Harishchandra (7)

7. Epilogue

Except on days I teach, I stay at home

and read or write or grade papers alone

for everyone else has school or office

in daylight hours. In this solitude

I hate to have the carpet-monger's shout,

the vegetable peddler's ill-timed call,

or the late hermit's cymbals or his conch

disturb my profound reveries or thoughts.

Since such things happen every now and then,

though somewhat irked by a dark man's presence

at my gate, I was more surprised when he

instead of stretching out a begging bowl,

gazed at me like a visitor and sought

permission to take up a few moments

out of my busy hours. How could I

under the spell of deep, dark eyes and face

writ all over with serious intent

not comply to such a stranger's request?

I offered him a chair under the eave

beside the chrysanthemum bed and said,

"I did not catch your name." He smiled and said,

"Harishchandra." Amused, I studied him.

Wrapped in a single piece of cloth he sat

composed and calm, his sturdy wooden staff

against the arm of the chair, his long hair

cascading down upon his straight shoulders.

"Harishchandra?" I asked. "Harishchandra,"

he replied, but offered no surname yet

as if that name alone was proof enough

of his entire being here on earth.

Amused, rather than seek to understand

the purpose of his visit, I displayed

my sense of humour by telling him

that it was indeed a coincidence

that I too had written under a whim

an account of Harishchandra and his wife

in Devkotian blank verse. Here he smiled.

"I know," he said, "and that is why I came."

"None but a few intimate friends know that

I have scribbled off this ancient tale

for lack of fresher imagination

to concoct a new one. How would you know

what I have done? You, whom I hardly know?'

"You know me well," replied the sober man,

"but not well enough to put together

the real me and the me you wrote of.

I am Harishchandra, the king, whom fate

turned into a cremator at Kashi's ghat

now named after me. Though gone long ago,

I visit all who praise my truthfulness."

Astounded, I looked with disbelieving eyes

at one who claimed to be almost as ancient

as earth itself. I felt an awe suffuse

through all my limbs, up every strand of hair

that stood erect. My heart galloped away.

A lump of silence choked my throat and I

would have frozen in my seat had not the sun

and broad daylight given me confidence.

"Do not fear me," said Harishchandra.

"I come as friend, a visitor who seeks

the soul of truth in a false and corrupt world.

I seek to know if truth lives in your heart."

Comforted by these words, I dared utter

though in a subdued schoolboy tone,

"I only wrote to wipe my boredom off.

Neither a seer nor a poet, I,

having enjoyed my father's Shakuntala,

imitated his style in secrecy,

without the least intent to publicize

your perverse fate or the arrogance of gods.

But, oh! I am so fortunate to meet

an honest person like you in this age

and putrid times. Tell me, truthful king,

have you ever lied to anyone?"

Grave and silent he sat for a moment,

recalling, I guess, long lost days of yore,

and, in a voice as profound as the sea,

he measured all his words out to me:

"I am as human as a man can be.

To say that I never lied would not be true.

Yet, there were others who lived before me

and were called by the same name that I have.

This is why you have confused the liar

with me who was born ages afterwards."

"Writers lie," I said, "for fun or impact.

Since I am not a scholar of ancient texts,

I thought I'd insist on human potentials

rather than on historical precision."

"That's fine," he said, "as long as you convey

the power of truth as potent remedy

for a corrupt age. All lies are not lies:

some seek to deceive, some to enhance mind."

"True, but unversed writing speaks of laziness

which doubly deceives both reader and he

who pretends at greatness through poetry.

Yet even those who seek to know the facts

find themselves at loss for lack of record

of incidents such as when, in "Exile,"

you return to the palace wearily

to take your wife and child to Benaras.

I wrote a second version of the script

to see if by injecting conflict there—

because superior intelligence

found Harishchandra devoid of conflict

and way short of great poetry—silent,

unvoiced conflict in unrebellious heart,

I could ratify art. This is what I wrote:

'Twas late afternoon when Harishchandra

arrived at the palace and in he went

straight to the queen's cozy chamber scented

with rich perfumes. The marble floor glistened

where the bright carpet felt inadequate

to cover up its variegated design.

