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Creatures of Benares (I)Author(s): Raja RaoReviewed work(s):Source: World Literature Today, Vol. 62, No. 4, Raja Rao: 1988 Neustadt Laureate (Autumn,1988), pp. 540-543Published by: Board of Regents of the University of OklahomaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/40144503 .

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Creatures of Benares (I)

By RAJARAO "Palanquin,Palanquin, eave the

way, ho, for His Honour,the Pa-lanquin" this is how we should

havebeen receivedat MogulSarai tation,but weremet by self-selling, high-turban-adjustingaxi driv-ers, their chariotsbetoken of a forgotten dignity."Saabpaisa,money,"said the coolies, tryingto getrid of us before the customary agglingsbegan, thus

againthatthey'dnot have to bear theirburdens too

long. "Saab, he GayaExpress s comingsoon."Herehowevertwo curs introduced hemselves,noses upandearsstraight, o watchthe argument they alsowere goingto get something rom hese new custom-ers. One cur, with long hangingpips, was tryingto

edge theother,a leansomemale,lest thereshouldbethe possibilityof a gift. "Even a cur in Benares is

blessed,"said the greatSriSankara, nd who cansaywhat these curswere, what ancient souls reborn ortheir ultimate salvationon the Gangabanks. Thebullocks oo, from a neighbouring art, waved theirears. They heardthis haggleas if they againwould

profit romsomeultimatebenefit. In Benaresevery-thing bullock arts,rags,human xcreta incones or

flat), fallen waysidehay, treetops, burnt charcoals,abandonedbus horns,beggars, ugly nameson wornwalls (maybeof politicians) everything,everythingbenefitsfromall acts for no act here hasanyconse-

quence. An action must have cause and effect. InBenares here seems no reason or a cause, thus theresult is, no effect. No act breeds an act. And so

eternity, the bent meaningof the river.But night, the all-pervadingmmemoriality hat

the earthgives herselffor her cogitations, t too wasan observant f thishaggle.In the silence of the treesa monkeyortwo wokeup. Theybreathedheavilyandwent back to slumber. This simian heavy breathcreateda cryfromthe hangingbats, andthese againthought he CalcuttaMail,whichtheyknewdayafter

day from its raucous,diesel whistle, and from theharsh Punjabiaccents of its travellersor the rich

Bengaliones they knew that the hagglewould goon. Thewholenightwas there forthe chaseandthe

hang-o, and,by dawn sweet sleepwould come. The

midnighthagglerscomeby the CalcuttaMailand so

theyarerich.(Eventhe monkeysby now knewof theair-conditionedoaches.)And where the richare, thecur andthe bullocks maybeeven the motorengines

of mathematicallyonditionedreflexes had knownthere'salwaysa fight."Fifteenrupeesto Benares, Saab,and lookat my

brandnew taxi."Paul to whom this was addressedlookedwistfullyat the much-torn op and the flabbytires of the noble vehicle arrayedbefore us.

"Fourteenrupees and eight annas, sir," said the

young Sikh driverwho spoke some English. "Youwant to go to the MetropolitanHotel."

"Goyou,"said an elderly,round-faced ndbetur-

baned colleague. "They'regoing to the university.With all your learning,can't you see they're stu-dents?"

"Shutup, old fellow.Myunclehasgoneto Canadaand he was theretwentyyearsbeforeyouwere born.I know what books are. I have studied up to theMatric."

"Yes,yes, youstudyupto the Matric,"ookuptheelder, "andyou drive those rottentaxis, those new-comers thatgo phut every second twist you give tothe wheel. Look, sir, look at my old model. I take

marriageprocessions n it, often. Andyou students,with all your books and luggage, you alwaystakeme."

"No doubt, no doubt. Youhave aregularnuptialpalanquin,"aid the youngsterwithhis unclegoneto

Canada,and that decided us."Paul," said, "let us take this palanquin."And

Paullaughed.The old 1939 model Ford was exactlylikea largebullockcart.Its sides(beinga larger,andso, oldercar) ndeed were moretornthan hose of thesmallerIndianones, made, so to say, but the other

day."Youwon't take that palanquin, sir," said the

youngmanin Englishalmostbelligerently."Theoldman does not even have a car license."

