A Journal of Mahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi Vishwavidyalaya

middle a basil plant. Nearby a small altar
and placed thereon a magnificent idol of
Mahavarah.[4]
The idol was rather smallish, but its
sculptor seemed a perfectly mature artist.
On the sphere of the earth raised on the
projected fangs of Mahavarah the gesture
of exultation and brilliant beauty was fit
to behold, and behold. Both the hands
of the Mahavarah were so cheekily fastened
on the zone; and the muscles of the armpit
projected such resoluteness that a mere
look gave rise to a wonderful faith and
confidence. I took not much time to realise
that he was Nipunika's god served and
worshipped and that she had a similar
hope and trust of her own rescue and
reclamation. With thirsty eyes, she beheld
the idol; her throat was still choked; she
signalled me to a small room to sit in.
I sat there. She went outside and after
a very quick bath she came back. She
said, ‘‘Wait a minute, I'm coming shortly.’’
She then seated hereself on a small mat
of sacrificial grass and before that
Mahavarah started reciting a hymn with
her blocked up throat. Tears were falling
from her eyes. The yellow outer garment
on her bosom was now wet with this flow
of tears. I saw this scene with a fixed
gaze. Nipunika is blessed, so is Mahavarah,
the basil is lucky, and I, wretched Baan,
am envisioning all the three; so I too
am blessed. At one stage I was repentant
of the lowliness of my pride. I was hardly
able to give shelter and protection to
anybody. How mean, indigent, and
insignificant is my own dwelling compared
to the refuge and means of security Nipunika
has had! The mettle of my manliness,
the pride of my birth and family
respectability, and the high notions of my
scholarship fell apart in a trice. How
mistaken I was in estimating her! She
was reciting the hymn in a devoutly gratified
melody, and I was looking at her with
glued eyes— at that time the radiance
of her figure looked other worldly, the
socketed eyes as if filled with surging
wavelets of water were fully developed
like white lotuses ablossom; at intervals
the length of her hair tossed in a way
as if they were impatient to prostrate at
the feet of Mahavarah. For a while I
forgot that Nipunika was the selfsame
familiar Niuniya of our dramatic company.
It seemed she was a goddess and one
never could tell when she would soar away
renouncing this defiled earth. I mentally
bowed to the supreme icon of love, the
Mahavarah seated in the innermost heart
of this young woman. At my first sight
what I had taken for a lachrymose laughter
and preened myself on my sensitiveness
proved virtually the drop of a brick. In
my heart I damned my indigence. At
this time she was up and with it a big
beauty no less than a wealth of peace
and calm also stood up. In her gait there
was still present an emotionally charged
languor as if in a stupor of sentiments
devotion herself were moving in a bodily
38 :: January-March 2012