A Wife's Letter

Author(s): Rabindranath Tagore and Prasenjit Ranjan Gupta

Source: Indian Literature , March-April, 2001, Vol. 45, No. 2 (202) (March-April, 2001),
pp. 110-123
Published by: Sahitya Akademi

Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/23344737

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 STORYTIME

A Wife's Letter

Rabindranath Tagore

To Thine Auspicious Lotus-Feet:

Today we have been married fifteen years, yet not until today
have I written you a letter. I've always been close by your side. You've
heard many things from me, and so have I from you, but we haven't
had space enough to write a letter.
Now I'm in Puri on a holy journey, and you are wrapped up
in your office work. Your relationship to Calcutta is a snail's to its
shell—the city is stuck fast to you, body and soul. So you didn't
apply for leave. It was the Lord's desire, and so was His.granting
me my leave application.
I am Mejo-Bou, the second bride in your joint family. Today,
fifteen years later, standing at the edge of the ocean, I understand
that I also have other relationships, with the world and the World
Keeper. So I find the courage to write this letter. This is not a letter
from your family's Mejo-Bou. Not from the second wife.
Long ago, in my childhood days — in the days when my
preordained marriage to you was known only to the Omniscient One
who writes our fates on our foreheads — my brother and I both
came down with typhoid fever. My brother died; I survived. All the
neighbourhood girls said, "Mrinal's girl, that's why she lived. If she'd
been a boy, she couldn't have been saved." Jom-Raj1 is wise in his
deadly robbery: he only takes things-of value.
No death, then, for me. It is to explain this at length that I
sit down to write this letter.
When your uncle — a distant relative — came with your friend
Nirod to view your prospective bride, I was twelve. We lived in
an inaccessible village where jackals would call even during the day.

1. Jom-Raj: Yama Raja, the god of Death.

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Fourteen miles from the railway station by ox-cart, then six more
on an unpaved road by'palanquin; how vexed they were. And on
top of that, our East-Bengal cookery. Even now your uncle makes
jokes about those dishes.
Your mother wanted desperately to make up for the plain
appearance of the first bride with the good looks of the second.
Otherwise why would you have taken all the time and trouble to
travel to our distant village? In Bengal rio one has to search for
jaundice, dysentery, or a bride; they come and cleave to you on their
own, and never want to leave.
Father's heart began to pound. Mother started repeating Durga's
name. With what offering could a country priest satisfy a city god?
All they could rely upon was their girl's appearance. But the girl
herself had no vanity; whoever came to see her, whatever price they
offered for her that would be her price. So even with the greatest
beauty, the most perfect virtues, a woman's self-doubt can never be
dispelled.
The terror of the entire household, even the entire neighbourhood,
settled like a stone in my chest. It was as if the day's sky, its suffusing
light, all the powers of the universe were bailiffs to those two
examiners, seizing a twelve-year-old village girl and holding her up
to the stern scrutiny of those two pairs of eyes. I had no place to
hide.

The wedding flutes wailed, setting the skies to mourn; I came

to live in your house. At great length the women tabulated all my
shortcomings but allowed that, by and large, I might be reckoned
a beauty; and when my sister-in-law, my Didi, heard this, her face
grew solemn. But I wonder what the need was for beauty; your family
didn't love me for it. Had my beauty been moulded by some ancient
sage from holy Ganga clay, then it might have been loved; but the
Creator had moulded it only for His own pleasure, and so it had
no value in your pious family.
That I had beauty, it didn't take you long to forget. But you
were reminded, every step of the way, that I also had intelligence.
This intelligence must have lain deep within me, for it lingered in
spite of the many years I spent merely keeping house for you. My
mother was always very troubled by my intelligence; for a woman
it's an affliction. If she whose life is guided by boundaries seeks a
life guided by intelligence, she'll run into so many walls that she'll
shatter her forehead and her future. But what could I do? The intellect
that the other wives in the house lacked, the Lord in a careless moment
had bestowed upon me; now whom could I return the excess to?
Every day you all rebuked me: precocious, impertinent girl! A bitter