"We take that palanquin," declared,and whenwe asked the coolies to pile in our luggage, thecoolies were pleased. They alwaysliked this Moti

Ram,he driver."He'sa

goodman, sir," heyassured

us, tying up the luggageon the top and back. "Afatherof manychildren.And he's also such a gooddrummer.You must hear him at Holi."

"Drummer," aid the young man with Canadianconnections,"his childrenbeat their stomachs or adrum. That'show hungry they are. Poorkids,"hesaidandturned, tired, to somenew customers.Thistime they were Punjabis,and they could speakthesame lingo. And there was a lovely child with thefatherand mother.There would be no hagglingwiththem. Five rupeesthe traveller aid,andeight theyagreed upon, and thus they entered the car anddrove away, before our car had taken its breath tomake its augustfirstmove.

"Howmuch foryourpalanquin?" askedsmiling."Oh, the Sahib has travelledmuch, one can see.

Theother Sahib s a European.Thusyouknowwhatto give a poor man."

Remembering ur Indiancompanion'sriendlyad-vice, earlier, in the train, Paul said, "Makesure,Raja,what he wants."I liked our palanquinand itsowner. I felt the nighthad heardenough hagglings.There was even now a largecrowdon the platform,

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RAO 541

the CalcuttaMail was still watering. The vendorswere busy, and there was somethingaltogetherun-

convincingabout the high overbridge, he lit train,and the night-alivecrowd.The worldis indeed the

city seen in a mirror,and, upside down.

Strange o saythe coolies didnothaggle.Theyjusttooktheirwages,and a modest ip, andwalkedaway,their red turbanson their head as if they were goingbackto a dream.The traintrulywas the dreamthatran throughtheir nights. The multiple languages,shapes,and coloursof the pilgrims, rom he gutturalTamilspeakers o the nasalBengalis it all seemedtoo variegated o be concrete. The MogulSaraicoo-lies must be amongthe wisest men in the world.

Theysee morehumanity han at any railway tationon thisglobe. Five hundredmillionHindusare theirclients, and not just that: their ancestorshave cometoo, to this sameBenares, ife after ife, and thus haveestablisheda pilgrimlink between man and man.

Whyshouldone be bornnearMogulSarai,and be a

coolie?In whatpast life was there a desire to servepilgrimswhogo to the Ganga?MotherGangaalwaysknows."I tell you brother, f MotherGangadid notdecide, there would be no Sita Ram or this BhaiyaRamcarrying uggageson MogulSarairailwayplat-form. We carrybeddings, nightjars, iffin carriers,punkhas,canes, cradles, vessels, silver tumblers,coconuts,andgoldon our shoulders sometimesweeven carry he ashesof the dead that the mourners

bring n red-clothbaskets,we carry he trousseauofthe newlywed, we alsocarry he lastpossessionsofthose who come to the Ganga o die, old men whoknow hattimeis cometo give their ast breathaway,by the Ganges. Suchour trade. We revere it. Ourfathershave done it. Some

sayour ancestorswere

thugs: hey worshippedBhavani,andbetimesstran-gulatedtravellers or the pleasureof the Goddess.Others say, before the rails came, we were the

palanquin earersof the rich. We havealwayshad todo with travellers.Brother,ourjob is service to the

pilgrim.The greatGodwho sits on the other side ofthe Ganges,he alone knowswhatwe are, wherewe

go. O that donkeysonPunjabExpress is alreadythere. Run," hey say, as they rushup the gangway.

Life is so mysterious.Whyshouldyou, cooliewitha number 87, 54, or 49- stitched on your shirt,alonecarryourluggage?Whynot one whose numberis 55, 31, or48? Whatconnectionof stars inkingonewith the other, Jupiter with Mercury or Saturn

squaring he moon, has created this situation that

BhaiyaRam,BhagathRam,or DurgaDas, coolies ofMogulSarai,carryourluggageand never will we seethem again?How could this be? And the monkeysthat were disturbedby our hagglings, he bats thatwere irritated nd the curs yes those twocurs,PaulandI will nevermeet again.Onlythe Ganges lows,MotherGanges, carryingour memoriesaway.Whocould, Lord, who could carrythe memory of themillionsand millionsthat have been born since the

beginningsbegan and where have all the dog- and

the man-meetings, he bat and the travellers' inks,the coolie-and-the-pilgrim-contactsone? Why wasPaul here and he fromChapelHill, NorthCarolina,son of my friend Bert who sent him with me toIndia a graduation resent!And who, I? And who

indeed was this Moti Ramdrivingus into the wilddarknessof the night?Wherewas he takingus? Didhe have a license?Did he knowthe road o RajGhatCollege? Silence in India is alwayswise. But overthere on the Gangesbank it seems to sparkle.Thedarkness ieldsslowlyto anunearthlyuminescence.Man,do youknowyouwouldknow f onlyyouknewyou knew?And MotherParvathi residesover it all.

