Seventeen

Seventeen

The Crater-Lake

…I didn’t quite know how to get here. The crater-lake is somewhere in this district, but no one knows exactly where. In rural areas people keep track of neighbouring localities or at best nearby villages, not much more. There’s a train from Mumbai to Jalna, a passenger train. If I’d got off at Jalna station I could have reached in three hours. But I had wandered off aimlessly to an area well north of Auranagabad. Then as I stood drinking water at a roadside tap in the middle of the afternoon, in a place called Malikapur in Buldhana district, I asked for directions. An old bus-conductor said, uh-huh, you’ve come the wrong way girl, you have to go another hundred and fifty miles east. I was in a wretched state by then. My hair was caked with dust, my clothes were stiff with dirt; the bus wouldn’t go all the way – so a lumbering jeep – again! I was also worried about not being able to see anything once the sun had set. The sun sets before six here at the onset of winter.

‘I hadn’t had anything by way of food all day. This area abounds in custard-apples. Wild custard-apples. They don’t need watering or anything, nor any formal cultivation. Shivaji’s mother Jeejabai is supposed to have spent her childhood at a village named Sindhakher. The farmers’ wives were sitting at the bus-stop there with mounds of custard-apples. I wrapped a few in paper, and tied them up in my sari, I’ve been eating them in the jeep. My hands are smeared with their juice.

‘… No one from our family has ever been to Buldhana district. It’s on the northern border of Maharashtra, adjacent to Madhya Pradesh. But not as saline as Vidharbha or Marathwada. Maybe the hills would have appeared brown if I’d come here in summer. Now, after monsoon and autumn, at the beginning of winter, there’s an exquisite expanse of mountain-ranges spanning the horizon – the hills cascade like waves on either side of the road, as though the earth has taken my hands to draw us into its playing fields. I can see a profusion of natural lakes in this region – pools of water lie everywhere, the sky reflected in them. Cultivation is limited to acacia and cottonseed… cottonseed and arhar. They plant different crops in alternate rows. In places there are sugarcane crops – the cane trees stand like confused, prematurely aged householders. The corn farms are being prepared for ploughing after the harvest. The soil is black. Here the soil is black everywhere. I’ve heard as much ever since I was born. I’ve been told the soil in Bengal is pale. And red too in some places…’

Shakya was stretched out on the grass. Not the manicured grass of a lawn. The rough but loving lap of wild grass, shrubs and weeds all growing together on uneven land. This was the western bank of the lake, sloping downwards to the edge of the water. The slope on the northern bank was far less steep in comparison. Other than this northern bank, the lake was like a deep bowl, with the water gathered at its bottom. It was afternoon now. Sparrows and jackdaws were twittering; crows spoke up harshly now and then. The irregular shadow of a stunted plum tree was waving in the wind. The letter from his mother lay on Shakya’s chest. It was thirty years old. She would never post her letters.

There was an old government bungalow on the edge of the lake. It may have been young once, now it lay in a stupor out of disuse and neglect. Shakya’s sparkling white Innova was parked in front of the bungalow. Balaram, the driver, was painstakingly cleaning the traces of mud and grime that had appeared on the car from the journey. He had collected a bucket, water and duster from the bungalow on his own initiative. Shakya’s elder sister, Urvashi, had just disappeared inside to find out whether there were arrangements for a wash. There was a well-maintained guest-house run by the tourism department close by. Shakya and Urvashi had booked rooms there. But still this bungalow was important to them. Their mother’s letter had referred to it.

Urvashi emerged from the bungalow, the end of her yellow sari flying. Her lovely hairdo had not been altered in the least by four hours of air-conditioned travel, she had no straggling locks on her forehead. Her nail-polish and lip-gloss were all in place. The caretaker at the bungalow had cleaned the bathroom to the best of his abilities, laid out brown but freshly washed bedclothes. But he had not been able to get rid of the grime, cobwebs and similar memories amassed over the years at one stroke. The barbed wire fence that ran along the edge of the lake was sagging and invisible in places. Slipping in through one such gap, Urvashi was descending the slope gingerly. The letters folded on his chest, Shakya was watching her. Thirty years ago, his mother was exactly the same age that his sister was now. But his sister was much prettier and more glamorous than his mother. His mother couldn’t have imagined travelling in a milk-white car, dressed in a silk sari like this. She had arrived at the crater-lake with dirt caking her sari, dust in her hair, custard-apples tied in her sari. But she had arrived as evening was about to fall, a terrible anxiety in her heart – she wouldn’t be able to see anything once the sun had set. Shakya and Urvashi had travelled at leisure to avoid this rush. First by plane to Aurangabad. Then in the car to Buldhana, passing Sillod on the way. Any unfamiliar place appears quite bearable if you arrive in the afternoon. Besides, lying silently here by the edge of the desolate deciduous forest, they would be able to hear the cries of different birds, the sound of shedding leaves. They would be able to wait for the sun to set.

