The rest house was on a rise, in the middle of a dense forest; below it, over a flat bed filled with purplish rocks, rushed the Kalini Ganga, filling the air with noise and spray. The birds returning to roost in the trees were raising their own chatter. A strong breeze rustled through the swinging fronds of the palms. Sita sat quietly at the window and gazed into the slowly darkening current of the river.
On their return from Nuwara Eliya, when Sita and Leslie had reached the rest house, Leslie had bade her farewell and rushed off to Colombo. He had received a telegram in Nuwara Eliya that asked him to return immediately and proceed to Calcutta. After Sita saw him off, she went back to the room and closed the door. This rest house, unlike the others, was not a glittering modern affair with fancy fixtures. Its furniture was heavy and old; its floors were covered only with coir mats; and the mirrors on its dressing tables had turned dull. There were no other tourists staying there; Sita was all alone. The driver from American Express had put the car in the garage and had gone to the servants’ quarters. At dinner, the lonely waiter displayed his teeth ingratiatingly and said, ‘Madam, this is where the bridge was built. Alec Guiness. William Holden. All the big stars stayed in this rest house. It was so wonderful…madam?’ But Sita had not been listening. Afterwards, she returned to the room and sat by the window looking out. Then she turned off the light and lay down on the bed. Early next morning she too had to return to Colombo.
The night continued to grow darker: the night, which was set loose in the forests of sandalwood, slumbered on the bushed of cardamom and cloves: it lay on the white flowers spread over the steps of the temple in Kandy: and rustled like a snake in the grass by the banks of the Kalini Ganga. Silent as the Portuguese and Dutch churches tucked away in forests, the night hid in the smooth rocks at the bottom of the river. The night, proud and regal like the mahouts of the state elephants in Kandy, was dark and heavy-footed like the bathing elephants in the Mahaveli Ganga. The night which was the crack of the lash, the melody of the flute, the reel of the bagpipe, the ripple of the sitar…
In Kandy a torchlight procession is going down the road. The procession of the Buddha’s Tooth. The tooth is in a box studded with diamonds and emeralds, and the box is being carried by an elephant who is also covered with gold silver ornaments. But the Buddha who is sprawled on the grass is laughing, showing his teeth. He has false teeth. The Buddha has one set of teeth for eating, and a different set just for show…
Priyam Mayurah Pratinrityati. The peacock dances and comes close to its beloved. Priyam. God, I’ve forgotten all the languages I used to know. How many do I know now? Not one. I’m dumb…
King of Words! O King of Words! I salute Vani and Vinayaka. They created words and meanings. I am Vishakhadatta, son of Maharaja Bhaskaradatta. Clouds are thundering overhead. My beloved is far away. What has happened? What is going on? The herbs of immortality grow on snow-covered peaks. A coiled snake sits on the head of Shiva. A coiled snake…
What was that song by Chandidasa that that fool Qamarul Islam Chowdhri sang to me? ‘It’s a dark night; the clouds are heavy. How did you manage to come? He stands among the flowers, getting drenched in the rain. My mother-in-law is most cruel, and so are my sisters-in-law. Chandidasa says: Dear friend…dear friend…’
And what was that lyric by Vidyapati that the great artist Projesh Kumar Chowdhry explained for me? ‘The pupils of Radha’s heavy-lidded eyes are like the bumblebees on lotus flowers. The gusts of wind tickle the petals. After her bath she puts collyrium in her eyes. Why would someone gild a lily…?’
And then she puts on a sari, dark as night itself, and goes off to meet Krishna…
Please Krishna, let me listen to your flute. Please, please Krishna…
Tulsidas has written in his Ramacharitmanas: A young woman is like burning flame of a lamp. O my soul, do not become a moth to that flame…
But no son of a bitch listens to Tulsidas now…
If only I could find in Ratanpura that magic diamond that fulfils all wishes…
All the mountains in Sri Lanka are leaning…
May Autumn, which is pale like the body of Vishnu, remove all your problems…
I receive your command with bowed head, just as one receives a garland of flowers…
But who shall receive the garland that I’m offering? Yes, friend, who shall…?
Maharaj, may you be victorious. There was a man without a passport. He was trying to leave our camp with a letter. He has been put under arrest…
How do they give someone the third degree? The third degree. F.B.l. C.I.D.
