Gently Falls the Bakula Read online

  One day, as he was holding the bakula in his hand, he suddenly realized why the flower meant so much to him. The bakula was now, for him, a symbol of Shrimati, a personification of her!

  Shrikant collected all the bakula flowers in a small bag and placed it beneath his pillow. He knew that the scent from the flowers would not fade with time.

  Time marched on. Shrimati completed her BA degree successfully, getting two gold medals in her subject. Sharada Emmikeri managed to get through, while Vandana passed with a second class. The next step was to apply for an MA course at Karnataka University, Dharwad. Vandana opted for political science and Shrimati for history.

  The two friends commuted to the university every day, covering the twenty-five kilometre distance by the university bus rather than by the local train. Both of them enjoyed the ride and used the time to compare notes on their respective courses and classmates. Shrimati was eagerly looking forward to Dr Rao, the present Vice-Chancellor, returning to his parent history department the following year. She had heard so much about his brilliance as a scholar and his wonderful teaching skills that she was confident he would inspire her to give her best to the subject.

  However, they did miss their friend Sharada.

  As promised, Shrikant visited Hubli every December but in the summer holidays he would take up training with different companies to get practical experience and greater exposure. Only the last ten days of his vacation, which invariably coincided with the beginning of the month of Shravan, would he spend in Hubli. Those days were for Shrimati.

  Gangakka looked forward to Shrikant’s visits too. She would cook a variety of dishes to make up for the time her son missed home food. She believed that he came home to be with her. Gangakka never dreamt that it was Shrimati who drew him to Hubli and that it was her he yearned to see.

  Now, although they could meet at the University campus, they continued the ritual of their early morning chat under the bakula tree. The tree, sole witness to their conversations, smiled indulgently on them.

  Vandana soon came to know about Shrikant and Shrimati’s friendship. But she did not mention it to anybody. She knew that if Gangakka found out, the consequences would be serious.

  Whenever Shrikant came to the University to meet Shrimati, Vandana would return to Hubli alone. If Rindakka asked why Shrimati hadn’t returned, Vandana would cover up for her friend and say, ‘She is studying in the library.’

  Shrimati found University much more exciting than college. She learned that history is not merely concerned with men or a nation. Everything had a history. Music, dance, art and even history had a history. Gradually she developed a fine critical sensibility and trained herself to think logically and reduce emotional idealism. By the end of the first term itself she understood the importance of field visits. They made everything she read in textbooks come alive. The department organized many such trips as a result of which Shrimati saw a number of historic places. She was amazed to find how a country’s present culture depended on its past history.

  The well-mannered Shrimati endeared herself to her teachers and classmates alike. The professors were delighted to have an intelligent student like her in the history department.

  In the meantime, Vandana’s life was taking a new turn. As she was neither a very bright student, nor keen on a career, her parents were planning to get her married. They found an eligible young man, Pramod, an engineer working with Larsen & Toubro, a well-known company, in Bombay. Pramod was originally from Belgaum. He was the only son of his parents and they owned a small house in Bombay. Since he did not have any family commitments, was well qualified and held a good job, he was most eligible in the marriage market.

  As per tradition, the two horoscopes were matched and Pramod came to see Vandana with his family. He liked her and the marriage was finalized.

  By then Vandana was in the final year of her MA, so both sets of parents decided that the marriage would take place after her exams. But after Pramod came to Hubli a few times to meet her, Vandana lost interest in her studies!

  Shrimati was curious to know what Vandana and Pramod talked about. Theirs was an arranged marriage, they did not know each other, so what did they say to each other?

  ‘Vandana, what do you talk about with Pramod? You don’t even know him.’

  ‘What do you speak with Shrikant for hours together?’ Vandana countered.

  ‘Well, he was our classmate. Moreover, we have been good friends for a long time.’

  ‘Oh, don’t give me that explanation! It is not mere friendship. Ask yourself. Nobody spends such long hours, without telling people at home, with just a friend!’

  Shrimati fell silent. Suddenly she began to feel a strange loneliness. It was not that she had not thought of marriage. But now she could not think of anyone other than Shrikant for a husband.

  Having seen her incompatible parents and the kind of family life they led she was sure she would only marry a person who would understand her feelings and have consideration for her, unlike her father who only thought of himself all the time.

  Although Shrikant and she were close friends, the issue of marriage had not yet come up. She felt there was something between them that went beyond friendship. Even if she had not shown any emotion outwardly, in her heart she was quite attached to Shrikant. What was on his mind, she wondered.

  While it was natural for her to think of marriage—she was of marriageable age after all—Shrikant could not think of anything other than completing his B.Tech. and getting a good job. Marriage was far, far away.

  In one of her usual letters she casually mentioned Vandana’s engagement.

  One day after the December vacations, when exams were round the corner and Shrimati was busy with her seminars, Shrikant surprised Shrimati with an untimely visit to Hubli. Shrimati was overjoyed.

  They decided Shrikant would wait for Shrimati near the town clock tower till she finished her seminar. ‘Shri,’ she said to him, ‘I do not have class today. Shall we go to Atthikolla? It is not hot outside.’

  Atthikolla was a picnic spot in Dharwad, known for its mango groves. At this time of the year, early February, all the trees were covered with tender, new leaves, reddish green in colour. It was a very pleasant season—winter was over and the heat of summer was yet to begin.

  Usually Shrikant would never disagree with Shrimati in such matters. But that day he said, ‘No, let’s go to Thackeray Park.’

  ‘Call it Chennamma Park,’ exclaimed Shrimati, her sense of history prompting her outburst.

  Centuries ago, the British collector of Dharwad, a man called Thackeray, had fought a battle with Chennamma, the queen of Kittur. The officer had lost his life. The British erected a memorial in his name and built a park. Before independence, it was known as Thackeray Park. But after independence, the patriotic people of Dharwad called it Chennamma Park because it was Queen Chennamma who had killed Thackeray in the battlefield.

  ‘It’s all the same. Will the place change with the name? Let’s go.’ Shrikant was not bothered about such things.

  Vandana, having seen them from a distance, went back to Hubli alone. Shrikant and Shrimati went to Thackeray or Kittur Chennamma Park. It was opposite the Mental Hospital on the Hubli-Belgaum Road. There were very few people in the garden and most of them were sleeping, using their hand as a pillow.

  They chose a big banyan tree and sat beneath its sprawling branches.

  Shrimati was in great spirits. Not only had her seminar gone off very well, she’d also had this surprise visit from Shrikant. She was chattering continuously, while the normally talkative Shrikant was in deep thought. Shrimati did not notice anything amiss.

  ‘Shri, today I had a seminar and everyone appreciated my work. I spoke on Ashoka. Do you remember? I had written an essay when we were in tenth standard. Today, I can write better. That time, I had less access to books and I was more emotional about Ashoka. Even now, whenever I read about Ashoka, my respect for him grows and he fascinates me. Shri,