By
Sanghamitra Datta
June 2012
Bangalore, India

Prabhavati sat at her window, her ears throbbing to the rhythm of the rain and eyes gazing into the hazy distance. Her thoughts had already run away across the fields. Had he been caught in the down pour?

The heavy, heaving monsoon clouds poured all through the thirsty afternoon. The old mango tree outside her room bent and swayed like a courtesan. The ripe mangoes glistened like luscious golden earrings. The earth stopped struggling under the merciless summer sun. The Kachhnaar with the butterfly leaves and the Gulmohur with the frolicking squirrels all stopped struggling, as the heavy downpour caressed each leaf and trickled down, darkening the tree trunks. Would he appear tonight? Maybe she could steal away with him. Her lotus eyes glistened and her tapered fingers twisted in a strange wantonness.

She had just seen him twice. Once, at the beginning of spring, when her father came back from Dwarka, with cart loads of gifts and gold for everybody, she had seen him standing quietly, guarding a large brass bound box. It was dusty, as the carts had just come in. Through that shimmering dusty veil, she saw his tall graceful, young form, standing with such elegance that he stood out from the rest of bearers and guards in the courtyard.

The rotund, turbaned and excited form of her father shouted out his strange name, “Samudra, Samudra?!” Ocean. The big wide ocean of a deep faraway blue. And his lithe figure turned towards her father and smiled. The smile reached his dark eyes and across the dusty courtyard, stopping suddenly at the flame coloured girlish figure standing at the door of the inner courtyard.

Prabhavati at that moment felt as if she was standing at the edge of a vast ocean, so far away from this tiny land locked village. The stranger’s smile had made her young heart crash like waves. Samudra, what a deep drowning name in that dry parched village. Her father had taken the young man by the arms and welcomed him into the inner courtyard, to sit in the shade of the jamun tree. Cool water was brought in. Her two elder brothers, her father and the stranger, all, washed and sprinkled rose water on their faces. Cooling buttermilk in tall tumblers were drunk, while Prabhavati watched transfixed the rippling aura of the blue skinned stranger. But, after that first moment he never took any notice of her. A day later he left, riding a beautiful white glowing horse, not once looking back at her.

She heard from her mother later that, the stranger had saved her father’s life and gold from some thuggees one night on their journey back from Dwarka, and then stayed on to escort them safely home. Prabhavati drowned even deeper in the blue, blue ocean of her heart. Her life had changed. She did not notice the rest of the spring go by.

In summer her young mind burned and shimmered. Neither the jewelry, nor the flowers or the parrots nor a hundred mirrors could sooth her burning mind. She couldn’t ask anyone about the stranger either. Oh! The burn was wondrous and terrible at the same moment. One afternoon, that summer while the house dozed in the heat, her dearest friend Mrinalini came by to tell her, that the raw mangoes in the orchard were perfectly sour and delicious. Would Prabhavati like to come along and pick some in the quiet of the afternoon?

So with veils covering their faces, against the throbbing sun, off to the orchard they went. It was cool and dark with a lonesome Koel singing a sad song. As they giggled in the quiet of the afternoon, their anklets tinkled in anticipation. They came to a large mango tree, all weighed down by hundreds of raw mangoes, all a perfect deep green, and hanging in bunches.

Heady with the adventure of the afternoon, Prabhavati quickly climbed up the tree, while Mrinalini choked with mirth below. There he was, sitting on the branch of that mango tree, his deep blue shimmering body almost invisible amongst the green of the tree. As she climbed up the branch a strange warm hand held her above the elbow and settled her comfortably on the branch next to him.

She suddenly felt more alive than she had felt in the last forty days. She looked at him, as if to memorize, his eyes a deep fathomless blue green, maybe grey, when the storm clouds gather, his hair, blue black rippled in waves. His smile was a crescent. But all Prabhavati saw was that strange kindness on his face.

It seemed to her that he already knew all that she wanted to say to him, everything, even how she had burned without knowing why. She could hear waves in her ears and the orchard seemed to be disappearing. He, then smiled and told her that her friend was calling out for her. As sudden tears filled her eyes, he replied to her unspoken question, that yes, he would visit her when the monsoon came and take her to visit the Field of Dreams. Would she come then? Nodding with elation, she found herself on the ground beside Mrinalini, with her dupatta bulging with some of the juiciest raw mangoes. She drowned even deeper.

Now that the monsoon was here, she dreamed of seeing him every day, suddenly appearing. She wondered about the Field of Dreams. Would it be so far away, and would they ride away on his white horse and never return? Her mind burned with questions, which the pouring monsoon did nothing to soothe. 

Suddenly her reverie was broken, with her mother calling her to the kitchen to help serve the midday meals. She took one last long look out of the window, at the dripping rain drops, the bright green parrots swinging and squawking in the branches. She didn’t want to step into the large family kitchen, with its smoke darkened walls, the blazing clay ovens, red shiny floors and shelves filled with glittering utensils. It was always laden with smoke from a hundred mysterious recipes. She just wanted to breathe in the fragrance of the fresh wet earth.

Prabhavati brought out the large brass plates, shining brass bowls sighing inwardly, she started serving out the meals for her father and all her brothers.

Today was a Sunday, so at least the dishes were different. Her mother’s weekend special, a nice mound of saffron rice cooked in ghee, lentils cooked with the special sweet and sour spices, little circles of fried aubergines and potatoes, four types of vegetables, some dry and spicy, some with a dripping rich gravy, and of course the special rich red goat curry, made more heavenly when followed by large bowls of yoghurt and finally kheer with sprinkled with almonds, cashews and pistachios.
True, that though she didn’t particularly like being in the kitchen, she always liked all the wonderful food that came out of it, even during the lush seductive monsoons.