Ph.D. K.L.M. Pan Am. Air lndia International…
The trees, bare of all leaves, have lined up, as if getting ready to escort someone’s coffin…
Now I go to burning places and invoke the spirits of love’s magic words. May Kali of Calcutta be victorious. There was a Hindu burning place on the way to Manipur near Karachi. When Muslim refugees arrived from India they set up their huts there. May Kali of Calcutta be victorious…
‘The beginning of the Universe is a dark secret, dark like the body of Kali. The red in the sky at sunset is the wrath of Kali; the typhoons, plagues, and death are her companions. We in Bengal have seen her wrath for centuries.’ Shri Projesh Kumar Chowdhri gives a statement to the press. A fraud. A painter of fake Expressionist paintings. Fraud, Fraud. Fraud. The concept of Kali is ‘expressionistic’. Fraud…
They drew a line on the ground to protect me, but it didn’t work…
Anasuya said: Listen. O princess…
Virtue…devotion to one’s husband…innocence…fidelity..Alas, alas…Ladies and gentlemen! Comrades! Brothers and sisters! I beg to inform you that Sita is lost in the dreadful jungle of today’s world. She was abducted by the Ravana of today’s world. This world of ours which is divided in two camps. The world which is prey to Anglo-American imperialism; in which innocent people are tortured but no Hanuman comes to rescue them…Lata dear, the microphone is dead…Kailash…
Kailash Nath Mathur, please get the power turned on quick…So, ladies and gentlemen, as I was saying, in today’s world where the demons of hydrogen bombs are ready to destroy human habitations, where the, Sitas of Asia and Africa are daily abducted….You frauds, you who read the Ramayana, how many Muslim Sitas did you abduct in 19471? Just count them for once. And you Muslim holy-warriors, you whose tongues never tire of cursing the tyrants of the seventh century, you tell me…
Sita Mirchandani. Roll number 963…?
Yes please…
Yes, I am Sita…
My beloved Sita…My darling Sita…
Sita, my love, my darling…
Sweetheart. More precious than life
Tell me what you wish for most…
What do I wish for? I only want all the diamonds in Ratanpura. Then you’ll see how I shall put you in your place…
What a petit bourgeois…! Hello, hello, hello! Noises, sounds. What sounds? The humming of telephone wires. The rumble of train wheels. The sputter of the motor boat engine. The roar of the airplane. Whrr, whrr. Phat, phat. Bang, bang. Shloop, shloop. Is that the washerman? Has he brought the clothes?…Bilqis bitiya, please check the clothes…Begum sahiba, what do you want me to cook for dinner…
Ah, those wonderful sounds…the shehnai players in Banaras…the hand at Qaisar’s wedding…On the island of Capri…the drum players at Muharram…hurry, it’s, Ja’far Bandi singing the nauha;
‘The nightingales love the roses, yes they do;
the roses love the morning breeze, yes they do;
but we who love Ali, Father of the Dust,
love only his grave’s dust, yes we do….’
Yes I do…
Ravana is burned. Sita is burned too. All of Lanka’s Iand is burned to ashes…
Was that Rahul laughing?…Rahil’s gay laugh. Jamil’s loud laughter. The tinkle of wine glasses…There was an old couple on the Brooklyn Bridge: they were whispering to each other and laughing like children…
I shall die. Death will come to me. My feet will be turned towards the West so that my soul can get on board a boat and cross the ocean of Sindh…The flames of the bier. . .The candles dripping wax. Fresh flowers. The graveyard in Tulsipur. That’s where we buried Jamila Baji. Who was Jamila Baji? …Then there was her husband; he was wailing and crying so loudly. Bilqis told me he remarried next month. The swine. They are all swine, the men…Jamil darling, I still sometimes have that awful dream. That I’m taking my M.A. exam., but the questions are set in a language I don’t know. And the allowed three hours are ticking away. Two hours left! Now one. Twenty minutes. Five minutes. One …
Give me five minutes more
Only five minutes more
Only five minutes more of your charms
Give me five minutes more In-your-arm…
The rock looked exactly like an elephant. When you climb a high rock you are likely to slip and fall. I can go and hide on a rock twice as high as Sigiriya. but they’ll find me…
May I have the pleasure…?
Who me? I am Mrs Beach Luxury Hotel. And you? Mr Ashoka Hotel? How nice! Please take a seat…
India, that is Bharat, discovered the pillar of the mighty King of Kings, Ashoka; discovered the Chakra of Ashoka; discovered the Ashoka Hotel…
May I have the pleasure…?
Of course. This is my sister-in-law. Quite something. Bilqis Anwar Ali. A-1 actress. Producer of great plays. Super intellectual…Hey you, Jamuni Begum, are YOU listening? Umrao Begum? Khetu Begum?… Where the heck have they all disappeared? What the hell is going on? Hey you, Jamil’s wife, look at the soles of your feet. That will protect you from the evil eye. Hey you, Bhuri Begum, what’s making you so itchy? Why do you want to rush off so soon. Hey you, Bundi Bua, Jamil Bhaiya is not feeling well…I think I’ll go crazy from worrying. Last night I washed Lord Ali’s medallion to give us protection… just listen to what Khetu Begum has done – she’s accusing Poor Bundi of all sorts of things, as if she herself is the most virtuous of wives…You know, Urooj’s wife lies likce nobody’s business. Don’t ever let yourself be fooled by her, Mother…What can she give to anyone? She shivers in winter and starves in spring…Jamil Bhaiya, last night the Lord Ali himself appeared in a dream to me. Are you listening Jamil Bhaiya…?
