A River Sutra (12 page)

When I finally closed Nitin Bose's diary, it was too late to sleep. I was sorry for the young man, but his story made no sense to me. Exhausted by my own incomprehension, I went to the terrace.

As always, the darkness that precedes the dawn stilled my mind. I could not see the Narmada, but I sat with my face turned to the east where the river reveals herself to the holy men ringing the pool at Amarkantak, wondering what the ascetics thought about as they watched the water flowing from some secret stream, whispering in eddies below their crossed legs, mysterious and alluring in the dying night.

Did they brood on the Narmada as the proof of Shiva's great penance, or did they imagine her as a beautiful woman dancing toward the Arabian Sea, arousing the lust of ascetics like themselves while Shiva laughed at the madness of their infatuation?

Dawn lightened the sky and I was able to see the Narmada leaping headlong through the distant marble rocks, the spraying waterfalls refracting the first rays of sun into arcs of color as if the river were a woman adorning herself with jewels.

Below the terrace the water was still dark, appearing motionless in the shadows like a woman indolently stretching her limbs as she oiled herself with scented oils, her long black hair loosened, her eyes outlined in collyrium.

I watched the water slowly redden, catching reflections from the rose colors of dawn, and imagined the river as a woman painting her palms and the soles of her feet with vermilion as she prepared to meet her lover.

It was the first time I had entertained such thoughts about the river. Now the legends of the Narmada merged with Nitin Bose's story as I struggled to understand the power of the woman who had enchanted him.

If even the Great Ascetic could not withstand the weapons unleashed from Kama's sugarcane bow strung with honeybees, how could poor Nitin Bose survive as Kama's arrows found their mark, piercing him with enchantment, inflaming him with lust, parching him with desire, rendering him helpless with the paroxysms of his own longing, until he was wounded with that fifth and fatal arrow, the Carrier of Death?

The sun appeared above the Vindhya Hills, a fiery ball of light leeching the color from the water until it shone like glass, as hard as woman's pursuit of a lover. The bright light hurt my eyes. I turned from the terrace and saw the staff waiting for my instructions. I issued the first orders of the morning. Then I wrote a note to Mr. Chagla advising him to keep an eye on Nitin Bose because I was going to bed.

I opened my eyes. Mr. Chagla's round face was peering down at me, moisture beading his fingerprints on an iced glass.

"Here, sir. Drink some juice."
"How is our visitor, Chagla?"
"Excellent, sir. You will see when he comes

back from the shrine."
"You let him go to the shrine by himself?" "As if, sir! The guards went with him. Also,

"I couldn't, sir. They will not let outsiders come to their shrine. But I have given stern instructions. Mr. Bose must be returned to us in A-one condition."

"How has Bose gone with them? He is not a tribal."
"They say he has been touched by the power of the goddess so he is not an outsider any more. Anyway, don't perturb youself, sir. I know everything what is going to happen. Their shrine is only a big banyan tree. Nothing harmful. There the villagers will have an assembly with Mr. Bose. Now hurry, sir. You must take refreshment. The cook is waiting in the dining room with your meal."
Mr. Chagla left my room and I washed hastily. As I was dressing I shouted to him through the closed door, "What happens in the assembly? Did the guards tell you?"
"The tribals will beg the goddess to forgive Mr. Bose for denying the power of desire."
"Power of desire?" I demanded as I came out, reassured by the brilliant afternoon sunlight and my starched clothes. "Chagla, have you been infected by this foolishness?"
Mr. Chagla looked at me with the anxiety of a parent watching a willful child. "But, sir, without desire there is no life. Everything will stand still. Become emptiness. In fact sir, be dead."
I stared at him in astonishment, and Mr. Chagla's smooth face wrinkled with the effort of making me comprehend. "It is not a woman who has taken possession of Mr. Bose's soul, sir. How can such a thing can ever happen?"
"Then what is all this goddess business?"
"Sir. Really, sir." Mr. Chagla sighed in frustration. "The goddess is just the principle of life. She is every illusion that is inspiring love. That is why she is greater than all the gods combined. Call her what you will, but she is what a mother is feeling for a child. A man for a woman. A starving man for food. Human beings for God. And Mr. Bose did not show her respect so he is being punished."
"By sitting under a tree?"
"No sir. He will not be sitting. The villagers will be sitting. Mr. Bose will be making a mud image of the goddess."
"What for?"
"To carry to the river for immersing purposes. I have found a spot where we can observe the procession, hidden from the human eye. But you must eat first, sir. These tribals have no sense of time."