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remark is the consolation of the inept; I forgive all your remarks.
And I had something else, outside all the domestic duties of
your household, something that none of you knew. Secretly I wrote
poems. No matter if it was all rubbish, at least there the boundary
wall of the inner compound could not stop me. There lay my freedom,
there I could be myself. Whatever it was in me that kept your Mejo
Bou detached from your family, you didn't like it, didn't even
recognize it; in all these fifteen years none of you ever found out
that I was a poet.
Among the earliest memories that I have of your house, the
one that comes to mind is of your cowshed. Right next to the stairway
leading up to the inner rooms was the room where the cows were
kept. The tiny courtyard in front was all the space they had to roam.
A clay trough for their fodder stood in one corner of the courtyard.
In the morning the servants had many things to do; all morning
the starving cows would lick at the edges of the trough, bite at it,
take chunks out of it. My heart cried for them. I was a village girl:
when I first arrived at your house, those two cows and three calves
struck me as being the only friends I had in the entire city. When
I was a new bride, I would give my food to them; when I grew
older, bantering acquaintances, observing the attention I show the
cows, would express their suspicions about my family and ancestral
occupation: all cowherds, they said.
My daughter was born—and died. She called to me, too, to
go with her. If she had lived, she would have brought all that was
wonderful, all that was large, into my life; from Mejo-Bou I would
have become Mother. And a mother, even confined to one narrow
world, is of the universe. I had the grief of becoming a mother, but
not the freedom.
I remember the English doctor's surprise upon entering the inner
compound. When he saw the confinement room, he grew annoyed
and began to scold. There is a small garden at the front of the house,
and the outer rooms do not lack for furniture or decoration. The
inner rooms are like the reverse of an embroidered pattern; on the
inside there is no hiding the starkness, no grace, no adornment. On
the inside the lights glimmer darkly, the breeze enters like a thief,
the refuse never leaves the courtyard. The blemishes on the walls
and floors are conspicuous and inerasable. But the doctor made one
mistake; he thought this neglect would cause us sorrow. Just the
opposite: neglect is like ashes, ashes that keep the fire hidden within
but do not let the warmth die out. When self-respect ebbs, a lack
of attention does not seem unjust. So it causes no pain. And that's
why women are ashamed to experience grief. So I say: if this be
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your arrangement, that women will suffer, then it is best to keep
them in neglect, as far as possible; with attention and love, suffering
only grows worse.
However it was, it didn't even occur to me to recall the existence
of grief. In the delivery room, death came and stood by my head;
I felt no fear. What is our life that we must fear death? Those whose
life-bonds have been knotted tight with love and care, they flinch
before death. If Jom-Raj had caught me that day and pulled, then,
in the same way that a clump of grass can easily be pulled out
from loose earth, roots and all, I too would have come out in his
hand. A Bengali girl will wish for death on the slightest pretext, but
where is the courage in such a death? I am ashamed to die—death
is too easy for us.
Like an evening star my daughter glowed bright for a moment,
then set. I fell again into my eternal routine and to my cows and
calves. Life would have passed, slipping on in that way to the end,
and today there would have been no need to write you this letter.
But a tiny seed blown on the wind can lodge in a brick terrace and
put down the roots of a peepul tree; in the end that seed can split
open the heart of brick and stone. Into the set arrangements of my
world a tiny speck of life flew from who knows where, and that
started the crack.
My elder sister-in-law's sister Bindu, mistreated by the cousin
she lived with after the death of her widowed mother, came to your
house to seek refuge with her sister. That day all of you thought:
why did this misfortune have to land at our doorstep? I have a contrary
nature, so what could I do: when I saw that you were angry at her,
my heart went out to this defenceless girl and I resolved to stand
firm at her side. To have to seek shelter at another's house against
their will—what an indignity that is. Even if we are forced to accept
someone against our will, should we push them away, ignore them?
And I watched my Didi. Out of great compassion she had
brought her sister Bindu in, but when she saw her husband's annoyance
she began to pretend that Bindu's presence was an unbearable
imposition on her too, and she'd be relieved to be rid of her. She
couldn't muster up the courage to express her affection publicly for
her orphaned sister. She was a very devoted wife.
Observing her dilemma, I grew even more distressed. I saw
her make the rudest arrangements for Bindu's food and clothing -
and she ensured that everyone knew about it - and so demean her
in every way, even engaging her in household chores as she would
a housemaid, that I was not only sad but also ashamed. Didi was
anxious to prove to everyone that our household had been fortunate