AnnaPurneiSadaPurneShankar ranaVallabhe . .Bhikshandehichaarvathi.O filledwithessenceandever inplenitude,Beloved o life of Shankaraimself,O Parvathi,iveme arms.

Yes, Parvathialone gives. It is throughHer weknow Him. How could we know if the doorof dark-ness remainedunopened?She opens, for, She hearsyour cry, son. Shehearsbecauseyouweep childless,woman.She hearsbecauseyouVelost yourson, oldfather. In fact,hearing tself is She. Andwhenhear-ing is just hearing,nobodyhears: so He is.

Moti Ramour driver ndeedbore a palanquin.Hiscar made a largevarietyof noises as we scuddedandrode on, startledsometimesby the bright eyes ofbullocksfrom the incomingcarts. And then nightagain slipped by and envelopedall of hearing.Onlyonce a horse-cart ostled past us with a chatteringgroupof travellersnside,and the horsewasgettinganice lash for

everyotherbreath

theyhad to

catch,the travellershadto, the GayaExpress.Gaya s theplace where the Buddha attained enlightenment.Kanthaka is horse was, that which had arisenlifeafter ife, only to be the horse on whom the Buddhawould ride to go to his enlightenment.

"Moti Ram,"I said, "how many children haveyou?"

"Three, ir,"he answeredever so reverentially."Ihad four. And one of them died."

"Died of what, Moti Ram?""He diedof death, sir, that is all. Onemorningwe

awoke, and found him dead.""Was there some black magic behind it, you

think?""Whowould do magicagainsta gravegood boy?

He used to carry uel from he fuel shopto the Gangabanks for cremations.He had seen too manysoulsdie."

"No, he must have died of something.""Well, sir, we must all die of something.Does it

matter he mannerhe was takenaway?His timewascome, and he was takenaway."

"Andthe other three. Whatdo they do?""One works at a primaryschool. He is a peon

there. Andhe takes ettersto yourRajGhatCollege

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542 WORLDLITERATURE ODAY

sometimes.He has seen thatgreatMahatma,Krish-namurti,sir. The Mahatmaprobablyknowsyou."

"Yes,MotiRam,I havemethimonceortwice. ButI haven'tbeen to RajGhatCollege formany,manyyears in fact for fifteen years."

"Ohyes, sir,"mumbledMotiRamto himselfas ifhe had made a gravemistake n etiquette, and fellbackto silence. The silence now simplywhirled assolidspace,as if the earthwere but a turning op onShiva'spalm.The earthwhirls n the pure silenceofakasha,of spaceessence. Man whirlswith it too andhis words become silences. As the Gangesdissolvesall acts of man,so does silence dissolveall of speech.Man is never more a pilgrim than when silencecarrieshim fromdarkness nto light. MotherGangabends as a moon, as a CrescentMoon,by Benares.Look at that still string of electric lights, a stringthroughawake night which seems to deepen theriver's ruth.Once in a while a lean tongueof flameflaresup some dead whose body was being slowlyturnedto ash, whichwouldfinallybe dissolved ntothe Ganga.Pyre,andpyre again,becameprominentas we neared the river.The flames seemed so alive,the only nightlyactionin this visible universe. Thestringof lightsseemed but reflections een fromtheotherside. Who were they, the one, two, or three,who haddied, banker,virgin,retiredpolice consta-ble, or Maharaja? nd the yogis must watch thesepyres as they open their eyes after their midnightmeditations.Thepyremakesdeathalive. He who hasseen a body burnknows he will never die.

