Pandit Gopal Shukla held the slightly squirming bundle tentatively and, looking at her big, watchful, unblinking eyes, announced without consulting the Almanac for once that they would call her Chaitali as the month of Chait had started and Ram Navami was round the corner. He beamed as he handed her back, his bow-shaped moustache straightening, and looked around with satisfaction at his small kunba gathered in the hospital veranda. Outside, the green was almost blinding in the sun. It seemed, this year, the summer was going to be long and difficult with the electricity supply already turning erratic. Banarasi Langdas and the smell of Khus would be the only solace.

His younger brother submitted that he’ll offer a kilo of laddoos at the Sankat Mochan temple and get it distributed among the poor. Panditji nodded his approval and absentmindedly gave him some money saying Prasad should also be offered at the Durga Mandir nearby and distributed among the needy. He added, ‘Kam pade to laga dena, phir humse le lena.’ From a far-off loudspeaker a chaiti – Chait Mase Chunari Rangaibe ho Rama – floated in. Meanwhile, his son Anand had quietly sidled up and was insistently tugging at his Kurta. Suddenly, he felt weak and sought a quiet bench to sit down.

The song, every time he heard it, evoked a strange, elemental attraction and longing he could not fathom. He had first heard it in his college days. One evening, his close friend Anjum had insisted on taking him to a Mushaira being held in a white marble Baradari overlooking the river. A breeze blew in from the river side and spread the scent of wet earth and Bela flowers. The voice was bewitching and the singer Sidra, whose ethereal face he still remembered, created a magic that carved itself in his memory. It had over time become a sacred, secret remembrance. And, now, it was too late to share it. Maybe with his daughter one day. Panditji got up and walked to the private ward his wife Parvati was resting in. Chaitali looked a little like her mother and a lot like him.

Pandit Gopal Shukla was a towering personality of the city, literally. His classes on Kalidas and Nirala in the University were over-attended. Many students from the sciences stream and many budding doctors and engineers too would be present to listen to his powerful renditions and insights. It was said that his love of and joy in poetry had nourished many a young romance in the large, sprawling University. His essays on the works of Premchand, Jaishankar Prasad, Nirala and Ageyan were part of the Hindi Literature syllabus across the state.  Panditji’s pride in India’s diverse culture and its age-old roots glowed on his face.

Chaitali grew up surrounded by books and listening to the daily discussions in baithakis at home imbibing the nuances of Hindi literature and the essence of Hindu and Buddhist philosophy. As years went by Panditji noticed that his daughter had started acquiring the exquisite beauty and characteristics of some of the famous female characters in the books he taught in his classes. In his beloved daughter, he started seeing images and shadows of the heroines of the great Sanskrit and Hindi writers – Shakuntala, Jalpa, and ordinary Kamla … It made him proud and, at the same time, anxious; these heroines had led ennobling but, in many ways, difficult and sad lives. And, for Chaitali, he wanted only immeasurable happiness. He could see the gaze of visitors get transfixed on her when she brought in chai or thandai during the evening baithakis or sat down to listen to the animated debates.

But Chaitali, whenever she could, sought out Shekhar after once having heard him talk with such deep conviction about working for a truly free India – free of the injustices of caste and gender, glaring inequalities and backbreaking poverty – in the Arts Faculty. Shekhar was two years her senior in the University and had formed a Progressive Writers’ Society to discuss Indian writings during the freedom struggle and in the post-independence period. Chaitali had joined it attracted by the theme and wishing to see more of him and hear him speak. Shekhar had first seen her at one of the society meetings and her presence had distracted him from a discussion on the writings of Premchand. The attraction between the two had blossomed with time spent together at the freewheeling meetings, and, after classes, at the nearby cafes.

Once Panditji was invited by the Progressive Writer’s Society to talk about the writings of Suryakant Tripathi Nirala. That day the hall was packed and Panditji did not disappoint. He not only dwelt at length on the elements of Chaayavaad (impressionism) and realism in Nirala’s poetry, but also on Nirala’s personal life and personality ending with the poet’s close friendship with Pandit Nehru. The story went thus: An old Nirala was very sick, but would refuse to go the hospital. Prime Minister Nehru came to know of the poor condition and obstinate behavior of his friend and tried to intervene but to no avail. Then, only as he could, Pandit Nehru ordered that Nirala be forcefully taken to the hospital. It is said that Nirala beat up all the four-five persons who had been sent to take him to the hospital, who obviously couldn’t lift a hand against the great poet, and again lay down to rest. 

During the tea session after his talk, Panditji could see the friendship and mutual admiration between Chaitali and Shekhar. On their way back home, he asked Chaitali: ‘how did the talk go?’ She replied: ‘I have never seen the students respond like today. It was overwhelming. The readings from Nirala and your insight on them were elevating.’ Panditji remarked: ‘the tall, dark boy who introduced me to the gathering spoke very well himself, though some of his thoughts pointed towards a somewhat radical outlook or one could say objectives that are still not easily reachable.’ Chaitali sensed that more lay in the remark than words and decided to nod in response, pursing her lips and adjusting Panditji’s Khadi Bundi.