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in obtaining Bindu's services at bargain rates. The girl would work
tirelessly, and the cost was minimal.
Didi's father's family had had nothing other than its high
lineage: neither good looks nor wealth. How they fell at your father's
feet, importuned him to take her into your family—you know all
that. Didi herself has always thought of her marriage as a grave
indignity to your family. That is why she tries in every way to draw
herself in, not to impose; she takes up very little space in this house.
But the virtuous example she set gave me a great deal of trouble.
I could not humble myself in all ways as she had done. If I find
something worthy, it's not my inclination to disparage it just to please
someone else—you've had proof of this many times.
I drew Bindu into my room. Didi said, "The girl comes from
a simple home, and Mejo-Bou is going to spoil her." She went around
complaining to one and all as if my actions were putting the family
in great peril. But I am sure that deep inside she was greatly relieved.
Now the responsibility Was mine. She had me display that affection
towards her sister that 'she could not herself show, and her heart
was lightened by it.
Didi always tried to leave a few years off Bindu's age. She
was no less than fourteen, and it was just as well to mention this
only in private. As you know, her looks were so plain that if she
were to fall and crack her head against the floor, people would first
concern themselves about the floor. In the absence of father and
mother, there was no one to arrange a marriage for her, and besides,
how many people would have the strength of their convictions to
marry someone who looked like her.
Bindu came to me in a great fear, as if I might not be able
to bear her touch, as if there were no reason for her having been
born into this great universe. And so she would always shrink away
as she passed, lower her glance as she walked by. In her father's
house, her cousin had not even given her a corner in which an
unwanted object might lie. Unwanted clutter makes its own space
around the house, and people forget it's there; not only is an undesired
person not wanted where she is, but while she's there she's also
not easily forgotten so there's no place for her even in the trash
heap. It could not be said that Bindu's cousins themselves were greatly
desired by the rest of the world, though they were comfortably off.
When I brought Bindu into my room, she began to tremble.
Her fear caused me great sorrow. I explained gently that there would
always be a little space for her in my room.
But my room wasn't mine alone. So my task wasn't easy. And
after only a few days she suffered a red rash on her skin. Maybe
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it was prickly heat, or something else; anyway, all of you decided
it was smallpox. After all, it was Bindu. An unskilled doctor from
your neighbourhood came and declared, It's difficult to say what
it is without waiting another day or two. But who had the patience
to wait another day or two? Bindu herself was half-dead from the
shame of her ailment. I said, I don't care if it's smallpox, I'll stay
with her in the confinement room, no one else will have to do anything.
On hearing this, all of you gave me extremely menacing looks, even
seemed poised to do me harm; Bindu's sister, feigning extreme
displeasure proposed sending her to the hospital. Soon, however,
Bindu's rash faded away completely. Seeing this, you grew even more
agitated. Some of you said, It's definitely smallpox and it's settled
in. After all, it was Bindu.
There's one thing to be said for growing up neglected and
uncared for: it makes the body ageless, immortal. Disease doesn't
want to linger, so the easy roads to death are shut off. The illness
mocked her and left; nothing at all happened. But this much was
made clear: it is most difficult to give shelter to the world's most
wretched. Whoever needs greatest shelter also faces the greatest
obstacles to gaining it.
As Bindu's fear of me ebbed, another problem arose. She began
to love me so much that it brought fear into my heart. I have never
seen such an embodiment of love in real life; I've read of it in books,
of this kind of intense attachment, and, there too between women.
Not for many years had I had occasion to remember that I was
beautiful; that long-forgotten beauty had charmed this plain-looking
girl. She'd stare at my face, and the hope and trust in her eyes would
grow. She'd say to me, "Didi, no one but me has seen this face of
yours." She'd become upset when I tied my hair myself. She liked
to play with my hair, arranging it this way and that. Apart from
the occasional invitation, there was really no need for me to dress
up. But Bindu was eager, and every day she would adorn me one
way or another. She grew besotted with me.
There's not even a yard of free space in the inner compound
of your house. Near the north wall, next to the drain, somehow a
mangosteen tree had taken root. The day I saw its new leaves budding
forth, bright red, I'd know that spring had truly touched the world.
And when I saw - in the middle of my routine life - this neglected
girl's heart and soul filling up with colour, I realized that there was
a spring breeze of the inner world as well, a breeze that came from
some distant heaven, not from the corner of the alley.
The unbearable impetus of Bindu's love began to agitate me.
Once in a while, I admit, I used to be angry at her, but through

