By Adity Choudhury
I have not seen anything more strange than a human being. I have seen infinite beauty among this strange creation of God, though I used to think that I would find Him somewhere else beyond humanity.”
With these lines in the preface of the book, In Search of the Pitcher of Nectar, author, Samaresh Bose, sums up a journey of epic proportions.
Written under the pseudonym, Kalkut, he presents a world of many Indias, all converging in the great kumbh mela in Allahabad (Prayag, of yore).
Originally written in Bengali, Amrita Kumbher Sandhaney, it’s a semi-autobiographical travelogue/novel, at once surreal and devastating in its realism.
The English translation is by Nirmal Kanti Bhattacharjee.
Written in a first-person narrative, we don’t know the name of the protagonist; instead, he introduces himself as a writer. Hence, we assume it is Kalkut himself.
It captures the writer’s inner quest to find humanity in the sea of colourful personalities. A man from a cocooned and civilised world of Calcutta, he meets the diverse cultures that make India – a nation of many ideas, traditions and co-existence.
Underlying the stories that connect the people with the protagonist is the notion that the human experience is all about multitudes.
This is summed up in the following lines –
“No man is a single entity. There always lives another being in him. There is one who toils from dawn to dusk for a living; who is constantly engaged in the endless chores of eating, sleeping, copulating and rearing up children; who faces doubts, suspicion, quarrels and fear at every step in this complex world. But in the midst of it all, there is another who is a poet, author, painter, musician or thinker – in other words, who is an aesthete… A man is very lonely in the ecstatic moment of this feeling. The pain of this loneliness is as deep as the pleasure of this experience.”
Kalkut’s self-aware humour greets us at every step; it’s observational at its best.
Take, for instance, the protagonist’s take on the Indian railways – a cacophony of voices, a sangam of hierarchies that have shaped the histories of the land, as old as the human convergence at the kumbh.
Upon reaching Prayag, his observations take a philosophical turn. “In this procession, the poor India was there like a faded cloth by the side of a muslin chunni. They were moving with worn out blankets, dirty cloths, unkempt hair and pale faces. They were carrying their bundles on their heads. Some had come from the neighbouring villages in bullock carts, some were riding tongas, some walking. This richness of India is like gold covered in ashes. I wanted to pluck this treasure with both hands.”
At the start of the novel, we see the protagonist as someone who wants to experience humanity, reflected in the words, “The search for variety is, in reality, a search for our own mind. In the guise of seeking a man, we seek a compatible mind.”
The writer’s initial hesitation to explain why he is on this quest is seen in his response to a friend asking, “Why are you going to the Kumbh-mela? For religious purpose?” He replies, “Just to see”.
What he finds becomes a stark depiction of how people throng to the mela, irrespective of their social status. Poverty and money co-exist side by side.
Through our protagonist, we meet a couple from Andhra Pradesh; the pilgrim suffering from TB; an old man with a young wife, Shyama, who lives with a co-wife; a crippled singer-philosopher, Balaram; devotees Prahlad and his small family; and different sadhus, to name a few.
The book also focuses on the multiplicity of rituals, practised both at an individual level and by the collective. Be it sadhus high on marijuana (referred to as
Saptami); the child bride Brajabala, whose curiosity shows her worldly understanding of her surroundings; the ashrams, with devotional songs blaring on loudspeakers; or the concept of Bhairava-Bhairavi, among others.
One can never fully grasp the thin line between the spiritual and the material world, but it’s in acceptance of differences that we experience variety.
The author (Kalkut) beckons readers to find the meaning of pilgrim. Perhaps, it is the blind singer, Surdas, who keeps asking fellow travellers if he, along with them, is on the right path.
What is this ‘right path’? Does it refer to the restless search to merge with the divine? Readers are left pondering.
Despite the pointed criticism of the people, the writer meets along the way, what holds the chaos of the kumbh mela is empathy. He especially notes contradictions in the sea of humanity.
The author’s compassion is reflected in the moments of silence.
Be it actively listening to Panchugopal; the love story between Raghunandan and Ramjidasi Bhahmacharini, whose wistful beauty conceals a mysterious past; the encounter with the “fallen woman”, in reality, a thief; and Hriday’s mother – the writer and Kalkut, become one – the lens through which we, the readers, become seekers.
The protagonist’s wit is scattered throughout the novel. Like the sangam of Ganga, Yamuna and the Saraswati – three mighty rivers keep aside their differences and flow together.
It is in the protagonist’s description of women that we find his humour. Whether transfixed by the beauty of Ramjidasi or his amused inner monologues about Didima (grandmother in Bengali) and Brajabala’s relationship and Khana-pishi’s gossip-mongering, self-righteous rants, we chuckle at his lack of understanding of women, something the writer is acutely aware of.
However, this is also an aspect of the novel, many readers may not like.
Therefore, it is on the readers to empathise with Kalkut (also, the protagonist) through whom, we travel.
The writer also forms bonds that transform him. At the same time, he is aware he may never meet them again. That’s how train journeys and melas are. We also see this in his struggle to accept people, only to get reminded of his city-bred skepticism.
One who is on a quest, also questions. This camaraderie is reflected when he meets a Bengali vagabond-businessman, Ramanimohan Mukhopadhyay. As they have tea and snacks, the latter shares how his soul is a free bird.
As they part ways, the writer turns back and yells, “You asked me why I had come to Kumbh-mela. I would not have met you, had I not come.”
In the search for the nectar, the writer drinks it, a changed man.
It makes readers wonder if a vagabond is bound to all and none, simultaneously – a never-ending search. The writer is both present and detached, observing from the sidelines, while moving with the tide of people.
What makes this novel special? It is not about the kumbh mela, rather, it is the transient nature of desires that takes us there. We get to see how the controlled chaos of the mela unfolds itself as each day passes by.
The translation by Bhattacharjee is effective in presenting a mysterious world, one that is as ancient as the banyan trees of Prayag, and the continuity of this convergence, to date.
In the age of binaries and divisive forces, readers will go back in time to realise that love flows like the famed sangam of Allahabad. After all, a line in the book hints, “where all Sadhus converge”.