Madhobha of course is not sentimental. Tears come to him with difficulty. You must see him when he goes to the wrestling matches. He can down an adversary in three slippery movements, and, there, look he’s seated on the chest of his adversary. He likes wrestling for it makes him feel he’s strong, and not a good-for-nothing rascal. At home in the village (when his mother was alive) they said: Modhi, he’s like a hen, all ashiver for every cough or sneeze. So, one early morning, he went to the Hanuman temple, and vowed he would get strong. Then he went and fell at the feet of Sadanand, the zamindar’s cook, who knew wrestling. ‘Teach me wrestling, and I’ll give you two rupees.’—‘You come on a Saturday at the Maruthi temple, and bring coconut and flowers and we’ll perform puja and I’ll give you your first lesson.’ The first lesson was splendid and in two years he, growing into a young man of sixteen, beat his own Brahmin teacher. And soon he lost his father and then his mother — he was only nineteen. An elder brother is no father or mother. ‘There’s always Mother Ganga for the orphan,’ he said, and came to the holy city of Benares. He found no difficulty in finding a job: he looked so strong, he could lift a mountain. And in Benares there aren’t such hefty people any more. ‘Except on Saturday,’ said Madhobha, to the boss. ‘On that day I go to the Hanuman temple for worship, and maybe wrestle a little.’—‘We don’t want a wrestler here. We’re happy if you are a man.’ ‘I can lift a one-maund log like a flower,’ he said, did Madhobha, and lifted a big log in such a playful manner, Jamnalal engaged him on the moment. Ultimately it costs you less to have a strong man. The weak take a cycle of years to make a single trip to the shed and back, and in monsoon time they need help to push the handcarts to the ghats. And the children so loved Madhobha.
Jamnalal soon discovered Madhobha never never went to women. This again makes things simple. The other fellow Paltoo, who was there, not long ago, was always eyeing women, and never looked at his firewood, even once, decently. And women, I tell you, are the bane of Benares. There are too many of them and most of them seem to have but one job. Even the rich widows who come, they are not without casting eyes on a young male pushing his firewood cart to the ghats. Virtue does not grow easily in Benares. And vice has no better place. For all comes here to burn. ‘Shambho, Shankara.’
Madhobha does not believe he’s virtuous. He just obeys what he’d learnt. On Saturdays he sort of fasts in the morning, and goes on to the Maruthi temple during the early afternoon. When he’s said the name of Ram a thousand and eight times, and has rung the bell, and offered his flowers, and the camphor is lit, he pays his fee to the Brahmins, and prasad in hand he goes to Chhotelal for some puris. Chhotelal’s puris are famous all over Benares — he makes them with some special flour from Jaunpur, and they are transparent as is muslin. And Chhotelal’s chutneys are famous, they’d be remembered in heaven. Madhobha then drinks a large glass of milk — hot milk with a layer of fat cream on it. From there he goes to the wrestling centre and he plays about with anyone there. Most of them fear his tricks but they like him because whether defeated or winning he always laughs. He rarely bets on any wrestler. He thinks money is precious, and it will one day serve a good purpose. At some wrestling matches the agents have paid him as much as two hundred rupees. He puts it all in his steel pot and buries it under the mango tree, deep under the pile of firewood. Nobody knows it, not even the ants. And that explains why he always asks for silver coins from customers and refuses to take paper notes. How much money he has there he does not know. People say he keeps all the money for his marriage. This is not true. For he will never marry. The Brahmin cook of the zamindar had said: ‘There’s strength in your limbs — and Bhakta Hanuman gives it to you — because there’s virility in your loins. As long as like Hanuman you’re a brahmachari, you will be a splendid wrestler — that is if the Lord willeth. Rama — Rama, Hé Raghupathi. May He protect you.’
Madhobha loves his wrestling more than he would any woman. What would he do with women anyway — those puling, plundering, slavish-looking maternal lionesses, you bow to them from afar, but never go near them. And as for the rest you have Devi Annapurna, the benign goddess in her lovely temple, there by her Lord Vishwanath!
But now he has the Mohini. One day some three years or so ago, when Madhobha was sitting in his attic, he heard the sound of anklets and bangles, and he knew a woman was near. And before he could know who, a melody arose more gracious than of any human tongue, and a lit loveliness danced before him as never man hath seen. He sat in rapt devotion to this feminine presence as if more than a goddess were there — a woman too was there. And she threw flowers at him and real flowers too they were, for he gathered them and stuck some behind his ears, for every time there was a visitation she clapped her hands and danced. Loveliness was the wrong word for her. It was, Madhobha used to tell himself, something like light seen reflected in a holy pond — it becomes more beautiful, as oil lamps on a Ganges evening. She spoke softly and called him by his name! ‘Madhobha,’ she said, ‘I love you and may I come to visit you sometimes? I like the way you worship your God Hanuman. I see you often on your way to the temple. One day when I sat at dusk on the parapet of a terrace, and there was absolute noiselessness, I heard a strange sound as if Sri Rama was going back to Ayodhya, such the pleasant splendid noise of horses and elephants. I looked down and it was you. I followed you to the temple. I saw Ramji himself standing behind Hanuman to bless you. I have lived so long looking for someone who could take me to Ram. For we’re of such stuff made, we cannot approach a god directly. We have to go through a man. And a man who has never touched a woman is our man. You are that — one can see from the curls of your eyebrows. We can smell it in the smells of your skin, at the pores of your hair, we, and our sisters.’ She spoke so simply, did the Mohini and her song was so deep divine. Yes, that is the true word!
Madho swore allegiance to her and worshipped her in his heart. What need of a woman more worthy than a Mohini? You know they do exist. Shopkeeper Pannalal in Kanpur had a second son who had seen a Mohini. So had he, Bulla, the madcap. They say he went mad because a Mohini had captured his heart. It’s better to be mad with a Mohini than live with a human shrew. Life is so easy: You bathe and you sell firewood, you eat (the food gets almost cooked by itself, when you have such fine firewood at home) and you sleep, and when the little one of Bapulal (the nighbour vegetable seller) comes, or the cur called Sunder from Dashashwamedh Ghat, you play with them. Mahmud the son of Ustad Rahman Khan, the musician, sometimes comes too and talks to Madho of his father. Madho has heard the great music of the Ustad. It was so like the Mohini’s but hers is better because when she sings, you see sound flying. You see the colour of every raga. She sings usually in Kalyani but she has no word for her song. It’s as I told you, always sarigapada sa. When does she come? She comes whenever she wants to really, but preferably on full-moon nights. She likes her jewels to shine and her hair to rise and fall to a rhythm. Madho never knows when she’s left. He wakes up:
‘Hé, is there anybody there?’
‘Yes, sethji. I am coming down.’