Our vehicle sped through a recently constructed road and our good driver informed us that it was being built owning to the revenue Krishna Dwar was generating as a tourist spot. ‘I was offered to take up as a guide of one of the old temples.’ He offered graciously ‘But I said that I love driving above anything else and mother says that you should do what you love.’
‘That’s sound advice’ I applauded the fella.
He grinned broadly at me.
We were frequently subjected to small markets that sported the local produce of the village. ‘You should visit the mart’ Our young driver said cheerfully ‘My brother owns a small shop and sells the idols of many beautiful deities’.
‘Thank you.’ Bhrigu said with a straight face ‘I will remember you if we happen to fall into an idol crisis.’
He grinned broadly at my friend.
We rounded a corner and ran into a beautiful gate, with huge, purple pillars and an arch joining them together. In the arch was sculpted the magnificent figure of Lord Krishna. He was looking a picture of divine splendor and I could clearly observe the skill of the craftsman in the minutest details of the figure; be it a beautifully sculpted ring to the gorgeous setting of the necklace the popular God wore around his neck. His face was benevolent and kind with a beautiful smile but the master talent of the sculptor lay in the way he had twisted the corners of the smile imperceptibly, giving it a mysterious, mocking quality, as if the God was looking over the foibles of humanity and laughing derisively that for an intelligent species, humans were fool enough to think that they could perform a battery of misdeeds, thinking that no one was watching them.
‘This is Krishna Dwar.’ said our chirpy guide. ‘Our village is named after it. It was built in the year…’
He went on to give us every single detail concerning the year of construction of the gateway, the legend of the sculptor who made it, right down to a number of supernatural occurrences that has been till date associated with it. Strange that he had turned down the offer of a guide; clearly his guiding skills were way advanced than his driving one.
The harsh heat of the summer of June was burning us to cinders and the air that the speeding vehicle drew forth was trying to give us three degree burns. Hence, you can easily imagine my relief when we entered a clearing and ran straight into a thick canopy of gold mohur trees. The branches were hanging low above us and I felt that I could almost touch a flower if I strained my hands a little. The cool air was comforting after a long, hot and hard drive. I looked at my friend to see how he was taking this pleasant change, half expecting what I saw. He was looking straight ahead of him; watchful, attentive but with a wariness to the scenes and sights that greeted him.
Our S.U.V drove for about one mile on the thickly curtained road and stopped smoothly at a big, rambling gate of solid iron. The formidable walls that ran from the gate, enclosing the estate were showing signs of decay but one could easily notice in them the grandeur of a bygone era.
‘This is Bhakti Niwas. Quite a sight, eh?’ The driver said winking at us. ‘Shall I get your bags?’
‘Sure’ I said.
‘My house is just round the corner’ Manjunath informed us, as he collected his slim briefcase. ‘I will take your leave now. You are welcome at my house any time you feel like. It will be an honor to be your host, sir.’
We thanked him for this generous invitation and he took off. The man looked quite a spectacle as he walked slowly towards his destination. The low branches of the gold mohur trees seemed to devour him as he turned a corner and disappeared from our view.
The driver had also left as we stood there, facing the huge wrought iron gate before us. We were about to use the old, brass knocker, which happened to sport a tiny spider, to announce our arrival when the gate creaked ever so slightly and then everything was silent as before. Bhrigu too, was looking at me to check if I had also felt the tremor. We then shrugged it according it to the work of our imagination. My hand was almost on the knocker again when the gate swung open; shaking miserably at its roots and in the doorway stood the man we had met only a month ago. It was Nataraj Bhakti. The harassed looking old man looked even more pathetic, framed in the gateway. The impressive gate was accentuating his miserable condition; mocking him for not maintaining himself half as well as it had maintained itself.
‘Welcome’ he said, joining both his hands in salutation. ‘I am very sorry that you had to wait. Manjunath had called me to inform that you had arrived but…but the blasted gate…’ He said and threw a malicious look at the imperious thing. ‘It looks grand and all but is sheer pain in the neck. In the old days of my great, great, great grandfather, we had four retired pugilists, who were paid handsomely to do just one thing. Open and close this gate. But now…now we have so much trouble with this no good thing! Those brats who call themselves my family don’t bother with it at all. They climb over the wall to come in or go out; the women too use a ladder over the wall to that effect. But I am a respectable man. How would it look if I have to enter and leave my own house as a thief? So I am stuck with laboring with this huge piece of scrap. I am proud and tired of my property all at once.’
‘Why don’t you sell it?’ I ventured.
‘I thought of doing so but the brats…They have a share too…They won’t stop harassing me over the division of property till I have a heart attack. Anyways, I have little time left on this earth. Why to complicate it needlessly? I will manage somehow.’ he said with a sigh ‘Please…please do come in. I hope you had a pleasant drive.’