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her love I saw a side of myself that I'd never seen before. It was
my true self, my free self.
Meanwhile, my care and attention for a girl like Bindu struck
you all as beyond the limits of propriety. And so there was no end
to petty scoldings and peevishness. When one day an armlet was
stolen from my room, you felt no shame hinting that Bindu must
have had something to do with the theft. When, during the Swadeshi
Movement, the police began to search people's houses, you came
very easily to the conclusion that Bindu was a police informer. There
was no other proof of that, only this: she was Bindu.
The maidservants in your house would object to doing the
slightest work for Bindu. If ever I asked one of the women to fetch
Bindu something, she would pause, frozen in reluctance. And so my
expenses for Bindu went up: I engaged a special maid for her. None
of you liked that. You saw the kinds of clothes I gave Bindu to wear,
and you became incensed. You even cut off my spending money.
The very next day I began to wear coarse, unbleached, mill-made,
ten-anna dhutis. And when the maid came to take my plate away
after lunch, I told her not to. I fed the left-over rice to the calf and
went to the courtyard tap to wash the plate myself. You saw that
and were not too pleased. But the idea that not pleasing you was
all right - that your family's pleasure was of little consequence -
had not yet entered my mind.
Your anger increased. And meanwhile Bindu's age kept increas
ing too. This natural progression embarrassed all of you to an
unnatural degree. One thing surprised me: why you didn't force Bindu
to leave. I understand it now: deep inside, you were all afraid of
me. Deep inside, you could not help respect the intelligence that God
had given me.
In the end, not strong enough yourselves to make Bindu leave,
you sought the shelter of the gods of matrimony. Bindu's wedding
was arranged. Didi said, "Saved! Ma Kali has protected the honour
of our clan."
I didn't know who the groom was; I heard from you all that
he was worthy in every respect. Bindu came to me, and sat at my
feet and cried. "Didi, why do I have to be married?"
I tried to explain things to her. "Bindu, don't be afraid: I've
heard your groom is a good man."
Bindu said, "If he's good, what do I have that he would like
me?"

The groom's people did not even mention coming to see Bindu.
Didi was greatly relieved.
But Bindu cried night and day; her tears didn't want to stop.

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I knew how painful it was for her. In that world I had fought many
battles on her behalf, but I didn't have the courage to say that her
wedding should be called off. And what right did I have to say that
anyway? What would become of her if I were to die?
First of all she was a girl, and on top of that she was dark
skinned; what kind of household she was being sent off to, what
would become of her—it was best not to think of such things. If
my mind turned to such thoughts, the blood would shudder in my
heart.
Bindu said, "Didi, just five more days before the wedding, can't
I die before then?"
I scolded her sharply; but the One who sees within knows:
if there was some way she could have passed easily into death, I
might have been relieved.
The day before the wedding, Bindu went to her sister and said,
"Didi, I'll just stay in your cowshed, I'll do whatever you tell me
to, I beg you, don't get rid of me like this."
For some time now, I had seen Didi wipe her eyes in quiet
moments; now, too, her tears ran. But the heart could not be ev
erything; there were rules to live by. She said, "You must realize,
Bindi dear, a husband is a woman's shelter, her protector, her
salvation, her everything. If suffering is written on your forehead,
no one can avert it."
The message was clear: there was no way out. Bindu would
have to marry, and whatever happened afterwards would have to
happen.
I had wanted the wedding to be conducted at our house. But
all of you were firm: it must be at the groom's house; it was their
ancestral custom.

