to be my wife but…but that stupid girl! She kicked the good fortune that had come knocking at her door. Had she tied the knot with me, she would have been spared her bad marriage. But…but then again, she would have ruined me instead! That’s why I maintain that whatever happens, happens for good. I married my wife Neelu and I have never seen one unhappy day with her.’

  ‘Is it so?’ Bhrigu asked with a tone that I could not understand.

  ‘Yes.’ replied the man. He had turned florid owing to the effort that went into narrating his passionate albeit painful story. ‘And you still don’t know everything. The reputation of Savita grew from the moment she humiliated me and my family, who left the Bhakti’s house swearing never to see their faces again. She, what can I say, came totally unhinged! After completing her metric, she begged her parents to send her to study in a city college. No other girl from our village had ever gone to study outside. It was considered improper, to say the least, but Savita…’ he breathed in sharply, ‘she pestered her parents to send her to college and finally they had to bow before her wishes. I did not see her for six months straight and when she did come back for her vacation, she…she brought a male friend with her! A male friend. He was probably her lover. There was much consternation in her family regarding her new companion and they tried to reason with her that such a behavior would attract unwanted attention and also sully their unassailable reputation in the village but the woman did not pay any heed to her elders; the people who had loved her and cared for her were suddenly being treated as strangers whose wishes were least important. He stayed in the house for as long as their vacation lasted. Everyone saw them roaming around the village; visiting a well here, a temple there…Laughing together like maniacs…Oh! They were the very picture of indecency. For those fifteen days, they became the talk of the village and people were drawing bucketfuls from the well of gossip even months after they had left for the city.’ He paused for dramatic effect and continued. ‘I guess her parents, in their moment of sheer anger, said things that they did not mean from the heart but her bloated ego did not take it well. I can say this because from that day forth, she never came home. Not even for holidays. We did not see her for six years after that episode and when I had thought she would never return, Nataraj ji, who, despite opposition from my family, I was secretly friends with, came running to me and told me that a letter had come from Savita saying that she was marrying a man of her choice. She wanted her family to support her in this decision.’

  ‘And did they?’ I asked.

  ‘Only Nataraj ji and their eldest sister, Parvati, who lived in a city close to Savita’s with her family, went to attend the wedding. Her father had died and her mother was too ill to attend the ceremony. Chiranjeev, Premkala and Sujiv, their youngest brother who now works in Patiala city, still had their torch of hate burning for her and openly showed their resentment by ostracizing her publicly. I trailed along with Nataraj ji, just to keep him company and to disperse the awkwardness that had arisen from the ridiculous social situation, you see.’

  ‘I see.’ said Bhrigu.

  The train was now slowly pulling up to the station and the milestone that loomed closer to us read in beautiful broad strokes- “Krishna Dwar”

  CHAPTER 6

  A Village

  By the time we reached our destination, the train compartment was practically empty. Most of the passengers had got off at towns or cities that had come before. It was a miracle indeed that a village like Krishna Dwar had its own railway station. I could accord the fact to the majestic ruins of beautiful old temples that Krishna Dwar boasted of, which dated back to the Maratha period, almost qualifying the village as a travel destination. People living in the nearby cities usually employed their own vehicles and came here looking for solace in its beautiful, serene temples.

  I could easily locate my lost slipper, which I should add, had done quite the journey by itself, in the almost empty compartment and aided by an energetic coolie who had been called for help by Manjunath Gupta, we stepped foot on the quaint little station.

  I have yet to see a station like the one I saw at Krishna Dwar. It was beautiful and homely with an old world charm about it that could easily set anyone back by a good hundred years. But, the thing that struck me as unique about this station was that wherever the eyes looked, you could see men and women in yellow clothes, with the words “Jai Shree Ram” printed in small letters, that one attaches to a religious person. The station was bathed in yellow and I felt very self conscious getting down at the station because we were the only ones wearing different colors. Manjunath was wearing a yellow shirt but thank god it was a normal one and not the one which one attaches to a zealot.

  He noticed my bewildered look. ‘Krishna Dwar,’ he said flaunting one of his signature grins, ‘is a village of old temples. The beautiful ruins of ancient temples and the efforts of the tourism ministry in promoting them have resulted in an unprecedented rise in the number of devotees coming here to worship. It is now considered as sacred a pilgrimage site as the famous Char Dham.’

  Bhrigu was standing beside me, taking in the scene silently. I noticed that although he gave no outward signs of his feelings but the imperceptible arching of his eyebrows was hint enough that the station had thrilled him in some way that I could not begin to understand. I knew that the reason for the look of surprise on his face was totally different from mine and that the scene we had just witnessed had somehow aided him in one of his many researches that he was working on.