The Dalhousiebridgeburst like a wide laughterwhile a funeral s passingby. The girdersrippledofftheir silences but at each rib they seemed to getmerrier.The Dalhousie

bridgewas not

laughingat

anyone. He was laughing at the immensities helinked,andhiseverlightburden.And he too, havingservedmillionsofpilgrims,willone daybe brokenbyflood or war, and he too will fall into the Ganga,though the steel had come from CumberlandorGlasgow.There'shopeforevery thingon earth,man,beast, and iron ore.

One saw neither palace, temple, nor minaret ofmosque one only saw the curve of the Ganga.WasBenaresa city or a Sanskritic tatement?Did not amillionpeople live there?Were there not colleges,universities,udicialbuildings, ownhall, the palacesof the rich, where were they all? From the bridgethere wasnothingseen but the sacredriverturning,bendingin her legendarycrescentform,and spraysof gatheringupperluminosities,and then the stars.The silencewasalarming.The Fordsuddenly urnedto the right for,by now, thebridgewascrossedover)and cautiouslywe entered the new suburbsof thecity. Wallsof plaster,mud or brick, huts, villas,andthatchments there was not a human breath any-where.At the railway rossingwe saw the onlythingawake, he red light, andwe entereddarkness gain.The unrealand the real areso coadjacentn Benaresyou lose traceof the one, while you are whollywith

the other. Was there a RajGhatCollege?Did MotiRamreallyknow t? How could one trust a man withhispeasant urban,hisbigbelly, silverbanglesonhisarm,as Moti Ram?Did he have alicense?Did he toohave a Thuggeeancestor?

Throughlistless curves and roads without end,which suddenly opened on broaderroads,and nar-row dips, we emergedat a gate. Moti Ramstoppedthe car, and a cur startedbarking.Moti Ramwent,opened the gate wide, and the cur raised his voicehigher.Whodare comein on this starknight?Whatman dare, on the Gangesbank, break this deadlydarkness?The cur was indeed Yama'sdog for henever stopped howling. Throughmany twists andchugswe came to anothergate. We saw almostnohouses or huts. Only trees everywhere.There'stheterrorof Bhavanin everywood.Someone houted nthe night.

"Who's here?""Guests or you, JagatRam. This is Moti Ramof

the Taxi, speaking.Father of SachitRam.""Guest?Whatguest?"the dialoguestarted."Whatdo I know?Name,country?Theyare Sahibs

and that's all I know.""Howcan I openthe door," aidthe voice, switch-

ing on a garden light, "without knowing theirnames?"

"SayRajaRao,"I said."RajaRao Sahib,"cried Moti Ramas if he were

announcinga king."I know no RajaRao,"cried backthe voice."They're igpeople,"assuredMotiRam,"verybig

people, fromfar-offcountries.There'salso a Sahibthere."

"WhatSahib?" houtedJagatRamslowly coming

towardsus. His dog continued to bark, sharing hedialogue."Whoaretheyanyway?"He knewwe werenot what we were supposedto be.

"I've writtento the Principal.I have sent a tele-gram.Theyare expectingme," I said,gettingout ofthe car.I wastired,andI did notexpectthisdialogueever to stop. The dog'sbarkbecameviler, we wereobviouslynot wanted.

"Oh,"saidJagatRam,speculatingaboutme fromtop to bottom. "Ohyou are the guests, the collegeofficewasspeakingabout.Theyknewsomebodywascoming. But they knew neither his name nor hisaddress.Whatcould I do?They said,the clerksaid,'Somebodymaycome in tonight.Maybea Sahib oo,'they remarked.Even the emissariesof Yamahimselfcancome. CouldI let

anyonen?

Well, however,youare there. Come in." And he pushedthe gate side-ways. Fromthen on JagatRamnever spokea word.He opened up the guest room, a smallish white-washed room with two beds, a soiled table, andproudly showed us the bathroom.Yes, we had aprivatebathroom,Westernstyle. Thedog stood out-side examining he newcomers. Now and againshewouldsuddenly wist her tail andhowl. She wasnotsurehermaster houldbe sotrusting."Master, o becareful,you never know."

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RAO 543

Meanwhile agatRamwasgivingus bedsheets and

mosquito curtains and pillowcases. Moti Ram

broughtn the luggage.He stoodthereon the veran-

da,asifhe hadaccomplished holyjob. And thatwasthe end of the story.