The matter became clear to me. The gods of your household

couldn't bear it if any of your money was spent on Bindu's wedding.
So I was forced to be quiet. But there's something none of you know.
I wanted to tell Didi but I didn't; she might have died of fear. Secretly
I gave Bindu some of my jewellery, made her wear it before she
left. I thought Didi would notice it; perhaps she pretended not to.
Do — in the name of kindness — forgive her that.
Before leaving, Bindu threw her arms around me. "So, after
all, Didi, you are abandoning me completely?"
I said, "No, Bindi, no matter what your condition may be, I'll
never abandon you in the end."
Three days went by. The tenants of your estate had given you
a sheep to feast on; I saved it from the fire of your hunger and kept
it in one corner of the coal-shed on the ground floor. I would go

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and feed it grain first thing in the morning. I had relied on your
servants for a day or two before I saw that feeding the animal was
less interesting to them than possibly feeding upon it.
Entering the coal-shed that morning, I saw Bindu sitting huddled
in a corner. As soon as she saw me she fell at my feet and began
to cry.
Bindu's husband was insane.
"Is that really true, Bindi?"
"Would I tell you such a lie, Didi? He's insane. My father
in-law wasn't in favour of this marriage, but he's mortally afraid
of his wife. He went off to Kashi before the wedding. My mother
in-law insisted on getting her son married."
I sat down on the heap of coal. Woman has no compassion
for woman. Woman will say, "She's nothing more than a woman.
The groom may be insane, but he's a man."
Bindu's husband did not seem deranged to look at, but once
in a while he grew so frenzied that he had to be locked up in his
room. He was fine on the night of the wedding, but the next day
- perhaps as a result of the excitement, staying up late, and so on
- he became completely unbalanced. Bindu had just sat down to
lunch when her husband suddenly grabbed her brass plate and flung
it, rice and all, out into the courtyard. For some reason he was seize
with the notion that Bindu was Rani Rashmoni herself, and that the
servant must have stolen her platter of gold and given her his own
lowly plate instead. Hence his outrage. Bindu was half-dead from
fear. When on the third night her mother-in-law ordered her to
sleep in her husband's room, Bindu's heart froze within her. Her
mother-in-law was a terrible woman; if she was angered she lost
all control of herself. She too was unbalanced, but not completely
and therefore all the more dangerous. Bindu had to enter the room
Her husband was placid that night. But no matter; Bindu's body
turned wooden with terror. With what silence and craft she made
her escape after her husband fell asleep, it's not necessary to describe
at length.
I burned from contempt and anger. I said, "A marriage based
on such a deception is not a marriage at all. Bindu, stay with me
the way you did before, let's see who dares to take you away."
You all said, "Bindu's lying."
I said, "She's never lied in her life."
You all said, "How do you know that?"
I said, "I'm sure of it."
You all tried to frighten me. "If Bindu's in-laws report this to
the police, you'll be in trouble."
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 I said, "They deceived her and got her married to a madman,
and when I tell the court that, they'll listen."
You all said, "Then we'll have to go to court over this? Why?
Why should we bother?"
I said, "I'll sell my jewellery and do what I can."
You all said, "You're going to a lawyer then?"
I couldn't answer that. I could complain bitterly, but I didn't
have the courage to do any more.
And meanwhile, Bindu's brother-in-law had arrived and was
raising a racket outside the house. He said he was going to file a
report at the police station.
I didn't know where my strength came from, but my mind
would not accept the idea that for fear of the police I would simply
hand her over—hand over to the butcher himself the calf that had
come running from the cleaver, afraid for her life, to seek shelter
with me. I found the audacity to say, "Fine, let him go file a report
then."