Below the arch of corrugated pillars

on pedestals stood statuettes of gods

and goddesses all finely carved and touched;

and against the cream-white walls in vases

bloomed flowers of finest hues. In the cage,

the maina spoke and sang her instant whims.

In through large windows poured the southern sun

in pools beside the double-bed covered

with red velvet on which the queen drooped low

like a withering stalk unable to bear

the weight of her own miserable soul.

Without her crown and queenly glittergold,

she sat with knees upraised, attired now

not in regal splendour and ornaments

as befitted her, but, alas, in plain,

meagre length of as course a cotton cloth

as can humbly guard human decency.

So like a blotch of perverse fate she stained

the sumptuous perfection all around

that only held back human tears could sound

the sorrow of a joyous nightingale

cruelly forced to grovel on the ground.

Without the strength to lift her head to look

at the crownless king she glanced but once

and closed her eyes to bar these questions in:

"So, what is love when decisions are made

without consulting spouse? What dignity

can woman claim when she has just no say

in matters that affect family life?

What does marriage mean if two lives once joined

by nuptial vows of sharing and caring

share not decisions that chart out their lives

and care not how it might affect the spouse?

And child too! A budling that required

all possible support and nourishment

to bloom into an upright, able soul,

now severed from all such possibilities

by parental folly. To give is fine.

Yet, all life requires a minimum

sustenance of material things

without which the soul simply flies away.

What next? How sustain our lives?

Poor, poor child! Sweet Rohitashwa! Alas!

What a princely pauper have you become!"

Even as she thus pondered wearily,

the king addressed his wife: "I have given

the crown, the sceptre and the kingdom too

to sage Vishwamitra who now commands

that we leave his country. So, let us go."

"Yes, I know, my lord!" she might have replied,

if answering back was the practice then

as it is today between a husband

and his wife. "Yes, I know! You have given

more than what you own: the kingdom's not yours;

it is the people's rightful property.

My life is my own too; so is our son's.

We have a right to choose the course it takes.

Yet you have chosen to give all away

including your own hard-earned happiness.

And I, your spouse, can only look but not

express the nettled soul or rebel thought."

Thinking thus, she played her womanly role;

up she rose like a vague vapour that lingers

against the cliffs for lack of distinct goal;

down she stept from queenly bed like a cloud

that, charged with liquid burden, does not pour;

and when the king moved slow towards the gate,

taking hold of her dear son she followed

him like a leaf that flies the howling storm.

Now comment, truthful king, upon the art

of such intentional lying and supply

that which you alone can supply with truth."

"Padma," he said, "you are not far from truth.

Shaibya and Rohitashwa were ready

and waiting in the inner courtyard where

I found them. My wife shed two large drops

of silent tears that drowned me for a while.

She did not speak a word but followed me

like a lamb unconscious of its destiny.

But what of it? The thoughts you put into

her heavy heart may well have sprouted there.

And, though her actions did not taint my deeds,

I cannot paint the storms that raged inside

the woman's heart if rage it did indeed."

"And I know nothing of heaven," I said.

"Yet I pretend to have been there, seen all.

Would you endorse such nonsense and permit

me to tell the public absolute lies?

I'd rather not! I'd prefer to be wise

than to be a poet, liar in disguise."

"Publish your work," said the honest king,

hoping that upholding truth and honesty

even by such pretentious upholders

as me would help inseminate some hearts

with it. "Publish it," his deep voice rang clear

even as he stood up with staff in hand

and bid me sweet adieu with smiling face.

I held his robe and begged that he withhold

a moment more to clarify my doubt;

but, when he knew what raced inside my head,

he softly replied, "I cannot speak of that."

And, before I could rephrase my question

or beseech him to make an exception,

he left. A mere hallucination now

vanished into thin air, real no more.

Only Harishchandras enter heaven

with their physical bodies. Only poets

enter heaven in their imagination.

Only men like me create their heaven

with all its imperfections. Only you,

dear reader, Trishankhu, hang in mid-sky

until you awaken with a crash to earth.