Inexorable course of fate

The road to the capital led the newlyweds across many a village and town. The journey was tiring but it barely wore them out. The prospect of a new life together filled them with enthusiasm. Their hearts were full of hopes and aspirations for the years that lay ahead of them. Strangers to each other, detached from their moorings and brought together by fate, it was a momentous change for Vararuchi and Panchami. A troubled childhood and the rigours of ascetic living hadn't prepared Vararuchi for this change of scene. The concept of family life and the adjustments it called for was altogether new. For Panchami too, who had never had a family to call her own, it was an equally bewildering experience. Her foster mother, whose memory was a dull ache. A foster father—the man who had found her, raised her, and had been her only parent—and Dhaatri, who lived next door with her granddaughter Durga. Durga with whom she had grown up, laughed and cried, played and studied, the only friend she had ever known. Her life revolved around this little world of kinship without names, close knit and complete.

It had taken but a day, a ceremonial rite, for everything to change. Overnight, the playful girl had matured into a full-grown woman. A new world had chanced upon her unawares, a world that she had known to exist only in poems and plays so far. New sensations and experiences awaited her as she walked beside the man who was now her husband. No less was the bewilderment Vararuchi felt. In the eyes of the world he was a scholar, far removed from the ties that bound ordinary men. The nature of his calling had made him a grim, unrelenting man, who had grown old too soon. And to think that he now walked, like a young lover, beside a woman who was his wife! Their coming together had been set against an uninspiring background—the sleepy village by the banks of the Shipra River, a forgotten place where the comings and goings between people were few; hardly a place of much mingling. But this was of little consequence to the couple. The ascetic and his demure bride strode towards the capital. They might have been strangers, but as their feet fell in step and with hands clasped tenderly, all sense of unfamiliarity was gone. For many, many lives to come, they were one, woven inextricably by the thread of fate.

Night had begun to fall as they entered a forest. Twilight hung lightly over the woods, the ceaseless chatter of birds echoed in the air. Somewhere in the distance a bell rang, marking the hour of worship. In places, creepers had entwined and knotted in a sheltering web, roofed by leaves and flowers in bloom. Nature had set everything in motion for their first night together.

'We could rest here,' he murmured, observing the weariness in her face.

They sat under a tree by a brook that ran merrily among pebbles and stones. Its water sprayed white where it gushed against a stone in its path.

'Ah for a mouthful of water, and then a dip,' he observed, gazing at the stream.

She smiled endearingly at the suggestion. Framed by long black tresses and a graceful chin, her face shone with the radiance of the full moon on an inky black sky. Casting a sideways glance at him, she thought to herself: All her life she had known little of the world outside, sheltered in the cocoon of her own little world. And now…

'Is this me here, in this wilderness, at this hour, all alone with a young man I hardly know, a complete stranger? Strange, though, how his kindly charm sets my mind at rest, makes me forget all care. Where does this faith, this strength come from?'

She shook her head, at a loss to comprehend. The sight of the sheltering nest of creepers and vines was comforting. She crept inside and looked around. The ground felt soft beneath her feet. Thick grass made a mattress of green. Above, the branches and twigs tangled together, piecing together a view of the night sky. A gentle moonlight poured in. Looking at her taking in the moment, he lay outside, beneath the tree, head resting on his arms. She remarked, as though to herself, but loud enough for him to hear: 'It's beautiful…'

For our first night?' he enquired softly, following her inside with his belongings.

The remark made her shy. She stood rooted, head lowered in embarrassment. He was sitting on the grass, looking at her keenly. He reached out and touched her. And then, ever so gently, his hands led her slender frame to rest on his lap. Her hair fell in wavy black tresses on the ground. His hands searched overhead and found a flower. Weaving it into her hair he spoke softly into her ear:

'For a love that's forever,

Though wilted now, this little flower.

He lowered his face to hers; the intimacy of the moment was palpable. Now his breath was on hers, their lips close. All of a sudden she raised her hand, resisting. Her fingers pointed to something above, over his head.

'Look, we're being watched…two birds up there.'

She turned away, eyes closed in embarrassment. Vararuchi sat gazing at her unflinching. Holding her raised hands in his he pleaded gently, 'My dear, don't you see the beautiful stage that's been set for our coming together?' he gestured expansively, losing himself in description: 'The night sings a quiet song to the full moon. This dense forest stands bathed in its light. And amid this wilderness is our little home of fragrant flowers and leaves—cosy, sheltering and intimate. Come, sing me a song as you lie here in your lover's arms. A soothing caress to the coarseness of all these years I've been alone, the bitterness of experience, a fresh clean slate unto my soul. Come, sing to me of the very essence of nature, of life, of love.

His eyes shone as he spoke and despite herself she was drawn to them, transported to an ethereal world. The reluctance of unfamiliarity faded, all sense of timidity was gone, she was now a woman transformed. Suddenly, she missed her home. The eerie nightscape around them faded and she was once again a little girl by her father's knee. It was the hour of worship at twilight as she wove flowers into a garland for the deity. The air was heady with the fragrance of camphor, the charred scent of stone lamps bathed in oil felt immediate. The glow of a thousand lamps from their little ledges illuminated the temple quadrangle. Sculpted steps led to a doorway that dazzled under the light from within. And as the bells pealed in obeisance they seemed to echo a refrain, 'No more of these for you, my little one, no more of charmed evenings by your father's knee.

She realized with an ache that the coming of dawn and dusk held no expectation now, the landscape she had claimed her own seemed far, far away. Throwing her head wearily in his lap, she recollected: A house on a low hillock lush with fields of paddy. A thin rivulet that coursed by its edge. By the embankment stood an imposing tree. The rivulet ran full circle around the tree, coursing merrily as a thin stream before joining the Shipra River.

At its mouth the river thundered into a cascade. The roaring of the waters rang in her ears. Carried away in its descent were leaves, twigs, and pieces of driftwood. Grimly, she reflected that hers too was a similar fate. Here today, gone tomorrow, she was like a castaway piece of driftwood at the mercy of the waves.

Her thoughts went back to the shrine at the riverbank. The swaying wind brought with it the fragrance of holy basil. The temple premises were dotted with leaves and flowers in bloom. Overhanging boughs of an ashoka tree stood amid blossoms of dahlia and rhododendron. The air was aflutter with the chirping of birds. In the meadow, goats grazed contentedly. Tending to them were country girls, familiar faces to her. From their midst rose a song from a flute. It was her voice, she recognized. It was a familiar note, one he had heard at the prayer halls in Sage Dhanvantari's hermitage. Then again, it was the same murmur that had stolen into him as he lay resting at her home—that song of lost worlds, of hurt and of redemption. He sat listening, captivated, the words reached to him in a revelation. At length, when the song had ended, he exclaimed, 'It is you, Panchami, that I have been seeking in all my wanderings. In your eyes I see the glow of the celestial.'

Lovingly he embraced her, his fingers caressing her dense hair. Caressing her forehead he entreated, 'Where were you, my dear, all this time? And from where did you come, throwing light into the darkest recesses of my soul?'

The warmth of her lover's caress soothed her. She closed her eyes, his touch was tender, reassuring, and seemed to erase all her fears. A half-sleep came over her, she drifted languidly into it when all at once, a stabbing pain burned her between her eyes. It cut through her consciousness, knifing across her forehead. She recoiled from his touch, face contorted in agony as she pressed her hands to her forehead. His fingers had touched upon a raw nerve, an old wound had been awakened.

(Excerpted with permission from N Mohanan's What the Rains Foretold; published by Niyogi Books)