After saying this I decided I must take Bindu into my bedroom

right away, put a lock on the door, and stay inside with her. But
when I looked for Bindu I couldn't find her. While I was arguing
with you all, she had gone out on her own and given herself up
to her brother-in-law. She understood that by staying in the house
she was putting me in great danger.
Running away the way she had earlier, Bindi had only increased
her own unhappiness. Her mother-in-law argued that her husband
hadn't done anything to hurt Bindu. There were plenty of terrible
husbands in the world. Compared to them her son was a jewel, a
diamond.
My elder sister-in-law said, "She has an ill-fated forehead; how
long can I grieve over it? He may be crazy, may be a fool, but he's
her husband, after all!"
The image rose in your minds of the leper and his wife —
oh devoted woman! - who herself carried him to the prostitute's
house. You, with your male minds, did not ever hesitate to preach
this story, a story of the world's vilest cowardice; and for the same
reason — even though you'd been granted the dignity of human
shape — you could be angry at Bindu without feeling the least
discomfort. My heart burst for Bindu; for you I felt boundless shame.
I was only a village girl, and on top of that I had lived so long
in your house-I don't know through what chink in your vigilance
God slipped me my brains. I just couldn't bear all your lofty sentiments
about woman's duty.
I knew for sure that Bindu would not return to our house even

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if she had to die. But I had assured her the day before her marriage
that I would riot abandon her in the end. My younger brother Shorot
was a college student in Calcutta. You all know about his different
kinds of volunteer work, running off to help the Damodor flood
victims, exterminating the rats when the plague struck-he had such
enthusiasm for these projects that even failing the F.A. exams twice
had not dampened his spirit. I summoned him and said. "Shorot,
you have to arrange things so that I can have news of Bindu. She
won't have the courage to write and even if she does, the letter will
never reach me."
My brother might have been happier if I'd askéd him to kidnap
Bindu and bring her back, or perhaps to crack her crazy husband's
skull.
While I was talking to Shorot, you came into the room and
said, "Now what mess are you getting us into?"
I said, "The same one I made right at the beginning: I came
to your house. But that was your own doing."
You asked, "Have you brought Bindu back and hidden her
somewhere?"
I said, "If Bindu would come, I'd certainly bring her back and
hide her. But she won't come, so you all needn't be afraid."
Seeing Shorot with me had kindled your suspicions. I know
that you didn't approve at all of Shorot's comings and goings. You
were afraid that the police were keeping tabs on him, and that some
day he would get himself into some political tangle and drag you
into it too. So I didn't usually call him to the house; I even sent
him my Bhai-phota offering through someone else.
I heard from you that Bindu had run off again, and that her
brother-in-law had come looking for her again. Hearing this, I felt
something sharp pierce my heart. I understood the luckless girl's
unbearable suffering, but I could see no way of doing anything for
her.
Shorot ran to get news of Bindu. He returned in the evening
and told me, "Bindu went back to her cousins' house, but they were
terribly angry and took her back to her in-laws' right away. And
they haven't forgotten the money they had to spend on fares and
other expenses for her."
As it happened, your aunt had come to spend a few days at
your house before leaving for Srikhetro on a pilgrimage. And I told
you all, I'm going too.
You were so delighted to see in me this sudden turn
towards religion that you forgot altogether to object. You also
thought, no doubt, that if I stayed in Calcutta at that time, I
120 / Indian Literature : 202

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would certainly make trouble about Bindu. I was a terrible
nuisance.

I would leave on Wednesday; by Sunday all the preparations

had been made. I called Shorot and said to him, "No matter how
difficult it is, I want you to find some way to get Bindu on the
Wednesday train to Puri."
Shorot grinned with delight; he said, "Don't worry, Didi, not
only will I see her into the train, I'll go with her to Puri myself.
It'll be an opportunity to see the Jagannath temple."
Shorot came again that evening. I took one look at his face,
and the breath stopped in my chest. I said, "What, Shorot? You
couldn't do it?"
He said, "No."
I asked, "You couldn't get her to agree?"
He said, "There was no need any more. Last night she set fire
to her clothes and killed herself. I talked to her nephew - the one
I was in touch with - and he said that she'd left a letter for you.
But they destroyed the letter."
Oh, Peace at last.
People heard about it and were enraged. They said, It's become
a kind of fashion for women to set fire to their clothes and kill
themselves.

