Chandalika
INTRODUCTION
This short drama is based on the following Buddhist legend. Ananda, the famous disciple of the Buddha, was one day returning from a visit when he felt thirsty and, approaching a well on the way, asked for water from a chandalika, a girl belonging to the lowest untouchable caste. The girl gave him water and fell in love with the beautiful monk. Unable to restrain herself, she made her mother, who knew the art of magic, work her spell on him. The spell proved stronger than Ananda’s will and the spell-bound monk presented himself at their house at night; but, as he saw the girl spread the couch for him, he was overcome with shame and remorse and prayed inwardly to his master to save him. The Buddha heard the prayer and broke the magic spell and Ananda went away, as pure as he came.
This crude plot of the popular tale, showing how the psychic power of the Buddha saves his devotee from the lust of a chandal girl, has been transformed by the poet into a psychological drama of intense spiritual conflict. It is not the story of a wicked girl roused to lust by the physical beauty of the monk, but of a very sensitive girl, condemned by her birth to a despised caste, who is suddenly awakened to a consciousness of her full rights as a woman by the humanity of a follower of the Buddha, who accepts water from her hand and teaches her to judge herself not by the artificial values that society attaches to the accidents of birth, but by her capacity for love and service.
This is a great revelation for her, which she calls a new birth; for she is washed clean of her self-degradation and rises up a full human being with her right to love and to give. And since her own self is the most she can give, and since none is more worthy of the gift of her surrender than the bhikshu who has redeemed, or, as she puts it, created her, she yearns to offer herself to him. But Ananda, detached from all earthly cares and immersed in his inner self, knows nothing of all this and passes by without recognising her.
She is humiliated, wounded in her newly awakened sensibility, and determines to drag the monk from his pride of renunciation to the abjectness of desire for her. She has lost all religious scruple or fear, for she owed nothing to religion save her humiliation.
‘A religion that insults is a false religion. Everyone united to make me conform to a creed that blinds and gags. But since that day something forbids me to conform any longer. I’m afraid of nothing now.’
She forces her mother to exercise her art of magic on Ananda. She refers to it as the primeval spell, the spell of the earth, which is far more potent than the immature sadhana of the monks. The ‘spell of the earth’ proves its force and Ananda is dragged to their door, his face distorted with agony and shame. Seeing her redeemer, so noble and resplendent before, thus cruelly transformed and degraded, she is horrified at the selfish and destructive nature of her desire. The hero to whom she yearned to dedicate herself was not this creature, blinded by lust and darkened with shame, but Ananda of the radiant form, who had given her the gift of a new birth and had revealed her own true humanity. In remorse she curses herself and falls at his feet, begging for forgiveness. The mother revokes the spell and willingly pays the price of such revocation, which is death. The chandalika is thus redeemed for the second time, purged of the pride and egoism that had made her forget that love does not claim possession, but gives freedom.
Chandalika is a tragedy of self-consciousness overreaching its limit. Self-consciousness, up to a point, is necessary to self-development; for, without an awareness of the dignity of one’s own role or function, one cannot give one’s best to the world. Without rights there can be no obligations, and service and virtue when forced become marks of slavery. But self-consciousness, like good wine, easily intoxicates, and it is difficult to control the dose and have just enough of it. Vanity and pride get the upper hand and he who clings to his rights very often trespasses on those of others. This is what happened to the heroine. Prakriti, in her eagerness to give, forgot that Ananda need not take; her devotion grew so passionate that she could not make her surrender without first possessing. Yet it was inevitable that it should be so; for a new consciousness, after ages of suppression, is overpowering and one learns restraint only after suffering. Hence the tragedy. The good mother who, so unwillingly, worked the spell to please her importunate daughter, and who so willingly revoked it to save Ananda, dies in the process. The daughter, though chastened and made wise by suffering, has paid a heavy price; for wisdom is not happiness and renunciation is not fulfilment.
MOTHER. Prakriti! Prakriti! Where has she gone? What ails the girl, I wonder? She’s never to be found in the house.
PRAKRITI. Here, mother, here I am.
MOTHER. Where?
PRAKRITI. Here, by the well.
MOTHER. Whatever will you do next? Past noon, and a blistering sun, and the earth too hot for the feet! The morning’s water was drawn long ago, and the other girls in the village have all taken their pots home. Why, the very crows on the amloki branches are gasping for heat. Yet you sit and roast in the Vaisakh sun for no reason at all! There’s a story in the Purana about how Uma left home and did penance in the burning sun—is that what you are about?
PRAKRITI. Yes, mother, that’s it—I’m doing penance.
MOTHER. Good heavens! And for whom?
PRAKRITI. For someone whose call has come to me.
MOTHER. What call is that?
PRAKRITI. ‘Give me water.’ He set the words echoing in my heart.
MOTHER. Heaven defend us! He said to you ‘Give me water’? Who was it? Someone of our own caste?
PRAKRITI. That’s what he said—that he belonged to our kind.
MOTHER. You didn’t hide your caste? Did you tell him that you are a chandalini?
PRAKRITI. I told him, yes. He said it wasn’t true. If the black clouds of Sravana are dubbed chandal, he said, what of it? It doesn’t change their nature, or destroy the virtue of their water. Don’t humiliate yourself, he said; self-humiliation is a sin, worse than self-murder.
MOTHER. What words are these from you? Have you remembered some tale of a former birth?
PRAKRITI. No, this is a tale of my new birth.
MOTHER. You make me laugh. New birth, indeed! Since when, pray?
PRAKRITI. It was the other day. The palace gong had just struck noon and it was blazing hot. I was washing that calf at the well—the one whose mother died.
Please refer to attached file for NCERT Class 12 English Drama Chandalika