A few weeks later, Panditji saw Chaitali and Shekhar walking down the road deep in conversation, and asked the Rickshaw puller to stop. On seeing him, Shekhar ran up and touched his feet. Panditji asked if the classes were over and Shekhar said: ‘yes, we were going to the bus stop for Chaitali to catch her mini-bus back home.’ Panditji nodded and looking at his daughter offered: ‘you can come with me as I am going home. Just have a small purchase to make on the way for your mother.’ A mixed tide of panic and relief washed over and ebbed on Chaitali’s face as she climbed onto the Rickshaw.

Late that night, Panditji woke up his wife and told her that their daughter was in love with a boy, two years her senior. The boy was intelligent and capable and possessed integrity, but he was not a Brahmin. He was a Scheduled Caste. Parvati already knew, but didn’t show any signs of knowing. Murmuring, ‘times are changing, and Chaitali knows what is good for her’, she turned over pretending to sleep. She wanted to quietly lessen the burden of the difficult situation that was likely to turn increasingly complex for her husband. Panditji couldn’t sleep till very late in the night worrying what the people would say, especially those in his family. How they would react to a goddess like Chaitali falling in love with a Dalit boy. He was, however, surprised by Parvati’s tolerant reaction, and felt that he didn’t understand her even after more than thirty years since they were married.

As news of the inter-caste relationship slowly spread in the city where almost everyone knew or had heard of Panditji, it was surprisingly his younger brother, who had somehow managed to find clerical work at a local hotel, who reacted the strongest. The Chotka Chacha, who had visited temples when she was born and indulged her small whims, now openly cursed her for bringing shame upon the illustrious family. Chaitali had expected this turn of events and hardened herself, but it left Panditji devastated. As time went by, Panditji sensed his daughter’s deep commitment to Shekhar. Then, one day, during one of their treasured evening walks in the campus, he advised her that it would be best for her, under the circumstances, to marry Shekhar at the earliest. ‘Maybe at a temple. It would put an end to all the salacious gossip and pull her and Shekhar out of their current misery’. His blessings would always be with her, but he wouldn’t be able to participate in the Puja and the function. Parvati would do the Kanyaa-daan on his behalf. 

Chaitali had been Panditji’s darling and was acutely aware of his intense affection for her more than anyone or anything in the world. A frontal confrontation with her father would have been lacerating for both. Therefore, she and Shekhar were immensely relieved when Panditji gave his permission for their betrothal even though half-heartedly. They could foresee the taunts Panditji would have to suffer from within his own extended family and from the conservative elements of society.  They admired his steadfastness and his attempt to balance two worlds co-existing side-by-side – one looking ahead and the other towards the past, bent on preserving old traditions and norms whether good or bad. The marriage was a simple ceremony held at the Sankat Mochan temple. Parvati, Anand and Shekhar’s parents and a few common friends were present.

Soon after marriage, Shekhar was able to find part-time work with a local newspaper while still completing his M.A. degree. After marriage, they shifted to a small rented house not far from Chaitali’s earlier home and near the University where she was in her final year of graduation. They would visit Panditji and Parvati every weekend. Parvati seemed reassured and happy for them. She and Shekhar could talk for hours, but a shadow seemed to have fallen between father and daughter. They felt awkward, probably a result of seeing Chaitali as a guest in her erstwhile home and her feeble attempts to soothe the pain Panditji had endured.   

A few years after Chaitali’s marriage, Panditji fell very sick. Chaitali, who was now a Lecturer at a local college, and Shekhar would visit almost every day. They took him for treatment first to Lucknow and then to Delhi and Mumbai but the disease could only be controlled and not fully cured. After a year of treatment, his health started progressively deteriorating and he decided to resign from his position at the University. When the illness became severe, Chaitali and Shekhar shifted to Panditji’s house to take care and be by his side.

On the day of Panditji’s farewell at the University where he had served for more than thirty-five years, the entire faculty had assembled along with hundreds of students to pay their respects. All felt there was none alive in the country who could equal his mastery over Hindi literature. Just before his address, the Vice Chancellor remarked to Panditji, who was sitting next to him, that they had recruited a new teacher in his place. Though the person was not half as illustrious as him, but was full of energy and very promising. Panditji despite his ill-health was curious to meet the new teacher who would don his mantle and strained to see the new face.

In his address, the VC after talking about Panditji’s immense contribution to the cause of Hindi literature not only in the University but the state and the country, informed the audience that a new and worthy appointment in his place had been made. Many among the audience considered this announcement to be in poor taste, and were seen shaking their heads, murmuring – at least he should have let the old man leave before reminding him that no one was irreplaceable. For Panditji, the dais was a bright island of light – blinding like the grass had been on the day Chaitali was born. It was surrounded by a sea of faces, some recognizable. The VC called out a name that seemed familiar, and then someone came and stood beside him and a hand quietly held his shaking forefinger. There was loud clapping; he could see Shekhar and Parvati and Anand by Parvati’s side, but no Chaitali …, and then suddenly a realization and a bolt of pride ran through his body. The hands now held fast reassuring each other.

The evening had been overwhelming. The shadows had finally lifted. He sought a quiet corner to sit down. In the melee, from far off, from a deep recess of his mind a song floated in…

*****