Smiling and sighing, she concentrated on carrying out the heavy laden plates into the covered courtyard and placing them in the correct sequence in front of her father, brothers and uncles. Though they sat in the same sequence for almost every meal, Prabhavati recognised them by their heavy silver anklets.

As she reached the end of the line, her heart stopped, for in front of her was pair of blue skinned beautiful feet with a thick silver snake anklet framed to perfection with a yellow dhoti. Putting down the plate she looked up to see the bright smiling face of Samudra, his dark eyes twinkling more than ever. For some obscure reason, Prabhavati felt as if it was raining inside the covered courtyard and she was drenched.

When did he come into the house? Why didn’t she hear her father mention that they had a guest? Why didn’t anyone tell her anything at all when her mind was so full of questions?

Like this a week passed, with Samudra sitting right in the house, laughing and talking to everyone yet not a glance or smile spared for Prabhavati. And through it all, it rained and rained, her mother cooked and Prabhavati served.

Then suddenly one early evening, it stopped raining. The heavy grey clouds were caressed by the coral pink and gold of the setting sun. The birds all came out of the seething branches of a thousand trees. There was soft, surprising breeze. The world was panting after the long and heavy downpour, suddenly more alive at this respite.

Something was going to happen, Prabhavati’s mind was pregnant with expectation. Mrinalini was at the window, her anklets tinkling and laughing, “ Come lets go to the lake at the edge of the village, we must, and we absolutely must.” Soon they were running towards the lake, in front of them the sun hung like a ripe orange in the sky, and the water was still as a mirror. The huge round lotus leaves were bordering the lake in thousands, the lotus buds tightly closed like undreamt dreams waiting for dawn tomorrow.

The moment was spellbinding, and Prabhavati was lost in it, sitting on the steps on the lake. Noticing a sudden movement at her side she turned to look into the eyes of Samudra. When did Mrinalinee melt away from her side. Looking at him, it seemed as if the coral duskiness had morphed into the dusky blueness of Samudra.“ Shall we go then”, he asked, “ and run through the Field of Dreams this evening?”

All she was conscious of then, was of a dreamy floating run past the darkening mirror of the lake, the temple steps, towards the horizon so far away. The mango orchard and the huts fell away and the musky breeze thrilled her through and through. It seemed as though Samudra right beside her was just walking slowly. Nothing made sense to her and strangely she didn’t want it to. As if logic would steal away the magic and put her once more on the cold threshold of reality, of  kitchen smoke and repeating tasks.

“ Look Prabhavati, at your Field f Dreams, see my dearest love, this unending sight, breathe in now this interval in the Monsoon”, said Samudra.

And before her stretched a thousand trees, darkened to a silhouette, but glittering with a million jewels, all with a strange heavenly glow, throbbing and flying slowly , hither and thither. It was as if a hundred poems, were all mixed up and the words were floating away in search of some new and alien melody.

Again Samudra spoke, “ Now dream Prabhavati, all your secret dreams, your wishes and your uppermost desires, because you are special to me”.

“ But what is this glimpse of, O Samudra that we float in ?” “ This is my gift to you, Prabhavati, for in this field of dreams, you may wish for your deepest desires to come through, and these thousands of little fireflies, are God’s little messengers. In time you will live your dreams, my beautiful one. But heed me, choose wisely, because in the Field of Dreams you cannot turn back time.”

Prabhavati’ s elation knew no bounds, so she spoke in a rush, “ I wish to be far away from this land locked village. Live like a princess in palaces next to the deep blue ocean. I wish to see the city of Dwarka. I wish …”.

…four years have now passed, and Prabhavati sat again at a lonesome window, though a more opulent one, looking out at the deep blue surging ocean, only a few moments away from her palace. Yet her thoughts were far away, remembering that strange magical evening in the Field of Dreams, outside her little village. She still remembered how the warm assuring form of Samudra became more and more intangible, as she wished her girlish dreams to come true.

How he had looked at her, his deep eyes a fathomless pool of sadness and hurt, a smile still tugging at his lips while she chattered on, ignorant and unheeding. She had understood nothing. That evening on her way back, she suddenly realized that Samudra was no longer at her side. She had been so blind to everything else. She had forgotten her own honest thirst and from then on lived only to see if her precious wishes were coming true.

Yes, as Samudra had promised, they came true, so very true. She rode on an elephant into the city of Dwarka, a young beautiful bride to the wealthiest merchant’s eldest son. She lived everyday in a glittering palace and gazed at the ocean.

For four years the dreams came true, word for faithful word. But then why was she still feeling that old thirst? That maddening loneliness interspersed with a dreaded parched wantonness. As she tossed and turned next to her youthful and handsome husband, she needed love. Love. A deep drowning satisfying sentient monsoon love, like Samudra’s warm, careful touch. His touch which went straight to her heart and no words were needed.

How she wished now that she had really listened to what he said and understood what he meant. Tried just for a moment to think about why he had shared his Field of Dreams with her that evening. Now stranded in a beautiful palace next to the ocean, she wished in vain to change her dreams. She wished she was with him, drowned in his deep love, warmth and magic. Yes she would have been happy just to be in that Field of Dreams with him forever.

In choosing one dream she had wished away a reality, the reality of that monsoon, that throbbing dream filled summer, her wonderful magical little land-locked village, where dreams came true.

This was a different monsoon. Through her window, the infinite blue ocean seemed forever land locked. So Prabhavati remained locked in time, locked in a choice, locked out forever from the hidden Field of Dreams.

The End