As he gazed at his sister, Shakya bled from the invisible wound of a piercing regret. If his mother had been alive today, he could have brought her here by plane and a white car. She would have walked down that slope, one hand on his sister’s shoulder and one hand on his, smiling in shy embarrassment. She had died ten years ago, leaving her children not riches and money but innumerable letters. Unposted but stamped and sealed letters. Just like she wrote letters when she was home, she also wrote them from different stations, roadsides, bus depots, post-offices; every now and then she would set off from home. Within her limited means, she would travel by bus, by train, sometimes on foot, and then come back home and write about her travels to her two children.

Shakya felt that travel had been like a drug for his mother. In his grandfather’s home her day was devoted to her chores, her cooking, the daily routine. He had not been well off. He had to suffer both the economic and psychological pain of having his married daughter live with him all his life. But still he had tried to take care of Shakya’s grandmother and mother as much as he could. His mother must have felt desperate at times. Out of boredom, out of loneliness. Knowing that she had no way to be with the people whom her heart longed for all the time, she used to go off travelling every now and then. The letters were actually her travelogues – of her sojourn at home, of her wandering ways.

Even when the hills and the soil in this region became arid, brown, in the severity of summer, when the heat scorched the rainless earth, a green, fresh, mixed jungle remained alive on the sloping banks of the lake. Its deep bowl-like structure restricted the swirling of the wind, there was the effect of the water-vapour, and besides, the surface of the lake was raised – for all these different reasons, the woods near the lake remained full of shrubs, vines and trees. Naseem, a young local, was pointing out different trees. Besides rain-trees, myrobalans, flames of the forest, Indian beeches, banyans, marmalos and baby neems, there were apparently a lot of sandalwood trees as well. Apart from these there were shrubs with local names like dhamal, chlat, karati, jhimula and paleri; there were a dozen different kinds of vines too – basan, papal, murad kong, sanjeevani, sagardutt … nature had created a superb variety around this lake. Scientists from all over the country and the world visited this place, examining the vines and shrubs, the soil, the saline level of the water; the research on the soil and rocks here were part of experiments involving the planet Mars. Numerous species of snakes, iguanas, deer, peacocks and monkeys roamed the jungle bordering the lake; birds of so many forms and colours inhabited the place. Naseem had seen different kinds of parrots, weaver-birds, owls, ducks, tailor-birds… he had seen swans play in the water, flamingos fly through the air… were his enthusiasm and intensity making the picture a little extra colourful – this unemployed young man named Naseem was landless, he lived in a hovel in the village adjoining the lake. Tourists brought a breath of fresh air to the anaemic life he spent with his younger siblings and parents. Fine cigarettes, tips, variety in conversation.

By the way, is there someone named Kalidas here… a book… my mother had written about him, she had met this writer… if only he could be fetched?

You mean Kalidas-chacha? asked Naseem. You might find a copy of his book if you searched in the shop at the bus-stand – but his eyes have been ruined. He cannot see any more, he cannot get out of home either.

‘I was worried that the sun might set before I reached… I had made no arrangements to stay the night, it wasn’t possible to make arrangements either. I wasn’t worried about that. I would certainly find a place to hole up for the night. But if there were no daylight… to stand in darkness before what I had travelled so far to see… that would be very hard. The sun rises late here in early winter, around quarter to seven, but it sets before six.

‘The jeep kept stopping here and there, picking people up, piling large loads on the roof. I had found myself a seat at the side, the custard-apple seeds tied up at the end of my sari, the wind in my face, harvested land on both sides of the road, waves of an unfamiliar smell rising from the hills with outstretched wings, spreading over the land.