You all said, such dramatics! Maybe. But shouldn't we ask why
the dramatics take place only with Bengali women's sarees and not
with the so-brave Bengali men's dhutis?
Truly Bindi's forehead was seared by fate. As long as she lived
she was never known for her looks or talent; even in her last hours
it didn't enter her head to find some new way to die, some novel
exit that would please the nation's men and move them to applaud
her! Even in dying she only angered everyone.
Didi hid in her room and cried. But there was some solace
in her tears. However it was, at least now the girl was beyond
suffering. She had only died; who knew what might have happened
if she'd lived?
I have come here on my holy journey. Bindu didn't need to
come any more, but I did.
In your world I didn't suffer what people would normally call
grief. In your house there was no lack of food or clothing; no matter
what your brother's character, in your own character there was
nothing that I could complain of to the Lord, nothing I could call
terrible. If your habits had been like those of your brother's, perhaps
my days would have passed without upheaval; perhaps, like my
sister-in-law, so perfectly devoted to her husband, I too might have

Rabindranath Tagore / 121

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blamed not you but the Lord of the World. So I don't want to raise
my head in complaint about you—this letter is not for that. But I
will not go back to your Number Twenty-Seven Makhon Boral Lane.
I've seen Bindu. I've seen the worth of a woman in this world. I
don't need any more.
And I've seen also that even though she was a girl, God didn't
abandon her. No matter how much power you might have had ove
her, there was an end to that power. There's something larger tha
this wretched human life. You thought that, by your turn of whi
and your custom graved in stone, you could keep her life crushe
under your feet forever, but your feet weren't powerful enough. Dea
was stronger. In her death Bindu has become great; she's not a me
Bengali girl anymore, no more just a female cousin of her father'
nephews, no longer only a lunatic stranger's deceived wife. No
she is without limits, without end.
The day that death's flute wailed through this girl's soul and
I heard those notes float across the river, I could feel its touch within
my chest. I asked the Lord, Why is it that whatever is the most
insignificant obstacle in this world is also the hardest to surmount?
Why was this tiny, most ordinary bubble of cheerlessness contained
within four ramparts in this humdrum alley such a formidable barrier?
No matter how pleadingly Your world called out to me, its nectar
cup made of the six elements borne aloft in its hands, I could not
emerge even for an instant, could not cross the threshold of that
inner compound. These skies of Yours, this life of mine: why must
I — in the shadow of this most banal brick and woodwork — die
one grain at a time? How trivial this daily life's journey; how trivial
all its fixed rules, its fixed ways, its fixed phrases of rote, all its fixed
defeats. In the end, must the victory go to this wretched world, to
its snakes of habit that bind and coil and squeeze? Must the joyous
universe, the world that You created Yourself, lose?
But the flute of death begins to play—and then where is the
mason's solid-brick wall, where is your barbed-wire fence of dreadful
law? A sorrow, an insult, can imprison; but the proud standard of
life flies from the hand of death! Oh Mejo-Bou, you have nothing
to fear! It doesn't take a möment to slough off a Mejo-Bou's shell.
I am not scared of your street any longer. In front of me today is
the blue ocean, over my head a mass of monsoon cumulus. The dark
veil of your custom had cloaked me completely, but for an instant
Bindu came and touched me through a gap in the veil; and by her
own death she tore that awful veil to shreds. Today I see there is
no longer any need to maintain your family's dignity or self-pride.
He who smiles at this unloved face of mine is in front of me today,

122 / Indian Literature : 202

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looking at me with the sublime expanse of His sky. Now Mejo-Bou
dies.
You think I'm going to kill myself—don't be afraid, I wouldn't
play such an old joke on you all. Meera Bai, too, was a woman,
like me; her chains, too, were no less heavy; and she didn't have
to die to be saved. Meera—Bai said, in her song, "No matter if my
father leaves, my mother too, let them all go; but Meera will persevere,
Lord, whatever may come to pass."
And to persevere, after all, is to be saved.
I too will be saved. I am saved.

Removed from the Shelter of Your Feet,

Mrinal

Translated from Bengali by Prasenjit Ranjan Gupta

□

Rabindranath Tagoré / 123

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