I’m a cow…
Mr Sandman…Mr Sandman…Step into my heart’s Vrindavan…
ln my little corner of the world
Tonight my love – tonight my love…
The night has come down on the Buddhist shrines…
Why has the night attacked me again…?
The wind has turned violent…
The wind blows over Parakrama Samudra. It floats over Kalini Ganga, It dances away towards Colombo…
The wind…
The moon…
The moon sleeps in sandalwood branches…The eyes of the people snoring in dusty cottages are filled with sleep of centuries…Don Fernandez da Costa Samrasinharuna Mudaliyar… Ratansinha Jaisurya… Gunapala Gunawerdene…Their eyes are filled with the sleep of forests… Portuguese covered with armour attack Dutch castles. The spirits of English planters line the road to Mahahinya and beg for sugar and butter from American GIs…The moon swims in Mahaveli Ganga…These elephants are nothing but spirits that were held captive for thousands of years in the jungles…
The moon…
The night…
The night is the hair of Queen Sita. The dark-hued body of the Lord, Rama Raghurai. The face of Mother Kali…The darkness before all creation…We are always caught in that primordial darkness, though we might deceive ourselves and think that a great evolution has taken place…
Dark, dark, dark. Night…
I lost my sleep in New York…The palm trees in the forest have shot into air and are touching the blood red sky…the ruins of Lanka Tilaka are like a mouth full of teeth gaping open in a hideous smile…the pond of lilies is open like a sleepless eye…Lilavati… Rupavati…Sitavati…
The bones collected in the stupa of Rana Vihar are busy discussing the international situation…Parakrama Bahu I is urgently writing the fifth chapter of Communism in South Asia. . . I was devoured by tie forest. . .
God, how beautiful were the ornaments that Bari Khala gave me at my wedding…the bride’s jewels…The goldsmiths of Ratanpura are busy making a diamond-studded necklace…All that glitters…Light…light… The sounds of the jungle…the sounds of the birds, the ocean, the roads and the highways, the sounds of the harbour, the sounds in the stillness of the mountains…
The sound…
There is only one…
Come here…come here, near me…come near me…come…
(ii)
“I just got back,” Sita spoke into the mouthpiece of the telephone in her room in Mount Lavinia. “Any news?”
“Oh, hello, Sita,” Irfan replied. “So you’re back. How wonderful! May I come up to your room?”
“Please do…”
He arrived five minutes later.
“Well, well. You look very cheerful. I’m so glad the forest air did you some good.”
“Please sit down.”
This was his first time in her room and he seemed rather nervous. He paced the room once, then sat down on the sofa in one corner. She remained seated on the edge of her bed, busily knitting something.
“What’s that?”
“A sweater for my son. I started it so that I could give it to Jamil to take back with him for Rahul…But now I don’t even know how big Rahul is. It may not even fit him. I’ve been going by my memory alone.”
Irfan remained silent for several moments, then he asked, ‘What else? Tell me more.’
“More?” she asked with a smile.
“For the whole week I thought of you all the time. I couldn’t get interested in the conference at all. God knows what I finally wrote in my report. But tell me, was your trip interesting?”
“Very interesting.” She picked up a new set of needles.
“How were the doddering American widows?”
“I didn’t meet any doddering American widows. Though I met an American…a man. But he wasn’t even old.”
“Bitch,” Irfan muttered under his breath and fell silent.
Some moments passed, then Sita said, “You didn’t ask your usual question: what happened next?”
‘Tell me yourself…”
“He was an archaeologist.”
“Then you must’ve had a great time discussing Ceylonese history with him. The way you had lectured me on the history of Sindh.”
“Sure.” She went on knitting, unconcerned.
Irfan stared at Sita for a while. Suddenly he jumped up from the sofa and, striding up to her, slapped the needles and the knitting out of her hands. Then he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her off the bed.
“What else did you do besides discussing history?” he snarled.
Sita turned white.
“I asked you something. What else did you do?”
“Shut up!’ Sita’s face was flushed with anger. ‘What right have you to ask me that?”
“None,” Irfan hissed between clenched teeth. “None at all. Perhaps even your husband has no right to question you – since you ran out on him two years ago.”
“Shut up, Irfan!” Sita screamed. ‘Get the hell out of here. Get out before I call the manager.’ She was trembling with rage.
For a long moment Irfan stood silently watching her, then turned around and slowly walked away. At the door, without looking back at her, he spoke once again in his normal, calm voice, “I finally managed to get an appointment with Jamil. He has agreed to talk to me tonight. I’ll be meeting him for dinner at Galface Hotel. Afterwards, I’ll call you. Good night.”
Sometimes after midnight the phone by Sita’s bed rang persistently, but she didn’t answer.
Translated by C.M. Naim