A Journal of Mahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi Vishwavidyalaya

the thirteenth of the bright fortnight.
Thrilled in rapture I started wending my
way to Prince Krishnavardhan’s home. Not
even once did I think if at all he would
like to meet me. My mind was today
overflowing with outlandish enthusiasm.
Today itself as if all my grime had been
cleansed and my mind and body were
turned airy. By now I had made up my
mind to wash away the stigma of
dissoluteness forever. I must befriend
Prince Krishnavardhan right today, and
within ten days will also be reckoned the
Maharaja’s man after his own heart. Once
again my home will be aglow with holy
yajnas. Again at my door parrots and
mainas pronouncing Vedic incantations
will correct and admonish the celibate
aspirants from verse to verse every now
and then. I must not remain the taint
and infamy of the Vatsyayan clan for ever.
My luck, however, was still entangled
around a big thorn of the Unseen. What
happened was fated and what ought to
have happened could not materialize. After
this I have to record such an event as
makes me shiver with awe and apprehension
at the time of its actual writing. What
I had intended to keep from I was obliged
to clash with. Who can cut corners with
destiny?
Who can erase what fate etches with
its mighty pen? Who has so far succeeded
in pouring out the ocean of the Unseen?
I was going ahead fast. A man sinking
and floating in his own colourful fancies
about prospective life has seldom the respite
to survey all. In a sense I was moving
blindfolded. At this very juncture a soft
and tenuous tone addressed me— ‘‘Bhatt,
look here Bhatt, look this way, don't you
recognise me?’’ This strain startled me.
Who in this distant Sthanweeshwar is my
identifier? Just as the reins pull up a racing
horse, in the same way this voice stopped
my flighty fantasies. I turned and looked
back. Not a very pleasing idol-like colleen
was summoning me. On her countenance
was enough youthfulness there, but its
sheen and dazzle had dimmed as if a lampwick
were vomiting only smoke. In the
pale light of the gloaming her eyes were
aglow. Only too perceptible black lines
on their fringes were insufficient to subdue
that shine. She was seated on a betel stall.
It seemed she was dealing more in smiles
than in betels. I had plumed myself on
my power of recognition. I took myself
for an expert in distinguishing between
a laughter-inducing sob and a lachrymose
smile, but this chuckle was a kind apart.
In it there was attraction, but no attachment;
affection but no infatuation. Involuntarily
did I glide towards her shop and made
many an attempt to place her. She blurted
out—‘‘Bhatt, O gentleman, even you fail
in recognition!’’ Oho, it's Nipunika. For
a while I was simply standing almost
churned within, partly aberrated, semiinsensate.
Then suddenly and at once
32 :: January-March 2012