‘The small village is named after the lake. Lonar. Sounds like a salty, desolate name. It was small but famous. That’s why milestones by the road carried its name… I was counting thirty, twenty-five, fifteen, twelve… and wondering what the first sight would be like. Would the water and the reflection of the sky in it shimmer up before my eyes as soon as I reached Lonar… would I be able to see it from the jeep, did the road go past the lake… or was it further away… thoughts such as these.

‘Five-thirty… five-thirty-five, forty on my watch… it seemed to be running a little fast! As soon as we entered the narrow road beyond the shops clustered around the crossing at the village, there was a huge flock of cows and bullocks, the dust raised by their feet and the ringing of the bells at their neck seemed to be ushering in the evening early – I was begging and pleading with the driver to avoid them and move on… we had left the village behind, still no sign of the crater-lake, had I lost my way again? The other passengers couldn’t care less, nor the driver, all of them were on their way home after their day’s work at the market, the accounts done; the driver, of course, travelled on this road every single day. Eventually the jeep screeched to a halt by a pile of pots and pans and pitchers and a potter’s shed on the side of the road, get off, he said – we’ll go further ahead… The sun had dipped into the horizon. The sky was filled with a sad orange and purple light. Who knew how much further it still was. Adjusting the bag on my shoulder, I ran in the direction they had pointed. The back of an old government bungalow was visible. The wooden gate was open… as soon as I raced in through it… how do I tell you this… a day from fifty thousand years ago returned to me…

‘…The bottom of the lake held the condensed, flaming reflection of the sun. The sun wouldn’t sink directly in the water, however – because the crater-lake was like a deep bowl, soil and rocks had been ejected from the earth to line the lake with hills, like the raised rim of a bowl – the sun would go down behind those hills… it did too… it seemed to have been waiting only for me to arrive. Then, very slowly, with reluctant footsteps, it hid its plumage of light at the corner of the lake. Still a purple darkness tinged with blue remained in the sky, the soul of an indescribable, fading light mixed in it… In that faint light I saw a lake, its perimeter covering six, maybe six-and-a-half kilometres, its egg-shaped expanse of water lying like still, white, transparent fabric, surrounded by a dense, green, silent, dusk-wrapped forest, the calling of homebound birds floating out of it, the chirp of crickets, the sharp buzz of insects brushing their wings against one another rising into the sky and mingling with it…

‘A strange overflowing joy was entangled with tears in my heart, as soon as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I saw someone else sitting close to the barbed wire fence – so I wasn’t alone. It was Kalidas Purandare…’

Picking her way to where Shakya was stretched out on the grass, Urvashi sat down carefully beside him. Avoiding the thorns, insects, water and everything else. This was the wrong sari to wear, you know, she said, unfolding the letter lying on Shakya’s chest to read it.

How strange, isn’t it bhai, how ma came rushing with so much effort to have only about a minute of daylight – today we’ll watch the sunset properly, peacefully, savour the whole thing, Urvashi said.

Shakya shook his head without getting up. No, even with all our planning and organising and waiting I don’t think we’ll get what ma had got from the setting sun in those couple of minutes. Ma was full of anticipation and excitement, joy and sorrow, all at once. We’re far more wary and dispassionate now, we’re successful. Ma wouldn’t have recognised us if she saw us now.

She had used the words salty and desolate about this place. Naseem had said the salt trade here was quite old. When the water from the lake evaporated from the rocks the salt would remain. These mounds of salt were called bhushiki. They used to be extracted from the water of the lake in the monsoon. Was it because of the meteorite that the mounds of salt wouldn’t dissolve in the water – or did they retain rock-dust?