  ‘I can detect only four people wearing different clothes, and there are around forty people at the station. That gives us the ration of 1:10, in favor of
the people wearing the holy robes. Interesting, isn’t it?’ he asked, looking amusedly at Manjunath Gupta.

  ‘Y…yes…Of course.’ said the befuddled man as clearly he could grasp neither the head nor tail of what my esteemed friend was trying to say.

  ‘What, pray, does that mean?’ I asked. Manjunath might have had his reservations about voicing his confusion but I was as comfortable raising questions with my friend as a good student who wants to learn everything that his teacher has to offer and lick the educator bone dry.

  ‘Nothing much.’ he replied, smiling. ‘I had somewhere read an article which stated that 1 out of 10 people in this country are religious fanatics. It is nice to see that the ratio is bearing out so well here.’

  ‘Oh! Is that all?’ I replied and decided that the student, who wants to learn everything, runs the risk of sometimes knowing things that would only go to increase the usual clatter in his brain.

  We made our way through the station and in no time, the coolie had hoisted our suitcases atop a rented S.U.V whose driver was an enthusiastic looking lad who took quite a pride in his profession, as we took our seats in the roomy vehicle which gathered speed in the direction of our destination.

  ‘Krishna Dwar’ I thought, looking out the window and breathing in the fresh, country air. ‘I have a gut feeling that you are going to give us one hell of a time.’

  CHAPTER 7

  An Old House

  Our vehicle sped through a recently constructed road and our good driver informed us that it was being built owning to the revenue Krishna Dwar was generating as a tourist spot. ‘I was offered to take up as a guide of one of the old temples.’ He offered graciously ‘But I said that I love driving above anything else and mother says that you should do what you love.’

  ‘That’s sound advice’ I applauded the fella.

  He grinned broadly at me.

  We were frequently subjected to small markets that sported the local produce of the village. ‘You should visit the mart’ Our young driver said cheerfully ‘My brother owns a small shop and sells the idols of many beautiful deities’.

  ‘Thank you.’ Bhrigu said with a straight face ‘I will remember you if we happen to fall into an idol crisis.’

  He grinned broadly at my friend.

  We rounded a corner and ran into a beautiful gate, with huge, purple pillars and an arch joining them together. In the arch was sculpted the magnificent figure of Lord Krishna. He was looking a picture of divine splendor and I could clearly observe the skill of the craftsman in the minutest details of the figure; be it a beautifully sculpted ring to the gorgeous setting of the necklace the popular God wore around his neck. His face was benevolent and kind with a beautiful smile but the master talent of the sculptor lay in the way he had twisted the corners of the smile imperceptibly, giving it a mysterious, mocking quality, as if the God was looking over the foibles of humanity and laughing derisively that for an intelligent species, humans were fool enough to think that they could perform a battery of misdeeds, thinking that no one was watching them.

  ‘This is Krishna Dwar.’ said our chirpy guide. ‘Our village is named after it. It was built in the year…’

  He went on to give us every single detail concerning the year of construction of the gateway, the legend of the sculptor who made it, right down to a number of supernatural occurrences that has been till date associated with it. Strange that he had turned down the offer of a guide; clearly his guiding skills were way advanced than his driving one.

  The harsh heat of the summer of June was burning us to cinders and the air that the speeding vehicle drew forth was trying to give us three degree burns. Hence, you can easily imagine my relief when we entered a clearing and ran straight into a thick canopy of gold mohur trees. The branches were hanging low above us and I felt that I could almost touch a flower if I strained my hands a little. The cool air was comforting after a long, hot and hard drive. I looked at my friend to see how he was taking this pleasant change, half expecting what I saw. He was looking straight ahead of him; watchful, attentive but with a wariness to the scenes and sights that greeted him.

  Our S.U.V drove for about one mile on the thickly curtained road and stopped smoothly at a big, rambling gate of solid iron. The formidable walls that ran from the gate, enclosing the estate were showing signs of decay but one could easily notice in them the grandeur of a bygone era.

  ‘This is Bhakti Niwas. Quite a sight, eh?’ The driver said winking at us. ‘Shall I get your bags?’

  ‘Sure’ I said.

  ‘My house is just round the corner’ Manjunath informed us, as he collected his slim briefcase. ‘I will take your leave now. You are welcome at my house any time you feel like. It will be an honor to be your host, sir.’

  We thanked him for this generous invitation and he took off. The man looked quite a spectacle as he walked slowly towards his destination. The low branches of the gold mohur trees seemed to devour him as he turned a corner and disappeared from our view.