I could feel the situation sliding out of my control. "What is the point of the procession?"
"Ritual, ritual, and ritual, sir. Like repeating your two-times table."
"Chagla, you are not making sense."
"Certainly I am, sir. It is Mr. Bose who is making no sense, pretending desire is some kind of magic performed with black arts. But desire is the origin of life. For thousands of years our tribals have worshipped it as the goddess. You have heard the pilgrims praying 'Save us from the serpent's venom.' Well, sir, the meaning of the prayer is as follows. The serpent in question is desire. Its venom is the harm a man does when he is ignoring the power of desire."
Defeated by Mr. Chagla's good nature, I walked to the dining room, wondering if his open face and rotund body hid an understanding that I did not possess. As I ate, I tried to fathom what Mr. Chagla had been saying while my eyes wandered idly over the mosaics of flowers and birds inlaid into the dining-room walls.
The sound of drumbeats and singing voices brought Mr. Chagla running into the room. "Sir, hurry! The procession is coming through the jungle."
I ran up the stairs followed by the cook and other curious members of the bungalow staff. We crowded onto the terrace of Nitin Bose's suite, which overlooked the jungle.
Trees obscured the steep path leading down to the riverbank, but there was an open space where we could see a line of villagers following a garlanded idol carried on a platform supported by long bamboo poles. Four men held the poles to their shoulders. I recognized them as bungalow guards. Behind them I caught a brief glimpse of Nitin Bose's face. Then he disappeared down the curve of the path, and I could see only the idol above the bushes, rocking on its platform as the men descended the steep incline.
Mr. Chagla gently pulled at my elbow, whispering conspiratorially "Sir, let us go to my hideyhole to observe the ceremony."
I followed him down the stairs and into the garden. At a corner of the garden he opened a rusting iron gate that led to the water tanks below the terrace. The path was used once a year when the water tanks were inspected. Now Mr. Chagla walked in front of me crushing nettles and weeds underfoot to clear the way to a rock escarpment halfway down the hillside.
We crouched behind a boulder as the procession skidded down the steep path. Mr. Chagla had chosen a perfect vantage point. We had a clear view of the riverbank two hundred feet below us, and I could even see fish swimming in the clear water of the river slowly turning gray in the approaching dusk.
The procession stumbled down the slope, and the guards yelled to each other, struggling to keep the idol from sliding off the tilting platform as they lowered it to the ground.
The procession of villagers fell back to allow Nitin Bose to approach the idol. He looked dazed. For a long moment he stood in front of the mud image and nothing happened. Then, as if he had suddenly remembered an instruction, he put his arms around the idol, lifting it from the ground. Holding the idol, he walked into the water. The tribals waded in behind him, their hands raised, their faces turned to the west. The crimson sunset reddened their features as Nitin Bose immersed the idol in the river, chanting

The mud idol began to disintegrate in the current, and we watched fragments of the image being swept downstream—a broken arm, a breast, torn garlands spinning in the water as they were carried toward the clay lamps floating in the darkness at the river's bend.

The temple bells from Mahadeo were ringing for the evening prayers. Mr. Chagla got to his feet and began stamping down the nettles. "It will be completely dark soon, sir. Let us return to the bungalow before we are eaten up by snakes."

I stood up. Below us I could barely see the shadowy figures of the Vano villagers still standing around Bose in the water. I followed Mr. Chagla up the pathway to the bungalow, the voices of the villagers growing fainter as they chanted after Nitin Bose,

For three weeks Nitin Bose remained in the bungalow, a source of constant concern to me.

I could not concentrate on my dawn meditations listening to him sliding down the steep path that led to the river. I was always afraid he would fall or be bitten by a snake before he reached the riverbank to make his salutation.

In the evenings I no longer enjoyed watching the sunset from our terrace for fear some harm might come to him standing waist deep in the water below me, praying to the Narmada.

Never having been a parent, I found this unfamiliar burden of responsibility an irritant. I considered Nitin Bose a foolish young man who attracted misfortune, even though Mr. Chagla told me he appeared to be working on something because his desk was covered with papers.

I was greatly relieved when Nitin Bose finally left us and the bungalow returned to its routine serenity.

Shortly after his departure I received a letter from my old colleague thanking me for looking after his nephew.

knew I could rely on your discretion. Incidentally, Nitin showed me a most interesting essay he has written concerning the tribal practices in your area. I have asked him to submit it to the
Asia Review
for publication."

Mr. Chagla was pleased to hear about the essay. "And guess what, sir?"
"What, Chagla?"
"Only yesterday I heard some village children singing on the path to Vano. Do you know what they were singing?

"Nothing is ever lost, sir. That is the beauty of a river view."