According to the Rig Veda, king Dandaka had his capital at Madhumati Nagar – the town was buried in an explosion. Then the story was resumed in the era of Kashyap’s wife Diti. Her sons Gayasur and Kolhasur had been killed by Vishnu. Lavanasur ran away in fear with his sisters to Lonar. The lake was supposed to have had a stone roof then. The fleeing Lavanasur had not managed to escape. The roof flew off at a kick from Vishnu, landing forty miles away at Thakkal. Vishnu was given the title of Daityasudan – demon-slayer – and the dead demon’s blood was converted into salt-water with medicinal properties. It was necessary for a tribal leader to die in order for the tale of the Aryan gods’ conquests to have been written, the leader’s death-sentence had been pronounced after dubbing him a demon – all this was concealed in the folds of time. Lonar was converted into Vishnugaya. People seeking redemption had been bathing here through the Tretayug, Dwaparyug and Kalyug to salve their sins…

Kalidas Purandare, of course, had major objections to all this bathing business. He was an inhabitant of Lonar village, besides his college studies, he had read widely – mathematics, history, astronomy. Scientists from Harvard and the Smithsonian Institution of the US would also talk to him. He used to spend all his time near the lake – observing the flora and fauna and the rocks was his fixation. Another obsession of his was writing letters – he was perpetually writing thick letters to the president, the prime minister, the environment minister – this ancient cosmic wonder could not be saved unless cultivation, washing of clothes and dumping of temple waste in the water of the lake was not stopped. The rich bio-diversity and forest resources around the lake would be destroyed. The local people knew all this, but they used to consider Kalidas eccentric, they would laugh about him with affection; they didn’t even consider the possibility of their daily activities being disrupted because of Kalidas’s letters. They had been disrupted, however. Naseem had told him all this. Shakya had tried to imagine how many sunrises, afternoons, dusks, sunsets and nightfall Kalidas Purandare must have witnessed as he wandered around the lake and roamed the passages in the dense forests around it. He had published slim volumes with his own money, had his letters typed out and sent in the mail. Now his eyes could see nothing at all.

At the end of the letter their mother had written, when you grow up, both of you must come here. You will, won’t you? My joy won’t be complete till I have shown all this to both of you. Kalidas has said he’ll give me a photograph. Taken by a studio photographer here. But will it really reveal anything properly?

Was there a photo with the letter, Shakya?

No didi. It didn’t come to me, at any rate.

It had been ten years since their mother had died. Shakya realised now that she had been afflicted with a terminal disease – but they had not recognised the symptoms at the time. Shakya’s wedding was just a few months away. She had agreed to live with them immediately after the wedding – that was enough to make Shakya happy. His elder sister had been married five years earlier. His father and grandparents had virtually kept her hidden at the time. Apparently her appearance could wreck the wedding. Fearing scenes and confrontations, his sister had agreed, shedding tears in private. Their father’s temper, cruelty and blind malevolence were not unfamiliar to them. Shakya had left home in a rage. He had gone to his mother. It was she who had pacified him and sent him back. His sister would be even more miserable without Shakya. When you get married, I’ll come and stay with you, his mother had said then too. Let your sister’s wedding take place peacefully.

What had his mother been like? Orthodox or modern? Clever or plain silly? Stubborn or reckless? Her life had simply slipped through her fingers – she had not been able to do anything about it. She had simply had to sit by and watch. She hadn’t exactly sat by, actually, she had kept herself busy. She had travelled, and had tried to discover herself in different scenes, incidents, mysteries.

His father had had a social standing, education, degrees, networking, fame – enormous popularity as a teacher. That was why students, their parents and other teachers alike had overlooked his licentiousness. But his mother had not been able to overlook them, and she had not been able to accept them. She had wanted an honourable co-existence as his wife. She had realised soon after the wedding that love and affection could not be expected of her husband. But it had become impossible for her to live with his regular deception, treachery, unending affairs and, alongside, the minutiae of conjugal life. There was no use complaining to her husband’s parents. They were unwilling to acknowledge any flaw in their son’s character. Especially when the son was as bright, sharp and successful as he was. If you can’t get along, divorce him and leave. She had hoped that having children would strengthen the bonds of love and caring, that her husband would stop looking out and return to his family. That did not happen. Urvashi was born. Shakya too. Their father was not the least unwilling to have children. A tiger never changes once it has tasted blood. It scours different regions, human habitations. Shakya’s father had not changed either. When Shakya was about three, his mother had wanted to leave home. Go ahead, who’s stopping you, his grandparents had told her. But don’t you dare take the children with you. An immoral wanton mother cannot take care of her children, that too by herself. If she had opted for a divorce she could at least have fought for custody of her children. After taking into account her father’s economic condition, she could not take