"Younever told me aboutdrums?" said."To he drummernightis like a drum.One hears

beats.Youknowthat'swhy LordShivahasthe drumin his hand. He dances in the crematorium,youremember.To beata leathern nstrumentwith God-

given handsis easy. But to beat drum that Shiva'ssilencebecomesoundcouldonlybe the giftof Moth-er Parvathi.He alonebeatsthe drum ruewho knowshe's never there."

"Howwonderful," remarked,hiding my utterclumsiness."Is thereanywhere can hearyou, MotiRam?"

"No sir, I beat my drum at home only at prayertime. I beat it that the Lord removemy sins. Everybeat rubs off a little of my heavy karma." had no

wordsnow.I gaveMotiRam enrupees(eightrupeesfortherideandtwo asbhakshish, said okingly), ndas he left the doorand walked hrough he garden o

the gate, I rememberedI would never, never seehimhereafter.Howauspicioust wouldbe to take heCalcuttaMail, again.

Even afterthe car had left the dog never stoppedbarking.Afterwe got intobed, he seemedto remem-

bersomeforgottenll we haddoneto him,andwouldslowly whine, and suddenly give a bark. Had wedone him some harmin another ife? Who knows?

Everyeventof life has a doublemeaning.There s noaccident in existence. Yet there is the miracle ofchance.To knowwhy you lie on a shakycharpai nthis dampbuilding,in what is perhaps he RajGhatCollegeGuest House but is, as it were, a nowhereof

anywhere, s to askthe question:Who madethisropethat wove the charpai?And the tree, the timbersfrom which the charpaiwas made?Whence came

they?Whatdestiny brought he rope and the stringtogether,andI and Paulto Benares?Eventis alwayssingle, simple. Event is actionwithoutobject.

(1988)

First Publication

Creatures of Benares (II)

By RAJARAO Bhim, the parrot, is among the

eldest01 the kingdom.Leanat theneck(muchhairhaving allen dur-

ing these manydecades),and with a wisp of whitehood, he moveswith natural erenity. He seems tohave suchprivileged reedomof movementacross he

sky of Benaresthat even the vulturesgive way tohim. His nest is on the neem tree thatold, wind-twisted, and tall neem just where the Dasi Laneends, and the boatscome up for people, to have a

quick ookat the Dashashwamedh-ghat,ndhigh up,an ever-ordainedhole, as it were, exists for Bhim.The storygoes (andany boatmanworthhis saltwilltell you) that Bhimand his wife Rupvatihave livedhere foroverfiftyyears that s, sincethe time of theDelhi Durbaruntiltoday,andthis is tillabout woor

threeyears agoandthe Chinawar Bhim and Rup-vati alwaysmoved about with the augustmarks of

princes.Theybeara largelitter, sometimesof four,sometimesof five, so people thereabouts ay, and atleast three or four live on. Once in a while a vilevulture used to swoop in or some overcourageousschoolboywould go and catchthe little one, in the

deeps of the night, with a torch, and no amountofcries would drive the vicious intruder down. Butsince a few years somethinghas happened. Everytime a boywantsto go up, he fallsoff the tree before

he is even up to the level of the firstverandaof the

BinduHouse, to the right. Once, twice, thrice, thishappenedand people in the Bindu House and theDasi Lane nowknow thatsome Siddha*hascome tolive on the neem tree. Often women, when theywake up on a moonlitnight and go the veranda ocontemplatethe broad river and the silver of hermurmurings, sudden wind seems to shifton top ofthe neem tree and one hears,as it were, the soundofa mantra."Humhumhumumm,"t seems to say, asif with a graveand ruminant oice. The voice is nothumannor is it that of a bird. It certainly s divine,luminescent.Anyhow,fromthen on BhimandRup-vati have lived on undisturbedand bear their littleones with absolute hope. All little chicks do notsurvive n Benaresnordo all motherbirds n Benares

have a Siddha o protectthem. The little ones growup andmultiplyand even todaythe birdcatchersofBenares (and there are none more wicked in thiswickedworld,I tell you), theysayto you, "This s theBhim-Rupvati reed"just by the ring at the neck,and a sort ofpearlymist overthe eyes. Thecolourofthe ring is yellow but closer to sapphirethan toochre there's moregreen in it thangold. The eyesof Bhim are somewhatsmallbut Rupvatihas eyeslarge as an eight-annabit, and she rolls them withfire. Rupvatimust not be easy to live with, yet