  The driver had also left as we stood there, facing the huge wrought iron gate before us. We were about to use the old, brass knocker, which happened to sport a tiny spider, to announce our arrival when the gate creaked ever so slightly and then everything was silent as before. Bhrigu too, was looking at me to check if I had also felt the tremor. We then shrugged it according it to the work of our imagination. My hand was almost on the knocker again when the gate swung open; shaking miserably at its roots and in the doorway stood the man we had met only a month ago. It was Nataraj Bhakti. The harassed looking old man looked even more pathetic, framed in the gateway. The impressive gate was accentuating his miserable condition; mocking him for not maintaining himself half as well as it had maintained itself.

  ‘Welcome’ he said, joining both his hands in salutation. ‘I am very sorry that you had to wait. Manjunath had called me to inform that you had arrived but…but the blasted gate…’ He said and threw a malicious look at the imperious thing. ‘It looks grand and all but is sheer pain in the neck. In the old days of my great, great, great grandfather, we had four retired pugilists, who were paid handsomely to do just one thing. Open and close this gate. But now…now we have so much trouble with this no good thing! Those brats who call themselves my family don’t bother with it at all. They climb over the wall to come in or go out; the women too use a ladder over the wall to that effect. But I am a respectable man. How would it look if I have to enter and leave my own house as a thief? So I am stuck with laboring with this huge piece of scrap. I am proud and tired of my property all at once.’

  ‘Why don’t you sell it?’ I ventured.

  ‘I thought of doing so but the brats…They have a share too…They won’t stop harassing me over the division of property till I have a heart attack. Anyways, I have little time left on this earth. Why to complicate it needlessly? I will manage somehow.’ he said with a sigh ‘Please…please do come in. I hope you had a pleasant drive.’

  CHAPTER 8

  A Condition

  The house of Nataraj Bhakti could have inspired great poets to write their best pieces. The first thing that jumped to my mind as I made my way through the expansive grounds was eerie; but not your regular eeriness, mind you. There was a hint of breathlessness in the air; a romance that could have inspired a slew of kings and princes; aiding them in their romantic adventures as they eloped with a fair maiden, leaving a title and distraught family behind. The fact that the house was inhabited by a man such as Nataraj Bhakti and his delinquent relatives was spoiling the old, faded glamour, to say the least.

  A high roof with rafters loomed closer to us as we walked towards the Bhakti Niwas. I could spot a dry fountain pool with pebbles and insects of assorted variety inhabiting its shallow bed. The pool must have been grand and beautiful once, but now it was just a mere skeleton of its former self; all signs of life and activity gone. We then came upon an area which sported a few il
l looking motorcycles. Bhakti told us that this part was once a beautiful, well maintained garden but now it was being used by his younger brother as a motorcycle workshop. A further distance into the grounds and just before the house came into our full view, we saw that another section of the property had been transformed into a shed. ‘My sister, Savita, runs a tuition class here.’ explained Nataraj Bhakti. ‘Few students from well to do families come here to learn. The government schools here, have lost the integrity that they used to have in our days, you see.’

  We were now standing before the great ancient house of Nataraj Bhakti. The run down albeit magnificent three storied house, topped by a dusty red rafted roof was towering before us like an imperious but aged master; bold and intimidating, tired but awe-inspiring.

  ‘Wow!’ I observed ‘You must have a lot of rooms here!’

  Nataraj Bhakti made a wry face. ‘All rooms are in such a condition that they cater well only to rats. We don’t have money to fix them. I have managed to repair a room from my savings and live there.’

  ‘And your relatives?’ I asked again

  ‘They manage’ was his curt reply.

  ‘Where do they live?’ Bhrigu asked, eyeing the house with visible interest.

  ‘They?’ said Nataraj Bhakti ‘Chiranjeev, Premkala and their two sons live in the two rooms on the other side of the courtyard.’

  ‘And Savita?’

  ‘She sometimes sleeps in the shed when the students have gone.’ he said ‘In winter, she sleeps there all the time but come summer and she has to relocate to one of the rooms on the second floor.’

  ‘And that room is in good condition?’ I asked.

  ‘There is nothing in good condition here, sir.’ he replied hotly. ‘That room was inhabitable too, but Savita got it fixed. She had to spend quite a fortune but she makes her own money and so she can afford it. Chiranjeev and Premkala were after my life for some money so that they could get there room fixed too. But I frankly refused. If I helped them but once, they would end up making me a pauper. They continue to pester me for money and I am now completely fed up!’ I could see blood rising to his head ‘These people think that just because I had a government job in the city, I would have earned a fortune. Tell me sir, if I had the money with me, would I have come to live in a god forsaken place such as this?’